Storms, Thorns, and Chaos - Book 1: The Philosopher's Stone

Chapter 5

Chapter Warning: Brief Mention of Discrimination due to Religion; child neglect/abuse; injury; bullying

Chapter 5

questions are the most important (they lead to answers and wanting discovery)

Hermione said that she had broken her wrist from falling on the stairs. She cradled it gently—it was still wrapped in bandages from Madame Pomphrey—and told Harry and Ron not to worry about it.

"It's not important," she said firmly.

Her eyes were wet, shiny, and she was in pain. Harry despised it.

They were his. His friends, his to protect, his to make sure they were happy because he'd never had many nice things before and they were at the top of his list. They had to be in top notch condition. Like when Aunt Petunia would sing to Dudley when he was sick to make him feel happy, even though fighting cats sounded better than her.

Harry was tempted to look in her mind to see who did it—there had to be something to let him know who—but Hermione refused to meet his eyes and Harry didn't want to hurt her.

Which meant that he was forced to clench his jaw and not say anything more on the matter.

He sat with her, writing out her essay outlines as she guided him through it, and pondered over what he could do to the Slytherins. They were older than them, were moving up to physical harm, and he couldn't resort because that would mean leaving Ron by himself—assuming Herimone resorted also, which was very unlikely.

Marcus Flint lumbered over, looming over their corner of the Common Room, and Harry stood up. He racked his brain for how he'd seen some of the other Slytherins interact with him. (He spent an unearthly amount of time watching them and gathering information from their minds when they meant his eyes briefly.)

"Lord–Heir Flint," he said with a small bow.

Flint quirked a brow, but didn't say anything. "Lord–Heir Potter," he returned, bowing lower than Harry had but not fully, like you were supposed to do for the Queen.

Harry stuffed down his confusion. He had a title. Why? How? "Quidditch Practice is this coming Saturday at 6 o'clock in the evening—tardiness is not tolerated."

Harry nodded. "I will be there."

Flint stared at him for a few more seconds and Harry resisted the urge to start digging. He was doing it too often and he'd only just recovered from a splitting headache from the previous day. Flint turned and went back to a chair near the fire, where a cluster of older Slytherins were sitting.

Harry sat back down, smoothing out his shirt when it wrinkled a little bit. Ron tilted his head at him. "What was that about?"

"Quidditch Practice," Harry murmured, taking the quill back into his hand. Hermione listed off a few more points that Harry jotted down with his chicken scratch hand-writing and massaged his wrist with two fingers when he was done.

He wondered if there was a proper way to hold a quill so that his wrist wasn't so sore after holding a quill for longer than 5 minutes. "We should go to the Library," he suggested, gazing out into the Common Room. "I need to get some books on Titles, if there are any at least."

Hermione nodded. "A good idea—I got a list of books in my bag that I need to get." She bit her lip. "I'm not quite sure who left the list yet but it's a list of books and they look to be helpful."

"Library it is then," Ron mumbled, staring down at his own essay with crossed-eyes. His letters were a bit wide and Harry stared at the e's that were backwards or the flopped letters. Ron scrunched his nose and drew a thick, blotchy line across his sentences. He grumbled something to himself as he tore the parchment and ripped the piece to shreds. "Can't understand anything—" Harry caught the edge of his words, knowing that they weren't really meant for him, but he heard it anyway.