Chapter 1: Hogwarts Great Hall: a first sighting of a wimperwump
The steam from a silver tureen of potato leek soup fogged Harry’s glasses. He took them off, cleaning the lenses on the hem of his black robes—robes that felt less like a uniform and more like a costume he’d outgrown. Around him, the Great Hall roared with the chaotic melody of hundreds of voices, clinking cutlery, and scraping plates. The ceiling swirled with a deep, velvet blackness, the floating candles casting pockets of warm, shifting light over the students.
He’d been here a week, and it still felt like a bizarre dream. Starting Hogwarts at eighteen was like showing up to a party just as everyone was leaving. The first-years seemed like children, and his own yearmates, those who’d lived through the war, carried a weight in their eyes he recognized. He felt it in his own bones.
A burst of laughter drew his gaze down the Gryffindor table. There she was.
Hermione Granger was leaning forward, her elbows on the table, her hands animatedly shaping an argument in the air. The candlelight caught the rich chestnut curls tumbling over her shoulders. She was speaking with a fervent intensity he remembered, but it was sharper now, more focused. Her posture was different, too. There was a surety in the set of her spine, a confidence that hadn't been there before.
His eyes, against his better judgment, dipped. The neckline of her robes was modest, but as she gestured passionately, the fabric shifted. A hint of shadowed cleavage appeared, the soft curve of her breasts visible for a fleeting second before the robes settled back. He felt a jolt, a purely physical heat that was immediately followed by a wave of self-reproach. He forced his gaze up to her face, but the image was seared into his mind: the smooth skin, the tantalizing hint of shape beneath the wool.
“It’s not just about kindness, Luna, it’s about systemic change!” Hermione was saying, her voice cutting through the din. “The very foundations of the wizarding economy are built on their unpaid labor. It’s slavery with a charming name.”
Next to her, Luna Lovegood blinked slowly, her large, silvery eyes reflecting the candle flames. She wore butterbeer corks on a necklace and radiated an aura of serene distraction. Her long, blonde hair fell like a waterfall of pale silk, almost glowing.
“I quite agree,” Luna said in her airy voice. “The wimperwumps have a similar collectivist structure. Of course, they pay each other in dewdrops and whispers, which Gringotts doesn’t accept. I saw my first one in this hall, you know. Right over by the Hufflepuff table. It looked like a confused puff of smoke.”
Harry watched as Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and then smiled, a real, fond smile that transformed her face. “I’ll take your word for it. The point is, we have to actually do something. Form a proper society. Apply pressure.”
“Your sleeves would make excellent nesting material,” Luna observed, reaching out to touch the cuff of Hermione’s robe. Hermione didn’t flinch.
Harry grabbed his pumpkin juice, taking a long drink. The cold sweetness did nothing to douse the low, warm hum in his veins. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, hyper-aware of every glance, every breath. Years of neglect at the Dursleys' had sanded down his edges, taught him to be small and unseen. Now, thrown into this belated spotlight, every instinct screamed to observe, to assess, to stay guarded. Even his attractions felt like vulnerabilities.
“You’re staring, Potter.”
Ron Weasley slid onto the bench beside him, a drumstick in one hand. He was taller, broader, but his grin was the same.
“I’m not staring.”
“You are. At Granger. Can’t blame you. She’s… well, she’s all that now, isn’t she?” Ron said around a mouthful of chicken. “Mental, though. Been going on about spew all week.”
“It’s S.P.E.W., Ron,” Hermione said, having overheard. She turned her formidable gaze on them. “And it’s not ‘mental.’ It’s basic ethics.”
Her eyes, bright and challenging, met Harry’s. For a second, he was pinned. He saw the intelligence there, the fierce compassion, and again, his traitorous gaze flickered downwards before he wrestled it back up. A faint pink flush crept up her neck, but she didn’t look away.
“I think it’s a noble cause,” Harry said, his voice rougher than he intended. He aimed for his old irreverence. “Though I still reckon most house-elves would hex us if we tried to set them free.”
“That’s the indoctrination talking!” Hermione insisted, leaning forward again. This time, Harry kept his eyes firmly on hers. It was a battle of wills. “It’s our responsibility to change the system, not just accept it because it’s comfortable.”
As she spoke, Luna’s head tilted, her attention drifting past Harry’s shoulder. “The nargles are thick around the staff table tonight,” she murmured. “They’re fond of anxiety. Professor McGonagall must be very worried about something.”
Harry followed her gaze. The new Headmistress did look strained, her lips pressed into a thin line as she consulted with a wizard in deep crimson robes—a Ministry official, by the look of him. The sight was a cold splash of reality. The war was over, but the machinery of the world kept grinding.
The feast ended with a peal of bells. Benches scraped as students rose in a wave. As Harry stood, he found Hermione at his side, her books already clutched to her chest.
“Walk with us?” she asked. It wasn’t really a question.
They filed out with the Gryffindor crowd, the stone corridors cool after the hall’s warmth. Luna drifted ahead, humming to herself.
“It’s different, isn’t it?” Hermione said quietly, her shoulder briefly brushing his as they navigated a tight corner. “Being back.”
“Yeah,” Harry said. The word felt inadequate. “Everything’s the same, but I’m not.”
“None of us are.” She paused, looking at him squarely. “I saw you looking. At me.”
Harry’s stomach lurched. He opened his mouth to stammer an apology, but she cut him off.
“It’s alright,” she said, and to his astonishment, her expression was one of amused understanding, not anger. “It’s just… odd. To be seen that way. Especially here.”
Before he could form a coherent response, a sharp cry echoed from a shadowy alcove ahead. Luna had stopped, her back to them, her usually fluid posture rigid.
They hurried forward. In the alcove, a younger Slytherin girl was pinned against the wall, not by magic, but by the intimidating bulk of a seventh-year boy Harry recognized—Cormac McLaggen. His face was leering, a nasty smile playing on his lips.
“—just saying, a girl like you shouldn’t be wandering alone. People might get the wrong idea.”
“Take your hand off her,” Harry said, his voice low. The hum in his veins turned to a sharp crackle. He didn’t reach for his wand. He just stepped forward, his body tension coiled.
McLaggen turned, his smirk fading slightly when he saw Harry, then widening as he took in Hermione and Luna. “Potter. Playing the hero again? We’re just having a chat.”
“It doesn’t sound like a chat,” Hermione said coldly, her own wand now subtly pointed at the floor. “It sounds like harassment. Let her go. Now.”
Luna, meanwhile, was staring not at McLaggen, but at a point just above his left ear. “You have a very large doxy infestation on your aura,” she said conversationally. “They feed on aggression. It must be quite crowded.”
McLaggen blinked, thrown. In that moment of confusion, the Slytherin girl ducked under his arm and fled down the corridor. McLaggen’s face flushed with anger. He took a step towards Luna.
Harry moved. It wasn’t a spell; it was a simple, swift step into McLaggen’s space, forcing him back. Their eyes locked. The air grew tight.
“Touch her,” Harry said, the words barely a whisper, “and what’s left of you will wish I’d used a wand.”
Something in Harry’s green eyes—the flat, hardened look of someone who had stared down far worse than a schoolyard bully—made McLaggen falter. He scoffed, puffing out his chest, but the fight had drained from him. He shoved past them, muttering.
The tension bled from the corridor. Harry released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
“Thank you, Harry,” Luna said, as if he’d passed her the marmalade. “His doxies were making my ears ring.”
Hermione was looking at him differently now. The amusement was gone, replaced by a complex, searching look. She’d seen the shift in him, the dark, quick promise of violence just beneath the surface. It was a part of him he’d brought back from the war, and he saw her catalog it.
“We should get to the common room,” she said finally, her voice soft.
As they walked the final stretches, the portrait of the Fat Lady ahead, the silence between them was heavy with unspoken words. The castle around them felt ancient and watchful, its secrets buried deeper than any of them knew. Harry had come here expecting a delayed education, a clumsy attempt at a normal life he’d never had.
But as he gave the password (“Fortis Fatum”), and the portrait hole swung open, spilling warm light and chatter, he knew. Normal was a fiction. The castle had waited for him, and it had changed as he had changed. The challenges here wouldn’t be puzzles or monsters in corridors.
They would be sharper, subtler, and they were already beginning.