Chapter 10 - Legilimency

12th September 1991

Mark stirred awake. It was still dark. He reached for his watch on the nightstand and glanced at the time. Twelve-twenty-five, the arms glowed in the dark. He ġrȯȧnėd and sat up. Once he got up in the night, it was almost impossible for him to fall asleep again. Looked like he would have to do with four hours of sleep tonight.

Mark reached for the book that he had been reading earlier—maybe he would doze off in the common room after a couple of hours if he was lucky. As he got up and put on his slippers, he noticed the bed beside him was empty.

'That's odd,' he thought, 'Neville was supposed to be back by now.'

Maybe Madam Pomfrey decided to keep him under observation for another night. It didn't quite make sense—Neville's broken wrist wasn't supposed to take this long to heal. Mark had visited him in the hospital wing before dinner, and Neville had been almost done by then.

An errant thought entered Mark's mind and he hurriedly checked Ron and Harry's beds. Empty. He ġrȯȧnėd. Those idiots must have gone to that duel with Draco Malfoy.

It wasn't that Mark didn't appreciate the sentiment; he really did. If anyone needed a good dressing down, it was that arrogant little ponce—almost breaking Neville's Remembrall like that. Mark had nearly landed in a few punches himself, but then Professor McGonagall showed up and he got to his senses.

But this duel at midnight tonight—it smelt of an obvious trap. Draco had walked up to the Gryffindor table during dinner to personally challenge Harry. Before Harry could say anything, Ron had accepted the challenge on his behalf, naming himself as the second (A second was someone who took your place if you died in the duel; Mark learned that when Ron explained it to a confused Harry). Mark, knowing well that the Slytherin would likely not even show up, had tried to reason with the two of them. But Ron brought up the matter of honour; there was no way they were going to back out now and be termed cowards. Mark had hoped they would forget about the whole deal by bedtime—evidently, they didn't.

Mark cracked his neck as he descended the stone steps into the common room. He wished he was back in his room at home; he wouldn't have had to leave the comfort of his bed for any midnight reading. If he wanted to read in his bed here, he would need to use the Lumos charm—that was like trying to read with a bloody light bulb in your hand.

The common room was completely empty, to Mark's surprise. It looked like none of the older students had much homework yet. Shrugging, he slumped onto a plush armchair and opened the book in his hand—Advanced Magical Theory by Osteria Offlewirth—before losing himself in its pages.

He was jerked back to reality when he heard the portrait hole—the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, guarded by the portrait of a Victorian lady that demanded a password for entrance—being thrown open. Multiple figures rushed in, the clatter of their feet and panicked panting heard clearly over the silence of the empty common room.

Mark looked up, expecting it to be just Harry and Ron; he was surprised to see Neville and a bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger? —with them. All four of them were still trembling, their faces pale in terror. Only Harry seemed to have noticed Mark's presence in the common room.

"What's up?" asked Mark, and Ron jumped back in surprise. Mark was sure that the red-haired boy had been a hair-breadth away from actually shrieking in terror. Since no one answered, he tried again. "Where were you guys? Neville?"

Hermione avoided his gaze—probably feeling embarrassed to be out after curfew. Neville, still trembling, locked eyes with Mark and mumbled guiltily.

"The forbidden third-floor corridor."

The forbidden what? Of all the answers he could have expected, this wasn't one of them. As far as Mark knew, the forbidden third-floor corridor was nowhere near the hospital wing or the trophy room—the location of the clandestine duel that Harry and Ron had gone to. He frowned, and was about to ask what exactly happened when Ron suddenly broke his silence.

Dog? Before he could try and make sense of Ron's statement, Hermione spoke up.

"You don't use your eyes, do you?" she said, her tone condescending as usual. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"The floor?!" Harry suggested. "You see, I wasn't exactly looking at its feet. I was too busy with its heads. If you didn't notice Hermione, there were three of them."

What the—? Three heads? Dog? Mark decided that he had had enough. Since no one was bothering to explain him anything, he would just get what he needed by gleaning into Ron's mind.

"No, it was standing on a trapdoor," said Hermione, crossing her arms smugly. "It's obviously guarding something."

"Seems to be doing its job fine then. Drove you guys away, didn't it?" Mark interrupted, now fully informed of the situation. Hermione gave him a scathing look, which he answered with an overly polite smile. Undeterred, she turned on Ron and Harry.

"I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, expelled," she said before stomping her way up the girl's dormitories.

'Or worse expelled? The girl really needed to sort out her priorities,' thought Mark. Especially given that it was she who decided to tag along with Harry and Ron when they were on their way to the Trophy Room. They had found Neville outside the portrait, unable to get in since Percy changed the password just before curfew. Mark hadn't known about that, as he had already been asleep by then.

"She has some nerve to say that," Ron said, breaking the silence. "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"

Ron looked at him with incredulity, while Harry's face turned to one of recognition. Mark realised the boy must also have some of the same doubts himself.

Neville, still silent and uninvolved in the conversation, just shook his head and made for his bed. Ron followed him, while Harry kept standing in the common room. Mark saw his eyebrows were furrowed in concentration, clearly thinking about something. Knowing there was no way inside that mind, Mark just turned back towards his book.

The three-headed dog had certainly piqued Mark's interest. He recalled what Professor Dumbledore had said during the sorting—there were some experiments being performed in the third-floor corridor. Obviously, that what was the huge dog was guarding. Although Mark would have liked to go and observe them, he could understand the need for safety and security.

At first, he had thought that the four night-time wanderers had headed there intentionally. After gleaning Ron, he learned that while they were prowling around, the caretaker Filch had almost caught them. It was in their efforts to run away from him that they had ended up in the forbidden corridor. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Realising that he was bȧrėly reading the book in his hand, Mark looked up from it. The common room was empty once again—Harry must have also headed for bed. Mark wondered if he should try and sleep too. The thoughts from the earlier disturbance were too strong on his mind—ones of Hermione and her insecurities, of Ron and what he had seen of their adventure tonight, and of Harry and his impenetrable mind. There was no way he'd be able to concentrate on Ms Offlewirth's treatise.

He could possibly continue if he had a snack to munch on, as he had often done in the past. But this wasn't home, and there was no kitchen or fridge nearby to make himself a quick cheese sandwich. As he got up and walked back to his room, he pondered whether he should start packing some stuff at dinner to eat later at night.

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24th September 1991

As Harry scribbled the date on top of the essay he had just finished, he realised that it was almost a month since he'd arrived at Hogwarts. Time had really flown by fast.

There were the classes obviously, and all the homework and studying he had to do for it. Now that he was on the Quidditch team, he also had to attend the team practices and the reserve practices that Wood scheduled. If that wasn't enough, Wood had him to attend separate Seeker practices—held in secret, so as not to alert the other teams of his appointment—in order to get some additional playing experience that he was lacking. Now that Harry thought about it all, he wondered how in the blazes did he have any time left to fool around with Ron, which he did do.

Ron. Harry was glad to have made friends with the boy on the Express. He would have been lost here at Hogwarts without him, being entranced by whatever fantastical thing they encountered that day. As someone who had lived in the magical world all his life, Ron wasn't as surprised by talking paintings and ghost professors as much as Harry was. It was just when Harry thought he was now used to the magical world that something new came into the picture throwing his ȧssumptions out the window.

As for his classes; Harry was genuinely enjoying them. A childish part of him didn't want to do any of the boring essays and homework that were required, instead wanting to spend his time studying new spells and doing actual magic. But he did understand their importance, so Harry did them.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was a subject that Harry had found interesting when he had glanced through the textbooks back at his home. He had been especially looking forward to it, even reading the entire textbook beforehand. Twice. Unfortunately, Professor Quirrell was far from a good teacher. Aside from a strong stench of garlic, the stuttering turbaned professor had not imparted him with anything new, leaving Harry utterly disappointed.

Still, Quirrell wasn't the worst professor at Hogwarts. That position was reserved for Snape. Just the mention of the man turned Harry's thoughts bitter. Snape had had it out for Harry before he had even set a foot inside the class. Even his Aunt Petunia hadn't been that bitter towards him—at least she waited long enough for him to screw up or do something odd.

If Snape's taunts and insults weren't enough, there was always Draco Malfoy and his cronies waiting just around the corner. Briefly, Harry wondered what would have happened if he had been sorted into Slytherin. Malfoy had been enemies with him before the sorting, and from the look Snape had given him during the feast, Harry ȧssumed he had been too. Him getting sorted in Slytherin would have probably given them both a good shock. There wouldn't have been any chance of making friends, Harry knew for sure.

That was what the best part of Hogwarts was for Harry; the new friends. Of course, there was Ron—always by his side, partnering with him in all the classes and helping him accommodate to the magical world. Then there were Fred and George, and all the other players on the Quidditch team. They were all a bit protective of him, treating him like they would a younger brother. Harry knew Ron would have felt irritated by it; he already was the little brother in his family. But Harry didn't mind it. Not one bit.

His dormmates were all great guys. Seamus—with his heavy Irish accent and native slang—somehow paired well with Dean's quick wit and quirky muggle references. They generally had their dorm rolling in laughter during the evenings. Neville was generally shy, preferring to be the spectator than the centre of attention. Yet, behind his nervousness and clumsy exterior, he had a dry sense of humour and solid dependability. Harry had been really surprised by his performance at the reserve practices, especially after his fall during that flying lesson.

Mark was the one that Harry found a bit weird. Not in a bad way—he was just too confusing for Harry to properly understand. He was obviously pampered at home—the way he behaved evidenced that clearly, and Harry was well acquainted with pampered kids, having lived with Dudley all his life. Yet, he was not arrogant towards others. The incident during the flying lessons proved that very well—he was sure of himself and his abilities. Confident even. But he wasn't a bully, and clearly hated the kind.

Ron was the one enjoying all this the most—according to him, it was good that Granger had someone take her down a peg. Her repeated efforts to 'help' them during and outside their classes were condescending, and frankly, unwanted.

Ever since he had made onto the reserve team, Ron had been generally in great spirits. Harry knew that it had meant a lot for his friend. Back o the Express, Harry had gotten the impression that Ron was starved for attention, intimidated and overshadowed by his successful older brothers. Ever since Oliver had lavishly praised him for a suggestion about chasing strategies during one of the practices, Ron had been much more confident in himself.

Any thoughts of quidditch brought Harry's mind straight to his new broom. The moment he had laid eyes on the brand-new Nimbus Two Thousand, Harry had fallen in love with it. Sleek and shiny, a polished mahogany handle, a long tail of neat, straight twigs, and its name written in gold at the top—it was perfection personified. If the appearance hadn't been enough, the performance blew way Harry's mind. In the air, it responded to his lightest touch. Compared to the school broom he had ridden when catching Neville's Remembrall, Harry's new Nimbus was at least three times as fast. It could be more, but Harry had no way of knowing. It was fast. Really, really fast. Within minutes of flying on it, he had become one with the broom. He wasn't flying the broom; he was flying himself.

Harry glanced at the wall clock in the common room. There was still a couple of hours till curfew, and he was done with his homework already. He rolled up his essay for tomorrow and began packing up his things. Thoughts of his broom had given him an itch which only a good free-fly could cure.

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13th October 1991

Mark collapsed on his bed, his muddy booted feet dangling out the edge. He was exhausted. The slow ache that travelled through his calves made him want to curse Oliver Wood and the day that madman decided to play Quidditch. He had worked them all like slaves with ten ŀȧps around the gigantic quidditch pitch along with the standard conditioning that they usually did on Saturdays. As Mark turned slightly to take a look at his roommates, an audible groan escaped his lips.

Neville was collapsed in a similar position as Mark and had already dozed off. Ron and Dean were already out of their boots and were stripping off their sweat-stained robes, talking animatedly about their practice.

"You guys look chipper," said Mark. He mentally cursed the both of them for being physically fitter than him. Ron turned to look at him, a smug smirk on his face.

"Then pray I never make it to the first team."

"Tough chance there, mate. You're one of the best chasers in Gryffindor. After the girls, that is. Wood's not going to let you go that easily." Turning to share a secretive smile with Dean—who was bȧrėly holding in his laughter—he added, "In any case, you have only yourself to blame for giving McGonagall the idea."

Mark ġrȯȧnėd audibly, while Dean just chuckled.

"Harry's still out on the pitch you know," said Dean. "And he has two more practices every week."

"I pity the fool," replied Mark in a fairly accurate imitation of Mr T. This was the last straw—Dean bȧrėly managed to land on his bed as he started laughing uncontrollably. Ron, visibly confused, looked at Mark for an explanation.

"Muggle reference," Mark said waving off Ron's concern. "Needs a half-hour of explanation that I'm too tired to provide right now."

As he began to shake off the boots from his feet, Mark's thoughts turned to the fantastical sport of Quidditch. He had to admit: as much as he hated Oliver Wood's early morning practices and sweat-milking physical conditioning, he really liked flying. A lot. At first, it wasn't that impressive—flying ŀȧps around the pitch on the basic school brooms left much to be dėsɨrėd. But when he tried riding one of the Cleansweep Sevens—belonging to their starting Chaser Alicia Spinnet—he'd really understood the potential freedom and speed that could be achieved on a broomstick.

The game itself was weird—to be fair, Mark found all sports slightly weird. It depended on the movements of four balls—a large football-sized red ball called Quaffle, two heavy, smaller sized black balls called Bludgers, and one walnut sized winged golden ball called the Snitch. Three large hoops stood high in the air on both sides of the pitch, each defended by that team's Keeper. The three Chasers on each team had the aim of scoring the most goals by throwing the Quaffle through the hoops, with ten points for each goal. The Bludgers were enchanted balls; their aim was to pursue and unseat as many players as they could, and the two Beaters on each team had the duty of literally smacking them away with wooden bats and allowing the Chasers and Seeker to play unhindered. The Seeker had only one goal—find and catch the Snitch, earning their team a hundred-fifty points. And to top it all, there was no time restriction for the game; it only ended when the Snitch was caught. So yes—weird.

Despite the roaring popularity of the sport in the magical community, the number of people that turned up at the reserve try-outs was pitiful. Mark reckoned that the reserve spots must not be lucrative for anyone other than the most serious players. Being forced to participate, Mark had naturally dragged Neville along—to everyone's surprise, including the boy's own, Neville managed to snag himself a spot as a reserve Beater. Ron, desperate for a position on the team, became the second reserve Beater when he lost out the Keeper spot. In his defence, the other guy—a pompous second-year called Cormac McLaggen—had his own broom.

His mind turned to Professor McGonagall who, despite her cruel sense of humour, was quickly becoming Mark's favourite teacher. His detention had actually ended up being a one on one discussion with his professor on the underlying magical theory of transfiguration. Mark had been disappointed with the two thick books he'd borrowed from the library, and he had voiced it to her. She had suggested he check out the old issues of Transfiguration Today, a yearly magical journal on the subject.

That had been a goldmine for Mark. He found some of the answers to his questions in old issues from the 1920s, alongside issues of a now-discontinued German journal Theorie der Magie. Thankfully they had inbuilt translation charms for French and English, so Mark could read the articles despite not knowing the language. He had spent three days scouring through all of the issues, copying the articles which interested him using a charm he had gotten Fred and George to teach him.

One issue, in particular, had caught his eye; it was published in 1919 and written by a someone named G. T. Darnell. The reason Mark found it so peculiar was that the hypothetical equations that the author described in it were eerily similar to the electromagnetic equations given by James Clerk Maxwell—a non-magical scientist—in 1865.

No other article had made an attempt to use any mathematical formalism in any form, let alone use differential equations. The paper was apparently not that well received, as evidenced by the comments published underneath it since it had not matched with the results of any experiments that had been performed. Still, it was one that Mark found himself drawn to the most.

Of all the questions that the Hogwarts library answered, it didn't manage to answer the one about Mark and his ability. At least not completely. He scoured through all the books—all that weren't shelved in the restricted section—and it was in a book about memory charms that he found a hint.

In the section of defending one's mind, there was a mention of something called Legilimency—a skill that one used to enter another's mind, useful to ascertain exactly which memories were to be modified. Searching further, Mark had found more references to Legilimency. One said that it was the art of navigating someone's mind and needed a spell to be performed, while another insisted that all that was required was great magical power and eye-contact.

None of this properly explained Mark's ability; he certainly did not require a wand or eye-contact to read someone's mind. Rebuffed by both Harry and Professor Snape, Mark decided to try and glean into the mind of every person at Hogwarts. What he found was fascinating.

Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, for example, had lowered defences—something like a castle that isn't being actively guarded. On the other hand, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Snape, and weirdly, Professor Quirrell had much stronger defences—Mark was sure he couldn't get in without being noticed. Mark inferred from this that before the rumoured incident with the vampire, Quirrell must have been a really powerful and competent wizard.

None of the students had any such defences; none except Harry, who was some sort of an anomaly like Mark. That was still a mystery, unanswered by the books in the library. Perhaps there were more references in the restricted section, but Mark had no means to get in there. Not yet.

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