Back For The First Time, Harry?

Wizengamot Fall Sessions

September 2nd, 1974

The Daily Prophet was a worthwhile investment and so Harry had set up a delivery rounds for himself as soon as he'd got up the next morning. It was a hike to the owlery, and quite chilly, but it certainly woke him up.

"Here, come on," he coaxed a fine, brown school owl down. He sent off five sickles, a ten month student subscription to the newspaper. He'd asked his new Housemates last night what the price was, and was pleased to hear of the student discount and that prices were clearly generally lower in 1974 for Daily Prophet deliveries.

He'd also furiously avoided eye contact with a knobbly kneed teenage Snape, who was wildly curious about him. The dangerously thin boy managed to contain most of curiosity last night when Harry went to shut himself in his bed before nine, but Harry felt, given the chance, Snape would have a barrage of questions ready.

The sharp mind and quick tongue he'd had as an adult hadn't yet hardened with years of acidic experience, but the thirst to stick his nose in everyone's business surely was present.

He headed back to the dungeons after going up four floors on the Grand Staircase on his way to Gryffindor Tower. He wanted a hot shower, and was starting to get hungry as the sun yawned its way over the Scottish countryside.

He muttered the password ("Fabelwesen") and made his way to the neatly concealed narrow stairs to the dormitories. His dormitory was the sixteenth door up, a gleaming light wood door. Harry rather liked the Slytherin House, although it did have that certain ominous decoration-style, with muted colours and the lurching watery depths of the lake walling in one side of the common room.

He'd managed to not wake his fellow students, and crept into the washroom just shy of half-past six. By the time he'd emerged from his hot soak, he felt liberated (the orphanage never afforded such water wasting) and his Housemates had all awoken to various states of still-too-tired. Only Snape sat peacefully on his made bed, lying on his stomach reading from a slim novel.

Harry cheerfully got his robes on and slid his satchel over one shoulder. Now, he was starving for some Hogwarts breakfast. He felt like Ron likely did every meal ever.

~^~

Biting into his cantaloupe, Harry wondered for the millionth time why he was eating it. He didn't like cantaloupe, it tasted like watery something-not-good. But he continued to methodically eat the two thick slices he'd slid onto his plate. The toast and jam was much more satisfying, as were the eggs.

He felt like he kind of liked to do things he didn't like, just sometimes.

Snape, unsurprisingly, sat down next to Harry, hands twitching with interest. At least he'd scarfed some food down before the interrogation begun.

Without preamble he said drily, "What an accent you have, for a Frenchman."

"We were taught British English in school." Harry said after swallowing the last of his unsatisfying cantaloupe, feeling like he'd accomplished something. "I've been told my birth family could've been British, too."

"Oh, of course, that could make sense." The narrow eyes of his Housemate said something different.

"Snape's always looking for a mystery, I swear it," said a girl loudly, sitting opposite Harry. "Don't mind it. Or him. He'll scurry away to his books soon enough."

"Shut up," the boy snarled. Harry thought his hurt was plainly obvious. Snape seemed to be pretty overly defensive, but it wasn't his place to get in the middle of that outburst. Maybe he just liked snarling- it had certainly been Harry's experience.