Harry Potter: But Where is Harry?

Chapter 12

The library was quieter than usual. Morning classes had left most students elsewhere—lounging in courtyards, catching up in common rooms, or cramming outside before lunch. Thomas Greene sat with Hermione Granger in a back corner of the library, thick Charms textbooks laid open between them. Dust motes floated in the sunlight that poured through high, arched windows. Every now and then, the turning of a page or the scratch of a quill broke the silence.

Thomas glanced at Hermione, who was scribbling a particularly neat set of notes. He had half a mind to copy them.

"I've been thinking," he said quietly, not looking up.

Hermione didn't pause. "About Charms?"

"Yes and… no." He chewed the inside of his cheek. "It's just—doesn't it seem like magic is taught more like a recipe than… a science?"

Now Hermione stopped. Her quill hovered above her parchment. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated. "Well, they teach us spells like incantations and wand movements are everything. But what if it's more about understanding the spell itself—its intent? Its principles? Like, why does pronunciation matter so much if magic responds to will?"

Hermione gave him a long, skeptical look. "You sound like you want to turn spellcasting into a science experiment."

Thomas smiled faintly. "Maybe I do."

Hermione leaned back slightly, clearly thinking. "I suppose there are things that don't quite add up. Like the Levitation Charm—Wingardium Leviosa—it's incredibly finicky. But… you might be onto something. Still, the structure is there for a reason. Centuries of tradition. Magical law."

"Sure," Thomas said. "But laws can change when people learn more. Maybe wizards haven't tested enough variables."

Hermione's eyes lit up, just a little. "That's… actually kind of exciting."

They returned to their notes, but a quiet energy buzzed between them—an understanding that something had been stirred. Thomas didn't realize how much he had needed someone to not dismiss him entirely. He had a long way to go before anything he believed about modern magical theory would matter. But maybe, just maybe, Hermione could become an ally.

In the Slytherin common room, Draco Malfoy lounged on a green-velvet armchair, one leg draped lazily over the side as he tossed a small Snitch-sized globe from hand to hand.

Crabbe and Goyle were snickering at some inside joke, and Pansy Parkinson sat cross-legged near the fireplace, braiding her hair.

"You should've seen him," Draco said to no one in particular. "Trying to act the hero, then gets us both punished. Real brilliant."

"Looks like even Gryffindors don't want him," Pansy chimed in, her voice sugar-coated venom. "He's not exactly popular over there."

Draco smirked, but something in his eyes sharpened. "He's unpredictable. And too clever for his own good."

Crabbe, finally understanding something, chuckled. "You don't like him 'cause he got you in trouble."

"No," Draco said flatly, sitting upright. "I don't like him because he's a threat."

The others blinked, momentarily stunned by his honesty.

Thomas Greene was a Muggle-born. He should've been easy to ignore.

But he wasn't.

The afternoon air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and chalk dust as Thomas and Hermione descended into the dungeons. Double Potions with Slytherin.

Thomas felt a spike of nerves. After their first disastrous class, he was bracing for the worst.

Neville was already seated, arm still bandaged from the broom crash two days earlier. He gave Thomas a nervous smile. "Hope Snape's in a better mood today."

Thomas didn't reply. He doubted it.

Professor Snape swept into the classroom without a word, his robes billowing like smoke. The room stilled immediately.

"Today we brew a Cure for Boils," Snape intoned. "Instructions are on the board. Pairs will remain as last time."

Thomas swallowed a groan. He and Neville exchanged wary glances.

Snape's gaze swept the room before lingering on Thomas. "Try not to blow anything up, Mr. Greene."

Neville fumbled with the ingredients, nearly dropping a vial of dried nettles. "S-sorry," he whispered as it clinked onto the table.

"It's fine," Thomas muttered, taking a deep breath. He'd reread the chapter three times last night. He could do this.

As they prepared the base, Thomas carefully measured snake fangs while Neville ground the horned slugs. A few feet away, Hermione was working alone—Snape had refused to allow her a partner after she corrected him last week.

"Now add porcupine quills—last," Snape said sharply, walking between the tables.

Thomas opened his mouth to stop Neville, but it was too late.

Neville dumped the quills in early.

The cauldron hissed violently, bubbling purple foam that sloshed over the edge and ate into the table.

Several students backed away, hissing.

Snape's eyes narrowed to slits. "Longbottom," he growled, "you imbecile."

Neville flinched. "I—I thought it was time—"

"And what's your excuse, Mr. Greene?" Snape snapped, turning on Thomas. "Too busy being a hero to actually help your partner?"

Thomas's fists clenched. "I tried to warn him."

Snape's lip curled. "Five points from Gryffindor. For incompetence."

A few Slytherins chuckled. Snape turned, muttering something about "Gryffindors playing Quidditch before earning their wings." The whole class laughed louder.

Thomas forced himself to focus on cleaning the cauldron. His throat burned. He couldn't afford to lose his temper—not here.

Hermione shot him a sympathetic look across the room, but Snape glared until she looked away.

Evening had settled like a thick blanket over the castle by the time Thomas and Hermione walked back toward Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione's mouth was a thin line. "Honestly. That was completely unfair. You weren't even the one who made the mistake!"

Thomas didn't reply at first. He was thinking about the way Snape had said 'hero.' Like it was an insult.

"Ron's probably going to stir things up more after this," he finally muttered.

Hermione sighed. "Why is he so angry all the time?"

Thomas didn't answer. He didn't know. But Ron's loathing had deepened since the Remembrall incident. It wasn't just about House points anymore. It felt personal.

Maybe it had always been.

Back in the common room, Ron sat hunched with Seamus and Dean. He didn't look up when they entered.

Thomas didn't care.

Later that night, long after the common room had gone quiet, Thomas slipped out of bed.

He climbed the stairs and ducked through the narrow archway leading to the Astronomy Tower.

The sky stretched endlessly above him, stars scattered like powdered silver. A breeze tugged at his sleeves.

He sat on the ledge and stared out over the courtyard below.

Magic was… strange. It wasn't just spells and wands. It felt alive. Like the castle itself pulsed with energy.

He was about to leave when he saw something.

A figure, gliding across the courtyard below. Cloaked, slow, almost floating. It moved strangely, like it wasn't quite touching the ground.

Thomas leaned forward.

It was too dark to see clearly. But something in the way the figure moved—its posture, the eerie, unnatural rhythm—reminded him of Professor Quirrell.

His skin prickled.

He narrowed his eyes, tracking the movement. The figure slipped soundlessly through the archway near the greenhouses… then veered toward the treeline behind them.

The Forbidden Forest.

A cold weight settled in Thomas's chest.

That was the direction Harry had gone in detention during his first year—when they saw something drinking unicorn blood. He'd seen it in the film. Voldemort had been there. Feeding. Weak, yes, but very much alive.

Thomas gripped the stone edge of the tower tightly. "It can't be," he whispered to himself. "That's too soon."

Or was it?

This world was already shifting. Neville was in Slytherin. Harry was missing—dead or something worse. And if Quirrell was truly harboring Voldemort already… then there would be no centaur intervention, no convenient Hagrid-led detour to safety. If someone went into that forest now, they might not come back out.

He exhaled shakily.

No one else seemed to notice. The stars continued to glitter above, soft and unbothered.

Thomas rubbed his eyes. He needed more information. Guesses and memories from a movie weren't going to cut it. If that was Quirrell—or worse—he had to be ready. No miraculous luck, no sudden heroics.

He'd need answers. And if Dumbledore was keeping secrets—or if he wasn't around at all, like the strange absence suggested—then Thomas had to seek them out himself.

His thoughts drifted back to Hermione's earlier skepticism, about magical logic and spellcasting rules. The professors taught within narrow lines, but there were hints that magic was far broader than they admitted. There had to be ways to protect oneself beyond first-year curriculum.

The Restricted Section.

It came to him slowly, then all at once.

The books kept behind that cordoned-off gate—dangerous, powerful, often forbidden. There might be truth buried there. Or answers about soul magic. Or even something on possession.

He didn't have the iconic Cloak of Invisibility. There was no Invisibility spell he could cast, at least not yet. But he had to start thinking ahead.

If Voldemort was already stirring, already moving—then time might be running faster than he'd hoped.

He stepped back from the ledge, the courtyard now empty, silent again.

"I need to prepare," Thomas murmured.

No one else was going to save them.