The morning light had not yet begun to stream through the windows to the squire's dorms when Harry woke up. The dark-haired boy pushed himself up quickly, hand snatching up the glasses that sat on the small nightstand next to his bed, sliding them on and running a hand through his hair as he blinked away the sleepiness that lingered in his eyes. He was already up and at the foot of his bed, digging into his trunk when his vision truly adjusted and he could finally see what actually doing, not that he needed to; he was already out of his sleeping clothes and pulling on his trousers and undershirt, ignoring the morning chill that swept through the dorms.

There was bustle in the dorms as the male side of the first years began their morning rituals, the sound of cloth and metal building up as more and more of the students woke and got ready. The dorms for first year students were large and open, each four-poster bed having a small nightstand and a space for a trunk at its foot and little less beyond that; privacy was a luxury that was afforded only to those that passed their tests and were sorted into a house, something Harry was still months away from. He saw some stragglers, still struggling to pull themselves from beneath their warm blankets and into the chilly morning air. Harry knew he wouldn't be the first out of the door or onto the field, but he wouldn't be the last either.

In the few months since he began attending Hogwarts Magical Academy for Knighthood and Sorcery he'd become very adept at getting ready in the morning; squires in their first year had to wake up before dawn to begin the training regiment, and it took adjusting even for those that had already been attending as pages since they were seven. For the muggleborns it was even more trying, and though Harry Potter did not strictly speaking fall in the category of muggleborn, in practice he had far more in common with them than those raised inside magical society.

He spotted Ron groggily donning his outfit, and was reminded that even those raised inside it really did struggle with all of this too. Dean Thomas, a squire that was much like Harry in his being both not really a muggleborn and yet mostly like one, was already heading through the door, rattling slightly as he went in his full kit and carrying his sheathed training sword. Harry had pulled on his gambeson and was donning his mail shirt, fingers running over the double-linked king's mail pattern in its one-into-eight construction. Even after wearing it for hours on end, he still appreciated the beauty in the pattern.

"Come on, no, Harry, no time to appreciate the pretty rings," Ron said groggily, flashing a cheeky grin despite having not even fully donned his own gambeson. Harry's eyes lingered on it, knowing that the well-fitted garment had been hand quilted by Ron's mother, in contrast to the gear Harry had commissioned after his visit to Diagon Alley. Ron wasn't alone in that; many of the pure blood and even half blood squires had gear that had been hand made for them or passed down to them. There was something about that, a twinge of envy almost, one that might have galled Ron if he'd known; the red-head was openly envious of Harry's own equipment, and would have been utterly befuddled to know Harry envied the other boy's gear just the same.

Shaking the thought away, Harry threw the mail shirt on and reached for his brigandine, tapping it in the right places after he secured it and feeling the magic flow through the runes carved into the hundreds of metal plates riveted on the inside of the vest come to life, lightening it. That was a spell he was exceptionally happy he'd learned. Poor Neville was still struggling along in his father's heavy old gear and hadn't mastered lightening it at all yet. Harry was pulling on his gloves and demi-gauntlets when he spotted Neville, the other boy struggling through pulling his chain shirt on. Most of the other students were pushing past him now, dressed or nearly so and trying to get out onto the field.

"Harry?" Ron queried as Harry moved past him, the red-head nearly done himself. Harry said nothing, simply grabbing the shirt and helping settle it onto Neville's large frame before reaching for the other boy's coat of plates.

"You don't need to help me, Harry, no reason for you to be late too…" Neville said, but accepting the help of slipping his arms through the vest.

"Neither of us will be late if we can hurry this up," he said, looking back to try and find the other boys gauntlets. Ron handed them to him while giving Harry a long-suffering look, clearly not thinking they'd be making it out in time. Harry gave him an appreciative nod, particularly when he saw Ron was carrying Harry's training sword too.

"I hope it's not Snape doing morning exercises," the red-head mumbled, and to that Harry could only agree.

"I swear, it's like you're trying to get in trouble; you're never going to make it through training if you keep getting on the wrong side of the teachers."

Harry wiped away the sweat on his brow, annoyed at how his body felt hot from the exertion and cold from the morning chill at the same time, and continued to trudge along. He shot a glance over to the source of the voice, tone high and bossy, another thing he'd become quite familiar with since arriving at Hogwarts. He saw Ron scowling at the brown haired girl, dressed in Alley-bought gear much like Harry was. Her brown eyes held a flash of challenge in them as they met his own, but he hadn't the energy to deal with her at the moment.

"We weren't even that far behind," he mustered, barely. His feet trudged along in the sort of slow shuffling jog he always fell into about this point in runs. He pushed himself, trying to draw the magic in to fuel aching limbs and burning lungs. It was harder to do while you were running; if he stopped he'd feel fresh and ready, but that'd get him hemmed up terribly by the instructors. He had to learn to do it on the move; that's what all of the training was about.

Probably. He thought some of the instructors just liked torturing them too.

"Rules are rules," she replied sharply, rolling her eyes, "Honestly, how hard is it to get ready? I was the first one on the field."

Hermione Granger was a muggleborn. An actual muggleborn, not like Harry or Dean, but really having not known anything about magic or beasts or hunting knights until she'd gotten her letter. She was fourteen, a few months older than him, and had a drive that might have been envious if not for her habit of being a know-it-all. Harry loved magic and he loved learning to be a knight and all too, and the girl could usually back up her smugness, in contrast some others like Malfoy, but it didn't make it any less annoying.

Particularly because she seemed to have picked Harry out as something like a rival almost immediately after they'd met on the train. She'd read about him in some of her books, and apparently thought there was something to constantly challenging him to things. Sometimes he rose to it, other times he just wanted to get by. He noted that she'd removed the lightening charms on her vest as well, even though only Harry and Ron had been told by Sir Snape to do so as punishment for being behind. He could see she was sweating under the weight too, but he couldn't be bothered to play along right now, not when they still had at least another mile to go.

"We were helping Neville, Granger," Ron spat out, with a bit more venom than Harry might have mustered had he the energy to reply further, "You know, helping a friend? Not that you'd know what that's like."

The girl faltered in a step, and Harry winced. She gave Ron a dirty look, a mask of anger over hurt, and then tapped her vest, reactivating the lightening charms and picking up speed. Harry watched her go with a frown and glanced over to his friend with a sour look. Ron simply returned the look with confusion.

"What? It's true, isn't it?"

Harry just sighed and turned back to the path, trudging along as best he could.

Not for the first time, Harry wondered if Ron was very smart or very, well, not smart. Like some sort of person who is the opposite of smart. The odd brilliance his first friend seemed to show was so often offset by the fact that he seemed preternaturally inclined towards insensitivity; Granger was just a bit annoying, and too eager to prove herself, and a bit too much of a know-it-all, and could be abrasive, and...

Well, anyway, Harry had known worse. She wasn't a bully, not the way Malfoy or Dudley had been, with their gangs and their thuggery. Hermione wasn't picking on the weak, she challenged the strong, or something. At least that's the way Harry felt.

Ron, though, simply did not care for Hermione Granger, and the two seemed to nettle each other constantly. The ginger had a habit of the low blow, without even seeming to think about it. He had a tendency to simply say what popped into his head, which often tended harsh and cutting remarks. Harry understood that similar to how he thought he understood Hermione.

He watched her shrinking form as she ran ahead, bushy brown hair bouncing as she went, and felt a pang of guilt. She wasn't so bad, really, was she?

Well, there were other things to worry about, like the potions class later.

Harry did not like Sir Snape at all. The greasy, pale-skinned man looked half a vampire at times, and seemed to have a dislike of Harry that he felt was utterly undeserved. The man treated almost everyone poorly, though spared Malfoy and his ilk the worst of the abuse, but even with all he laid out on poor Neville or others, the vitriol he saved for Harry was singular.

"You know, I think I'd enjoy potions class," Harry said suddenly, glancing over to his friend for a moment before turning back to the path, "If not for Sir Snape."

"Really?" Ron replied, tone a bit incredulous, "Not sure I would, though it'd be a whole of a lot more bearable without the greasy old bat."

"Bottled magic is interesting," Harry persisted, trying to take his mind off the burning in his legs and chest and the failure of his internal magic to quell it, "I read that master potioneers get so good that they can just eat the ingredients and use their magic to mix it inside of them."

"Yeah, 'spose so," Ron said, and Harry felt rather bewildered by his nonchalance, "Actually, my dad told me once about a knight that had become so good at potions and taken so many that he could just use his magic like he'd drank them. Like his body just remembered. Don't remember the name, though."

The red-head paused a moment, seeming thoughtful, and then glanced over at Harry, "Suppose that would be pretty useful. My brother, Charles, is off hunting dragons. Good money in that, but takes a lot of potions to do it, and dangerous work. Don't think that's for me."

Harry wondered if he'd ever get as casual as Ron was about the whole thing. The magic, the monsters, the mage-knights that hunted them. Seemed so fantastical, was so fantastical. Protecting the world from dangerous creatures, secretly saving lives, collecting up rare ingredients for things that most folks would never know were magic.

When he'd turned thirteen this hadn't been what he had expected at all.

"Rather fond of archery."

Harry was caught off guard by the sudden statement and almost stumbled when he craned his head around towards Ron.

"Like bows and arrows?" Harry asked, thinking about the few times they'd trained with bows and crossbows since they'd begun training. The other boy shrugged.

"Not all that glamorous, I suppose, but seems smart to me. Much better to deal with beasties at a distance than in clawing range, innit?"

"Aren't some monsters resistant to arrows?"

"I dunno, I think so? But they gotta have a weak spot somewhere, right?"

Harry considered that for a moment, but wasn't sure what more to say. Honestly he just didn't know enough about anything to say anything, and Ron seemed to alternate between oddly detailed knowledge and utterly ignorant at odd intervals. Harry wondered if he wouldn't come off that way too if Ron tried to quiz him about the muggle world. Not that Ron was the sort to ask about the muggle world, of course; he was rather content with taking things as they were, and dealing with what was in front of him.

Actually, Harry kind of envied that about him.

Sighing, the black-haired boy redoubled his efforts, realizing to his surprise that getting his mind off the burning in his legs seemed actually to have helped make them burn less. There wasn't that much further to go now; he could almost taste breakfast.

Harry had been right that the run was almost done, but breakfast had been pushed back when Sir Snape decided to tack on thirty minutes of sword drills onto their morning exercises. He led them himself, pausing only to berate sloppy form or broken execution and offering only a scant few praise in the form of saying some of the students were 'passable, he supposed.'

Afterwards, Snape had released them, and Harry had glanced back before entering the castle. The instructor was still on the field, clad in his black leather brigandine and wielding his sword in elegant arcs. Magic danced along it as he moved, and Harry wondered why the man was teaching potions rather than beasts and foes; he was certainly a better swordsman than Sir Quirrell seemed to be, and rather dressed like he was trying to be a shadow instead of being afraid of them.

Though, Harry thought, probably no better a teacher.

Harry and the others had showered, changed into simpler tunics (colorless for Harry and the rest of the unsorted,) and made their way down to the great hall for breakfast. The room was busy, and Harry watched the bustle while he waited.

The fact that he'd never spent any time as a page presented some problems for Harry, namely in the fact that he knew almost none of the proper etiquette or forms and was forced to learn the basics of magic afresh; his training days were longer than others, as he was with the others, like Dean and Hermione, who had two hours of extra classes after the normal school day to help catch them up. It was grueling at times, and the source of no shortage of jabs and mockery from certain students; Draco Malfoy and his ilk liked to bring it up constantly, and even Sir Snape had a habit of bringing it up in his jabs and snips.

It hadn't taken enduring that for very long for Harry to hope against all hope that he didn't get placed into House Slytherin when it came time for his sorting.

However, as he watched the children rush about the hall, carrying dishes and pitchers, cleaning up messes, and running errands for both the staff and older students he still felt rather glad he'd dodged that one. Pages spent much of their day, since they were seven years old, either in class or serving as assistants. Their presence was simply taken for granted by many; students left out messes, simply expecting them to be cleaned up, though Harry noted the older students seemed far better about this, though many of them also seemed to have a personal page, which seemed a rather prized position to have; being a part of a lance meant you were almost assured to be sorted into that house, once you made it.

"Your food, squire," a girlish voice said, and Harry turned to see a page setting a plate down in front of him. An English breakfast, hearty and full, and exceptionally common at Hogwarts. He knew the girl already; Ginny Weasley was Ron's only sister, and in her last year as a page. Though technically the personal page of her older brother, Percy, she tended to do things for the rest of her rather sizable family as well. And, as it would happen, Harry, for some reason.

Or, well, not some reason. The look of awe and surprise on her face was somewhat muted compared to how it had been when he first arrived, but was still there. It made Harry feel uncomfortable, particularly with Ron sitting across the table. Harry's friend simply rolled his eyes though.

"Alright, then, Ginny, sod off so he can eat," he said, shooing her away before he took another mouthful of his own food, snorting as she gave him a dirty look. Still, she did as he said and spun on her heels, fast walking away with her facing burning.

Harry watched her go for a moment, embarrassed as well. Some of the others nearby, like Dean and Seamus, were chuckling, and a few of the girls were giggling. Harry spotted Hermione too, who had glanced up from a book at the commotion only to roll her eyes and go back to idly shoveling food into her mouth as she read a rather sizable tome of some sort.

"Sorry about that, mate," Ron said between bites, "You know she's a bit mental."

"It's just weird, is all," Harry replied, turning to his friend, "Not your sister, I mean… or well, actually yes, her I guess but just… being known is so weird… everyone always treating like they know who I am."

"Everyone does know you are, though?"

Ron had paused mid bite, expression dubious. Harry frowned.

"Not really. They just know a story is all," he said, finger moving up to trace the scar that was hidden somewhat beneath his messy hair. It was a jagged thing, supposedly made when a dark knight had tried to use the Killing Stroke on him as a child, only for the magic sword to shatter as it struck, and thus seeming to shatter both its wielder and, in turn, his Knights of Walpurgis, who faded away in disarray at their leader's 'defeat.' And so, Harry had stopped a war and defeated a dark lord while only a baby.

Supposedly, at least. It's what everyone told him, what they always thought of first. It's who he was to so many, a hero, a saviour, a legend. Not the orphan, who knew nothing about any of it, or his late parents, until a few months ago.

Harry sighed, and Ron looked thoughtful, and like he was trying to think of something to say. Eventually, the red-head simply sighed too.

"You should eat your food, before it gets cold, we've got a long day ahead," he said rather lamely, but Harry put on a small smile all the same and tucked in.

"I'll see you later, then," Ron said, peeling off from Harry to head back to the dormitory. The red-head gave a nod to Dean as well and joined with Seamus and Neville as they walked. Harry watched them go, somewhat reconsidering his morning assessment of getting out of being a page now that he was faced with two more hours of class. After a long day that included both potions with Sir Snape, History with Sir Binns, and Practical Studies with Dame Burbage, Harry was more than ready to just not do anything for the rest of the day; Snape was a terror, Binns was a bore, and Practical Studies was just so… practical. It reminded him of social studies, back in his muggle school, though sometimes it was math and sometimes it was more like english class; it was essentially a rounding class, designed to make it so they could function in society, and thus, incredibly boring compared to magic and swords.

He heard Ron and the others chatting and laughing as they left, quickly joined by several other of the non-muggleborn students. Beyond just the envy, it was strange to watch, in a way; Harry had noticed that once sorted most people seemed to spend time around their own house, simply out of convenience and because it's where people from your lance would be drawn in the later years. He wanted to be a lance with Ron, of course, and was hoping they ended up sorted together, which meant Gryffindor seeing as every Weasley seemed to already have ended up there.

But first he had to make it to sorting. At least, he thought, that today's probably wouldn't be too bad, given it was spellwork with Sir Flitwick, which was why they all still carried their wasters, wooden training swords, with them. That was interesting, at least. Still, it would have been nice to be done for the day.

Sighing, Harry glanced over to where Dean and Justin were waiting; the three of them often walked together as they were heading to the class, and the two were discussing something or another as Harry made his way over. He saw that Morag and Megan were already headed towards the remedial classroom for the day, and looked around, wondering where Hermione was; unlike the rest, she mostly kept to herself, but usually she was at least around when they were heading there.

"Harry?" Dean asked, and Harry turned to see the dark-skinned boy was giving him a querying look, as was Justin. The pair were a few feet away, and Harry was about to speak when he thought he heard something else. It was muffled, but sounded like voices and laughter, but not like the knot of people that had just left.

"Go on ahead, I'll catch up," Harry said, waving them. Justin glanced at Dean and shrugged, while Dean shook his head.

"Just don't be late again. Twice in one day would be a bit much."

Harry rolled his eyes while the other boys shared a laugh, the pair heading off down the hall.

"It was only a few moments," he muttered, and watched for a moment and then glanced back to where he thought he'd heard the voices, and felt an odd tug in his chest. It was a strange thing, a feeling he'd gotten before and usually learned to move away from, even if that made the tugging feeling worse; every time he went towards it he seemed to find trouble. Sighing, he began to walk and letting the faint pressure, the pull, guide him.

Down the hall, past idle portraits of long dead heroes and suits of old armor far past their prime for the duties of hunting beasts, relics from older times. The voices grew louder as he went, jeers and mocking laughter that caused Harry's brow to furrow. He knew those voices, and had a very good idea of what was going on. Suspicions were borne out as he turned a corner and found Draco and his gang in a rough semicircle, Hermione Granger caught in the middle with her back to a wall. They were laughing, loud enough that they didn't notice his approach, and they all had wasters held down at their sides or over their shoulders.

"It's against the rules to carry training weapons after hours, you realize," she said, voice defiant despite the numbers. Her own training weapon, was held in one hand, was hanging at her side, her other arm carrying a sizable book and tucked up against her chest.

"And yet here you are with one, Granger," Draco intoned mockingly, "But oh, of course, that's because you're not done for the day yet are you? No, you're a filthy mudblood, having to be guided through basic magic still."

"Remind me again, Malfoy, who is top of the class, and who is struggling to keep up," snapped Hermione, and Harry could see her grip tighten around the hilt of her sword. Harry couldn't see Draco's face from where he was, but he could see the boy tense up with anger. He looked about raise his weapon to swing.

"Hermione!" Harry said suddenly, pushing his way forward and into the midst of the group, "There you are! We really must be going."

He glanced over to Draco, who seemed caught off guard by the sudden intrusion. The blond glanced from one side to the other, reading the group and then seeming to shake himself and firm back up, "Get out of here, Potter, if you know what's good for you."

"Oh, of course, Draco," Harry said, tone full of mock reverence, "We'll be heading on our way, and you can get to the field to do your training."

"Training," muttered one of the other boys, a large boy who bulged with what Harry thought might have been muscle, "The 'ell are you on about, Potter?"

"But, why else would you be out and about with your wasters still," Hermione said, catching on quickly to Harry's ploy. He glanced at her and nodded thoughtfully.

"Quite right. You may have to explain that to Mistress Minerva, though," Harry said, the name of the Deputy Headmistress clearly taking the wind out of some of the boys sails. They shared worried looks, and Harry capitalized on it, "I saw her while I was looking for Hermione. I'm sure she'll understand, though, if she catches you walking the halls with those."

The look on Draco's face went from fury to pale, and he glanced back the way Harry had come as if the woman invoked was about to turn the corner. Without a word he spun and began to walk off, pace so quick that several of his slower goons seemed to lag behind somewhat, but they realized quickly and near ran to catch up. Harry let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding as they disappeared around the corner.

"I could have handled that."

Harry turned, taking in the steely-eyed look of determination in the girl's brown eyes. She fixed him with a stare, not angry but… something else that Harry didn't quite know. He stared for a moment and then shrugged.

"I know you could have, just wanted to help anyway," he replied, the words seeming to catch her off guard. She looked away, letting out a huff, and then began to walk away towards the class. Harry moved quickly to follow.

"Bloody idiots," she murmured, "If I'm late because of them I'll… I'll… ugh!"

Harry said nothing as they walked, their pace quick. Harry didn't think they would be late, thankfully, estimating based on the various objects they passed; it was the best way to navigate the castle, really.

"Thank you," Hermione said suddenly, breaking the silence between them. Harry glanced over at her, and she looked to him as well, "Back there, I mean. I do appreciate it."

"Don't mention it," he replied, giving a small smile as he did. After a moment he continued, chuckling softly, "You know, if Draco spent half as much time actually working on his footwork as he did picking stupid fights, he might actually keep up with you."

She stared at him for a moment, and then let out a small chuckle of her own, "Yes, well, he's at least better than some of his goons. Sometimes I'm shocked they know which end of the sword to hold."

They fell back into a silence, more comfortable this time, their pace slower but fast enough to make it on time. A thought crept into his head, a question really. He glanced over at the muggleborn girl.

"What is it?" she asked, catching his look.

"I was just thinking I don't know where you're from," he said, turning back forward, "I know where Dean and Justin came from, and a lot of the non-muggleborn students too, but not you."

"Yes, well, it hasn't exactly come up in conversation," she said archly, and he frowned. She seemed to notice as she scrambled to continue, "I just mean we don't exactly talk, it's not like we are…"

She slowed her pace and trailed off. Harry matched her, trying to think of what to say.

"I didn't have any friends before I came here," he said after a moment, "I don't really know how to make them still. It just sort of happened. Maybe that's just how you make them."

She looked at him oddly, a mixture of curiosity and confusion on her face. He looked back and smiled, and after a moment she returned it before looking down. She quickened the pace.

"Don't think I'll go easy on you, Harry," she said, voice full of steel, if a bit forced,, "Just because… we are friends."

"Perish the thought," he quipped, smiling as he did.

The friends walked on, their pace a bit slower, but still fast enough to avoid being late.