Harry Potter: The Last Potter

Once Harry finished his meal, he stood up, brushing the crumbs of bread from his robes and making his way toward the door. The morning had felt heavy with the weight of his housemates' stares and whispered comments, but now, with his stomach full and the promise of a new experience ahead, he felt a little more grounded. He couldn't shake the feeling that Hogwarts was full of hidden expectations, but maybe, just maybe, he could find his place in it.

As he stepped out into the hallway, he saw a line of first-years—mostly nervous-looking students—waiting to head out for their first class. A few of them glanced at him as he approached, their eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The boy who was acting as the prefect in charge of leading them gave Harry a quick nod, motioning for him to join the line. Harry moved into place behind the group, silently observing the others.

Just as they began to move, a tap on his shoulder made him pause, and he turned to find Pansy standing there, her eyes bright with the same determination he'd seen earlier in the Slytherin common room. Before Harry could say anything, she surprised him by pulling him into a brief, but warm hug.

"It seems we're sitting beside each other," Pansy said, her voice light but genuine. "So, you should have no problems in class. I'm great at potions—Mom says so." Her smile, soft but confident, made Harry's heart lift a little. It had been a rough few days, and seeing someone from his house actually showing him kindness made the day feel a bit brighter. For the first time in a while, Harry felt like he might actually belong here.

The group of first-years began moving again, and Harry followed closely behind Pansy, her presence easing the tension in his chest. Just as they rounded a corner, Draco Malfoy appeared from behind a stone archway, his face a mix of indifference and something else Harry couldn't quite place. With a flourish, Draco handed him a folded parchment.

"Don't say I never helped you, Potter," Draco said coolly, his expression hard to read. "This is a map of the school—at least the parts worth going to. It may not look like it, but this place is bigger than most would believe. The school has miles of hallways, even down here. Most of them are sealed off, or so my father says. Cave-ins and the like."

Harry took the map from Draco, his eyes flicking briefly to the blonde boy's face, trying to gauge his intent. Draco's tone wasn't overtly hostile, but there was a sharpness to it that Harry couldn't quite ignore. Nonetheless, he offered a quiet "Thanks," and unfolded the map, noting the winding corridors and the myriad of locations listed in fine ink. Some areas of the castle were marked with cryptic symbols, indicating places that seemed to be either off-limits or simply shrouded in mystery.

Draco didn't wait for further acknowledgment, turning on his heel and walking ahead, disappearing into the crowd of students. Harry folded the map carefully and tucked it into his robe pocket before turning his attention back to Pansy. She was walking beside him now, a small, knowing smile on her lips.

"See? He's not all bad," she said, her voice light, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Sometimes, he can even be civil."

Harry couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh at that, feeling the weight on his shoulders lighten just a fraction. It was strange—Draco Malfoy's actions were confusing at best, but the fact that Pansy wasn't as hostile towards him as Harry had initially feared was a small victory in itself.

They continued walking through the dimly lit hallways, their footsteps echoing in the silence of the castle's underbelly. The air seemed cooler here, and the walls appeared older, marked by the passage of time. Eventually, they arrived at a large wooden door, flanked by two stone gargoyles that seemed to watch over the entrance with unblinking eyes. A sign above the door read "Potions," and Harry felt a flutter of nervous excitement in his chest.

"Here we are," Pansy said, her voice carrying a note of assurance. "Potions. If you need any help, just ask. I've been doing this for years—Mom says I've got a natural talent for it."

Harry nodded, feeling a little more confident. The door opened, and they entered the classroom, where the scent of various herbs and potions ingredients immediately filled the air. The room was dimly lit, with shelves lining the walls, stacked high with bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes. The long wooden desks were arranged in neat rows, and the chalkboard at the front of the room was already covered in Professor Snape's precise handwriting.

As they took their seats, Harry could feel the curious stares of his classmates, a few of them whispering behind their hands. He ignored them as best he could, settling into the seat beside Pansy and taking out his quill and parchment. For the first time in days, he felt a small sense of ease—perhaps, here, with the scent of potions in the air and the presence of someone willing to be kind, things might start to feel more... manageable.

And if nothing else, he had the feeling that Pansy, at least, would make sure he wasn't alone.

Just as Harry opened his book, the classroom door swung open, and Professor Snape swept into the room. His long, black robes billowed dramatically behind him as he strode quickly to the front of the class, his movements sharp and purposeful. Without so much as a glance at the rest of the students, he stopped abruptly at his desk and turned on his heel, his dark gaze immediately locking onto Harry.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Snape's eyes bore into Harry's, a sharp, probing intensity that made Harry's stomach twist. There was something unreadable in that look—disapproval, perhaps, or suspicion. Harry wasn't sure. Snape's lips pressed into a thin line, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though he might address him directly. But then, as quickly as the moment had begun, Snape broke eye contact, turning his attention to the rest of the class.

"Welcome to Potions," Snape began, his voice smooth but cold, carrying an air of authority that silenced the room. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes—the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses. I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as much a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

The room was utterly silent, every student hanging on his words, though a few shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Harry couldn't help but feel a mix of fascination and dread as Snape's voice filled the space. This was a far cry from the encouraging, if somewhat chaotic, teaching methods of Professor McGonagall or Hagrid. Snape's approach was razor-sharp and exacting.

As Snape began outlining the rules of the class, Harry instinctively picked up his quill and started taking notes. His handwriting, however, was not exactly polished—it was messy, with letters slanting wildly and ink blotches spreading where the quill pressed too hard. Pansy, sitting beside him, leaned over to sneak a glance at his notes and couldn't suppress a soft giggle.

Harry glanced at her, his cheeks flushing slightly. "What?" he whispered under his breath.

"Your handwriting," she murmured, trying to stifle another laugh. "It's awful. Did no one ever teach you how to hold a quill properly?"

Harry gave her a sidelong look, trying to decide if she was teasing him or genuinely amused. "I didn't exactly grow up practicing," he muttered, keeping his voice low. "Besides, it gets the job done."

Pansy smirked, her expression playful but not unkind. "We'll see if Snape agrees when he reads your essays. Let me know if you need help before then—I wouldn't want you embarrassing me as my desk partner."

Before Harry could respond, Snape's voice cut through the air again, sharp as a knife. "There will be no talking in my class unless I have called on you to speak. That applies to everyone, Miss Parkinson."

Pansy stiffened immediately, her face going pale as a few students turned to glance at her. Harry could see her swallow hard, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked momentarily flustered. He felt a surge of annoyance toward Snape but kept his face neutral, focusing on his parchment as Snape continued speaking.

"The ingredients for today's potion—a simple Cure for Boils—are listed on the board. You will work in pairs. Instructions are written clearly. Do not deviate from them. And for those of you who think yourselves too clever to follow rules, rest assured I will know. Begin."

The room filled with the sound of students scraping their stools back and shuffling toward the cabinets to gather ingredients. Harry glanced at Pansy, who had already composed herself, her chin lifted as though daring anyone to think less of her for being called out.

"Come on," she said briskly, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him toward the supply cabinet. "If we're quick, we'll get the best ingredients. And don't worry—I'll make sure we don't blow anything up."

Harry followed her lead, a part of him grateful for her confidence. Whatever else the day held, at least he wasn't going to face it alone.

Harry squinted at the small, cramped text in Magical Drafts and Potions, his brow furrowing as he struggled to make sense of the archaic script. The handwriting-style font made every instruction look like an indecipherable tangle of loops and squiggles, and the dim, flickering torchlight of the dungeon didn't help. His finger traced the steps as he read through them again, trying to ensure he didn't miss anything.

"Chop the billywig stings finely," he muttered to himself, leaning in closer to the page. The next step mentioned something about squeezing the juice out of what? He tilted the book, squinting harder to make out the word. "Flitterbloom? Flutterbloom? What even is that?"

He glanced sideways at Pansy, who was already halfway through preparing her ingredients. She gave the book only the briefest of glances before moving with practiced ease, her knife deftly dicing a root into perfectly even pieces. Without hesitation, she squeezed a bright green pod into the cauldron, her movements so fluid it was as if she'd been doing it for years.

"Focus on your own potion, Potter," she said without looking up, her voice sharp but not unkind. Her grayish-blue potion bubbled quietly, giving off a faintly sweet smell that was somehow reassuring. "We're being graded collectively, and I'd hate to explain to my mother why my grades are anything less than perfect."

Harry frowned, trying not to feel stung by her comment. "I am focusing," he muttered, though it was painfully clear he was lagging behind. His cauldron still held only the base mixture, a dull, watery gray that didn't look promising.

"Clearly," Pansy quipped, casting a sidelong glance at his setup. "Honestly, Harry, just follow the instructions. It's not that hard."

Harry bit back a retort, deciding it was better not to argue. Instead, he returned to the book and focused on chopping the billywig stings as finely as he could manage. His knife slipped slightly on the slick surface of the cutting board, and the pieces ended up uneven and slightly squished.

Pansy sighed audibly, setting her knife down and turning toward him. "Here, let me," she said, exasperation clear in her tone. She grabbed his knife and the remaining stings, chopping them with such precision and speed that Harry wondered if she had secretly taken lessons from a professional chef.

"There," she said, handing the cutting board back to him. "Now add them slowly. And stir clockwise. Three times. Not two, not four. Three. Got it?"

Harry nodded, feeling both grateful and slightly annoyed at being treated like a child. He did as she instructed, carefully sprinkling the chopped stings into his cauldron while stirring. To his surprise, the mixture began to change color, shifting from murky gray to a soft, silvery hue that looked much closer to what was described in the book.

"See? Not so bad," Pansy said, her tone smug but with a faint hint of approval. "Just don't mess it up from here, and we might actually survive Snape's wrath."

Harry didn't have time to respond before the professor's voice cut through the room. "Ten minutes," Snape announced, his cold tone carrying effortlessly over the bubbling and murmuring of the class. "Your finished potions should be bottled and labeled by then. And I expect perfection."

Harry glanced at Pansy, who rolled her eyes. "Perfection," she mimicked under her breath. "What does he expect from first years? Honestly."

"Just keep doing what you're doing," she added more quietly to Harry. "And for Merlin's sake, don't touch anything else unless I tell you to."

Harry managed a weak grin, grateful for her guidance despite her bossiness. He had a feeling this partnership was going to be a rollercoaster.

As soon as the bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson, Snape rose from his desk, his black robes billowing slightly as he moved. The subtle swish of fabric filled the dungeon as he strode purposefully toward one of the tables near the center of the room. His sharp gaze scanned the students' work, and he picked up a small vial from the table, holding it up to the light.

The class fell silent, all eyes fixed on the professor as he turned the vial in his hand, the grayish liquid inside glinting faintly in the torchlight. His expression remained unreadable, but his piercing eyes betrayed a hint of displeasure.

"It's gray," he finally said, his voice flat and deliberate.

A girl sitting at the table—a first-year with bushy auburn hair—fidgeted nervously in her seat before blurting out, "Isn't it meant to be gray, sir?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of her audacity. The tension in the room thickened as Snape slowly turned to face her, his dark eyes narrowing.

"Name and house?" he asked in a low, dangerous tone.

The girl swallowed hard, her bravado faltering. "Ashley...Ashley Bloom. I'm from Gryffindor," she stammered.

Snape's lips curled into the faintest shadow of a sneer. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he said coldly. "Five for your failure to adhere to the instructions written clearly in the text, and five more for your backtalk. Perhaps next time, Miss Bloom, you'll think twice before questioning me in my own classroom." His words were sharp enough to cut through stone.

Ashley's face flushed a deep red as she sank back into her seat, mortified. A few snickers came from the Slytherin side of the room, but one particularly stern look from Snape silenced them instantly.

Harry watched the exchange in silence, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He glanced sideways at Pansy, who raised an eyebrow and leaned in to whisper, "Let that be a lesson. Snape doesn't tolerate foolishness—especially from Gryffindors."

Snape returned the vial to the table with a faint clink before moving on to the next group's work. As he passed by Harry and Pansy's table, his eyes lingered on Harry for a fraction too long, as though searching for a reason to find fault. When his gaze shifted to their potion, however, he merely gave a curt nod.

"Acceptable," he said, his tone clipped, as though the word itself pained him. Then, without another glance, he moved on.

Pansy exhaled quietly and smirked at Harry. "See? I told you we'd survive if you just listened to me."

Harry nodded, but his mind was elsewhere, still replaying the harsh way Snape had addressed Ashley. It seemed clear that in this dungeon, fairness wasn't something to be counted on.

As soon as Harry stepped out of the classroom and into the dimly lit corridor, Draco sauntered up behind him, holding a small vial of his own potion aloft. The boy's trademark smirk was firmly in place as he inspected the grayish liquid in Harry's vial. He tilted it toward the light, letting the faint torchlight reflect off its surface.

"Acceptable," Draco said in a mockingly clipped tone, mimicking Snape's earlier words. His pale eyes flicked to Harry, the smirk widening. "Tell me, Potter, this was Pansy's work, wasn't it? I mean, it was obvious in class you were completely out of your depth."

Harry felt a surge of irritation but forced himself to keep his voice steady. "Yeah, well, it's not like you were much better," he shot back, snatching the vial from Draco's hand before the boy could drop it.

Draco's smile faltered, and for a moment, his polished composure slipped. "Hey!" he snapped, his tone defensive. "At least mine was close to the right color. I just added too much butterwart. Anybody could've made that mistake their first time." His voice rose slightly, as if daring Harry to challenge him further.

Harry narrowed his eyes, feeling the tension simmer between them. "Yeah, anybody except Pansy, apparently," he retorted, jerking his head toward where she stood a few paces away, watching the exchange with a raised brow and a knowing smirk.

Draco scoffed, his cheeks flushing slightly as he turned to Pansy. "Oh, don't let it go to your head, Parkinson. You just got lucky this time." He adjusted his robes with a haughty flick of his hand, clearly eager to move past his own mistake.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Pansy said coolly, stepping forward to stand beside Harry. Her tone was as sweet as honey but carried a sharp undertone. "Unlike some people, I actually read the instructions before starting." She gave Draco a pointed look, her smirk deepening as his scowl grew.

"Whatever," Draco muttered, brushing imaginary lint off his robes. "Next time, we'll see who's got the better potion." With a final sniff of disdain, he turned on his heel and stalked off, his two lackeys trailing behind him.

As soon as Draco was out of earshot, Pansy chuckled softly. "You know, Harry, for someone who acts so confident, Draco's skin is remarkably thin."

Harry grinned despite himself. "Yeah, well, I think I might've poked a hole in his ego back there."

Pansy smiled, looping her arm through Harry's as they began walking toward their next class. "Just don't let him drag you down, Harry. You've got potential—you just need to learn how to use it." She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze before releasing him, her expression surprisingly earnest.

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry felt a flicker of something other than frustration or unease. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as out of place here as he'd thought.

As Harry trudged back to the Slytherin common room, the chill of the dungeon halls pressing against his skin, he couldn't help but notice Draco lingering a few paces ahead. The blond boy's head swiveled sharply, his sharp gray eyes scanning the long hallways as if searching for something—or someone. His movements were subtle but deliberate, his posture tense in a way that made Harry wonder what had him so on edge.

Before Harry could ask, a small but firm tug on his sleeve distracted him. He turned to see Pansy at his side, her green eyes glowing faintly under the flickering torchlight. Her expression was playful, though her tone carried a hint of exasperation.

"Have you been to the library yet?" she asked, her words quick and pointed. "I mean the one in our common room, not the boring one everyone else gets to use."

Harry blinked, caught off guard. "No. I didn't even know we had a library," he admitted, feeling a little defensive.

Pansy let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes dramatically, her hand still loosely clutching his sleeve. "Honestly, Harry, how could you not know about that? You've had, what, two whole days to look around? Are you even paying attention to anything in this place?"

Harry gave her a sheepish shrug. "I've been a little busy, you know, trying not to mess up in every class and figuring out how not to offend half the house."

Pansy snorted but didn't let go of his sleeve as she led him down the hallway. "Excuses, excuses. Come on, I'll show you. You're going to need it if you're planning on surviving in Slytherin. Half of us practically live in the library, and the other half just pretend they don't."

They rounded a corner and stopped in front of the carved stone wall leading to the common room. The entrance slithered open at her softly spoken password, and the two stepped inside. The common room was as grand and foreboding as ever, its green and silver decor glowing faintly from the light of the enchanted flames in the fireplace. The sound of murmured conversations and the occasional clinking of glass filled the space.

Pansy didn't pause, pulling Harry toward a far corner of the room where an inconspicuous archway led to another space. The moment they crossed the threshold, Harry's eyes widened. The Slytherin library was unlike anything he'd ever imagined. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled the circular room, their contents glowing faintly as if enchanted. Plush armchairs and dark wooden desks dotted the space, and in the center was a massive, intricately carved table surrounded by students hunched over books.

"This," Pansy said with a hint of pride, releasing his sleeve and gesturing around, "is the real reason Slytherin wins everything. You don't think it's just because we're ambitious, do you? Knowledge is power, Harry, and this is where we get it."

Harry looked around in awe, his eyes landing on the spines of ancient tomes with titles he could barely pronounce. He could feel the weight of the room's significance—the knowledge it held, the secrets it kept. It was both thrilling and intimidating.

"Why don't the other houses have something like this?" he asked, running a hand along the edge of a nearby desk.

Pansy smirked. "Oh, they probably do, in their own way. But nobody does it quite like Slytherin. We don't just read books here, Harry—we study strategies, old magical theories, even... less savory things." Her smirk deepened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Of course, you'll have to prove yourself before anyone lets you look at the good stuff."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "The good stuff?"

Pansy leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Family grimoires, rare potion recipes, spells that aren't exactly Ministry-approved... you know, the kind of things that separate great wizards from ordinary ones."

Harry swallowed hard, feeling a mix of excitement and unease. Pansy leaned back, watching his reaction with satisfaction.

"Come on," she said, grabbing his arm again and tugging him toward a quieter corner of the library. "Let's find you something basic to start with. Can't have you failing Potions again, can we?"

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry felt like he was stepping into the real world of magic—one far more complex, and far more dangerous, than anything he'd imagined.

For the next hour, Pansy dragged Harry through rows of towering bookshelves, her enthusiasm unwavering. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, metallic tang of magical preservation spells. Each time Harry thought they'd reached the limit, Pansy would dart off, pulling another massive tome from a shelf and plopping it onto his growing stack. Eventually, his arms ached from the weight of the books, and his vision was obscured by the teetering tower he carried.

"Come on, Harry," Pansy said brightly, peeking around the stack and motioning toward a table that had just been vacated. "A table's opened up. We'll start with these and see how far you get."

Harry let out a relieved sigh as he dumped the books onto the table with a loud thud, dust motes dancing in the air. Before he could even sit down, Pansy was already flipping through the top book, her green eyes scanning the pages with practiced ease. She hummed in satisfaction before beginning to read aloud.

"This one's perfect," she declared, settling into a chair. "'A Brief History of Goblin Houses and Their Influence on Modern Wizarding Society.' Now, pay attention—this is actually fascinating if you can keep up."

Harry sank into the chair opposite her, feeling both grateful and apprehensive. Pansy's voice was clear and confident as she began reading, weaving through the text as though she'd done this a hundred times before. Harry tried his best to follow along, but the sheer density of the material quickly became overwhelming. The book was packed with references to goblin clans, treaties, and architectural innovations, with footnotes that were practically a language of their own.

"...and that's when the Red Fang clan established the first iron-wrought vaults beneath Gringotts," Pansy continued, her tone full of pride as if she were personally responsible for the achievement. "Of course, this was before the Goblin Rebellions of 1612, when the Silver Hand faction broke away and—"

Harry blinked, his head already spinning. "Wait, hang on. Goblins have houses? Like, wizarding houses?"

Pansy lowered the book and gave him an incredulous look. "Not like our houses, Harry. Goblin houses are more like bloodlines. Think noble families, but with a penchant for rebellion and crafting shiny things. Honestly, how do you not know this? Didn't the Muggle world teach you anything about magical history?"

"I'm pretty sure goblins didn't come up in primary school," Harry muttered, rubbing his temples as she launched back into the text.

As Pansy continued, the names and dates began to blur together in Harry's mind. Red Fang, Silver Hand, the Treaty of Black Anvil—it all sounded like something out of an epic fantasy novel rather than a real part of wizarding history. Every so often, Pansy would pause and quiz him on a detail, her tone hovering between mockery and genuine encouragement.

"Alright, who founded the House of Ironhold?" she asked, smirking as she leaned across the table.

"Uh..." Harry wracked his brain. "Ironhold... was that the one with the... silver mining rights?"

Pansy sighed dramatically, though there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "No, Harry, that's the House of Silvermane. Ironhold was the one responsible for crafting the enchanted chainmail used in the Goblin Wars of the 14th century. Honestly, I don't know how you're going to pass History of Magic if you can't even keep the basics straight."

"Maybe because goblin history wasn't exactly covered in the Dursleys' bedtime stories," Harry shot back, though his frustration was tempered by the faintest hint of a smile. Despite the headache forming behind his eyes, there was something oddly comforting about Pansy's relentless energy.

By the time they reached the third book—a volume on ancient wizard-goblin relations—Harry's brain felt like it was oozing out of his ears. He leaned back in his chair, groaning. "This is worse than Potions."

"Oh, stop being dramatic," Pansy said, closing the book with a soft snap. "You'll thank me later. Knowledge is power, Harry, and if you don't learn to wield it, you'll end up at the bottom of the food chain. Trust me, in Slytherin, that's the last place you want to be."

Harry opened his mouth to protest but found he couldn't argue with her logic. Instead, he sat up straighter and reached for another book, determined to prove he wasn't entirely hopeless. As much as he hated to admit it, Pansy was right. If he wanted to survive—and thrive—in Slytherin, he'd have to step up his game.

The next few hours passed in a haze of reading, quizzing, and quiet bickering, with Pansy taking equal pleasure in teasing Harry and helping him improve. By the time they finally packed up and left the library, Harry felt a little less lost and a lot more determined. For the first time, he began to see Hogwarts not just as a school but as a battlefield—one where knowledge and strategy were just as important as magic. And if Pansy had her way, he'd be ready for whatever came next.

The hours of study had passed in a grueling blur for Harry. Every line of dense text seemed etched into his mind, and he could swear he'd see the words burned into the backs of his eyelids if he closed them. The ancient goblin treaties, the endless list of names, dates, and rebellions—all of it swirled in his head like a chaotic storm of knowledge he wasn't sure he could organize. He let out a weary sigh, dropping his head into his hands just as Pansy snapped her book shut with a decisive thud.

"That's enough for now," she declared, standing and stretching her arms over her head. The motion caused her back to arch slightly, and Harry couldn't help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye. The movement was oddly graceful, like a cat luxuriating after a long nap. Pansy tilted her head from side to side, a series of quiet pops escaping her joints as she worked out the stiffness from hours of sitting.

Harry quickly realized he was staring and turned his face away, his cheeks warming with embarrassment. His hurried movement only seemed to amuse her.

"It's alright to look, Harry," Pansy said, her voice teasing but oddly soft. She gave him a knowing smile, brushing a strand of dark hair out of her face. "It's not like you're forbidden to look at me. In fact..." Her smile deepened, turning almost coy as her green eyes sparkled with mischief. "If all goes well, you'll be seeing much more of me someday."

Harry's blush deepened as the words hit him, and he stammered, trying to find a response that wouldn't make him sound like a complete idiot. He didn't have to look directly at her to see the way she seemed entirely comfortable with herself, standing there as if she owned the room. It was infuriatingly Slytherin of her.

"Why—" Harry cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound calm. "Why are we set to marry anyway? I mean, I only met you once before—at the robe shop. How does that make any sense?"

Pansy had finished stretching by then and lowered herself back into her seat, though she remained poised and composed, as if she were lounging in a throne rather than a dusty library chair. Her expression softened slightly, and for a moment, she seemed thoughtful, even sincere.

"It's not as random as you think," she began, leaning back and crossing her legs. "We're both from old magical families, Harry. Families like ours follow traditions that go back centuries, and one of those traditions is ensuring that the bloodlines don't weaken or die out. When two families like ours start to dwindle—or when it looks like one family might not survive—they arrange alliances. And sometimes, those alliances come in the form of betrothals."

Harry frowned, the weight of her words settling over him. "So... this is about bloodlines?"

"Yes," Pansy said simply, though there was a touch of wistfulness in her tone. "But it's more than that. It's about preserving magic itself. Old magic. The kind that's tied to who we are and where we come from. Our families believe that pairing us together strengthens that magic, keeps it alive. That's why you and I were chosen."

"But we hardly know each other," Harry protested, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "I mean, how could they decide something like that when we were kids? It doesn't make sense."

Pansy's lips curved into a small smile, and she tilted her head as she regarded him. "We've met before, you know. Not just at the robe shop."

Harry blinked, confused. "What are you talking about?"

"When we were babies," she explained, her voice taking on a lighter, almost nostalgic quality. "Our mothers were friends once—before everything fell apart with your family. From what mine tells me, we were very cute together. She even has a picture somewhere of the two of us sitting in the same crib, babbling at each other like we were already planning our futures."

Harry stared at her, unsure how to process this new information. The idea of himself as a baby, happily playing with Pansy Parkinson of all people, felt so far removed from his reality that he wasn't sure he could believe it. He tried to picture it—a chubby, baby-faced version of himself sitting next to an equally tiny Pansy, her dark hair likely as wild then as it was now. The image was so absurd it almost made him laugh.

"And what if we don't get along?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. "What if this... whole thing doesn't work?"

Pansy shrugged, her confidence unwavering. "Then we figure it out. But you might be surprised, Harry. Magic has a way of binding people together. And besides..." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made his breath catch. "You're not as bad as you think you are. And neither am I."

For a moment, the air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken possibilities. Harry didn't know what to say, so he settled for looking away again, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn't quite pin down.

"Come on," Pansy said finally, breaking the tension as she stood and motioned toward the books. "Let's get these back on the shelves. You've learned enough for one night, and I'm sure you'll need your energy for tomorrow. Snape's bound to pick on you again."

Harry sighed, standing reluctantly and helping her gather the books. As they worked in silence, he couldn't help but steal a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Despite her sharp tongue and infuriating smugness, there was something about Pansy that he couldn't quite ignore. Something that felt strangely... inevitable.

By the time Harry returned to his dorm room, he was exhausted, his brain still buzzing with the events of the day. However, his attention was immediately drawn to the small figure waiting for him by the door. Peeny, the Potter family house-elf, stood nervously near his bed, her large bat-like ears pressed down in what looked like a mixture of anxiety and reverence. She clutched a sealed envelope in her tiny hands, holding it out as though it were made of something both precious and dangerous.

"It's for you, Master Harry," Peeny said, her voice a timid whisper as she glanced up at him. "It's from the goblins, it is." She stepped back, lowering her head so that she stood beside his bed, her small frame hunched in a deferential posture.

Harry frowned as he took the envelope, his name written on it in an elegant, angular script that he guessed was Gobbledegook. He hesitated for a moment, his mind racing through the possibilities of what it could contain. Letters from Gringotts weren't common unless something important had happened—or worse, gone wrong.

Peeny remained motionless as Harry broke the seal and unfolded the parchment inside. His eyes scanned the document, but the contents only deepened his confusion. It wasn't a letter, but rather a detailed account statement. A long list of names, sums of money, deposits, withdrawals, and transfers stretched across the page. Some of the funds had been moved to holdings he vaguely recognized as family properties, while others had gone to organizations and groups he'd never even heard of. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the endless columns and categories.

"What's all this?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and frustration. "I don't understand any of it."

Peeny, who had remained silent until now, raised her head slightly but still kept her gaze fixed on the floor. "It is your financial statements, Master Harry," she said, her tone careful. "As the Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, you is entitled to all reports from Gringotts. This includes bank statements, investments, and financial records. It is what all lords and heads of houses must have."

Harry blinked, taken aback. "But... I didn't ask for this. Why are they sending it to me now?"

Peeny fidgeted with the edge of her tea towel, her nervousness apparent. "You didn't need to ask, Master Harry. The goblins send them automatically when a new head of house takes over. You see..." She hesitated, as though choosing her words carefully. "You have responsibilities now. As the last Potter, you is not just responsible for the family vault, but also for everything tied to the Potter name."

Harry sat down heavily on the edge of his bed, the parchment still clutched in his hand. His eyes wandered back to the document, picking out unfamiliar terms like patent royalties and legacy accounts. He squinted at one particularly large sum that had been deposited into his vault, followed by a series of smaller withdrawals to something called the Potter Innovation Fund. "What does all this mean? Where's this money even coming from?"

Peeny straightened up slightly, though her eyes remained fixed downward. "Some of it comes from inventions, Master Harry," she explained. "Your great-great-great-grandfather, Lord Percival Potter, invented the self-cleaning pots. They is very popular in wizarding households even today. The patents for those inventions still bring in money." She gestured timidly to the document. "Other sums come from properties, like the Potter estate in Godric's Hollow, and from businesses your family invested in long ago."

Harry's jaw tightened as he processed her words. "And these... withdrawals?" he asked, pointing to a section of the parchment where sums of gold had been sent to organizations with names like The Avalon Research Guild and The Aurors' Benevolent Fund. "What are these for?"

Peeny hesitated again, her ears twitching. "Those is donations, Master Harry," she said softly. "Your family supported many causes and groups over the years. The Avalon Research Guild studies old magics, and the Aurors' Benevolent Fund helps Aurors who is injured or retired. There is also the St. Mungo's Children's Ward and the Hogwarts Scholarship Fund. The Potter family always believed in giving back to the wizarding world." She paused, wringing her hands nervously. "The money for these groups comes from the vault automatically. It is what keeps them going."

Harry stared at the parchment, a strange mixture of pride and unease stirring within him. He'd never imagined his family had been so deeply involved in the wizarding world, let alone that they had actively supported so many causes. And yet, the weight of it all felt almost suffocating. He had never asked for any of this—he didn't feel ready to handle it.

"But I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted, his voice quiet. "I don't know anything about being the head of a house, let alone managing all of this."

Peeny looked up at him for the first time, her large, bulbous eyes filled with earnest determination. "You don't have to do it alone, Master Harry," she said firmly. "Peeny is here to help. That is what house-elves is for. And the goblins will also explain anything you need to know. They is very strict about their records."

Harry gave a small, tired nod, folding the parchment and setting it aside. "Thanks, Peeny," he said, managing a faint smile. "I think I'm going to need all the help I can get."

The house-elf's ears perked up slightly, and she gave a deep bow. "Peeny is always here for Master Harry. Always."

As she busied herself tidying the already-spotless room, Harry leaned back against his bed, staring up at the canopy. The responsibilities of being the head of the Potter family were far greater than he'd ever imagined. For so long, he'd thought of himself as just Harry—just a boy trying to survive in a world that had thrown more at him than he could handle. But now, he was beginning to realize that being a Potter meant more than just a name. It was a legacy, one he wasn't sure he was ready for but knew he couldn't ignore.

The next morning, Harry descended the spiral staircase from his dormitory, still shaking off the remnants of sleep. The Slytherin common room was quiet but for the low crackle of the emerald-green fire in the hearth. At the base of the stairs, Pansy and Draco were waiting for him, their postures suggesting they'd been standing there for a while. Pansy had her arms crossed, her usual smirk replaced with something more neutral, while Draco stood with his hands in his pockets, a faint air of impatience about him.

"Snape wants to see you," Pansy said the moment Harry's foot hit the last step. Her green eyes narrowed slightly as she looked him over, as though sizing him up. "He said you need to go with him to some meeting."

Harry frowned. "What kind of meeting? Did he say why?"

Draco shrugged, stepping forward and handing him a small silver key. "No idea. But before you run off, take this," he said, holding the key out to Harry between two fingers. The metal gleamed faintly in the low light of the room, its surface engraved with an ornate 'M' for Malfoy. "It's for my door. I have something I want to show you when you get back."

Harry hesitated for a moment, eyeing the key warily before taking it. He weighed it in his hand, feeling the coolness of the silver against his skin. "What is it?" he asked, glancing at Draco suspiciously.

"You'll see," Draco said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "It's something... enlightening, I'd say. But it's better if you focus on your meeting with Snape first. Whatever it is, it's probably important if he's asking for you."

Pansy, who had been quietly studying Harry's reaction, rolled her eyes. "Don't overthink it, Potter," she said, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Just go see Snape before he gets impatient. Trust me, you don't want to keep him waiting."

Harry sighed, tucking the key into his pocket. "Fine," he muttered. "I'll deal with this meeting first, and then I'll figure out what you're up to." He gave Draco one last look, but the blond boy simply raised an eyebrow and turned away, clearly amused.

As Harry headed toward the common room exit, Pansy called after him, her tone laced with faint amusement. "Try not to embarrass yourself, Potter. Meetings like this are probably above your usual level."

Harry ignored her, his mind already spinning with questions about what Snape wanted. What kind of meeting could it be, and why had he been specifically summoned? He could feel a faint sense of unease building in his chest as he walked through the dungeons, the cold, damp air doing little to ease his nerves.

Whatever awaited him, Harry had the distinct feeling it wasn't going to be anything ordinary.