1

"Witches and Wizards are not created equally," Professor Sirius Black began in Magical Philosophy, "This is an uncomfortable, despicable, yet irrefutable truth of our world." He said as his dark eyes landed on Harry. Harry knew the professor as his father's boyhood friend. He had long black hair and a handsome face. He was middle aged but had a young face that smiled when he spoke; a contrast to his own father's rigid face.

"You perhaps realized this as a child, observing your parents, or siblings, who might've done incredible things, accidentally of course, when upset, where you could not. Undoubtedly you would have learned this as first years, when some of you cast spells despite errors in incantation or wand work, where others required strict and utter precision to cast. Does these mean one wizard is superior to another? Superior to a muggle? To his parents or children? These are questions I will present to you this chapter, and questions I wish for you to ponder upon. We will explore the consequences of belief, of morality, of the magical versus the mundane." Professor Black smiled and scanned the room, as if he knew how each student would answer already.

Hermione Granger, the girl he met on the train, raised her hand.

"Yes, Ms. Granger."

"Surely, all people are created equally! One life is equal to another despite magical aptitude. To believe otherwise is…" She suddenly lost confidence as she observed the room and fell into silence.

"But there is an inherent flaw in your statement Ms. Granger – all people are not created equally. Some are born women and others men, some tall some short, some beautiful and some ugly, but, most importantly, some are born Magical and others Muggle. Can this truth and your statement exist simultaneously? Why some are blessed and others, seemingly, cursed? Professor Black asked the room. "Does anyone have a theory on why this is?"

"Blood, of course." Draco said. "That's why children of wizards are born wizards, and children of muggles are born muggles. Except for muggle-borns and squibs, that is."

"Ah, yes. The Ancestor Theory. It is as old as lore – that all magical people descend from a single, blessed individual – perhaps God himself – the physical manifestation of what we call magic. It is important to consider squibs and muggle-borns – the two groups of people that continually polarize and challenge how many people view the world. What are they? Why do they exist? Many consider a squib child to be a punishment. Some raise them, some abandon them to muggles, others kill them. What do you think?"

"I don't think a squib child is a punishment," Susan Bones said, who, unsurprisingly, had a squib brother, "It is just as random as being struck by lightning. They can have a completely normal life in government or business. They don't deserve to be cast out. What an abhorrent, primitive practice!"

"Of course, of course! A number of the grounds servants here are squibs!" Draco laughed. Susan turned red but held her tongue.

Harry barely listened to the class. To even ask questions about equality was considered radical. He thought it a peculiar topic to teach at an extremely conservative and elitist institution. It was a topic he tried to refrain from thinking about – it raised conflicting and suffocating emotions within him as he invariably recalled the horror he witnessed as a child. He shut his eyes beneath his hands and compelled his mind to switch memories. But no – he felt the burning heat, smelled the horrible burning flesh, heard the chilling screams… They didn't deserve it! He cried into his maid's lap for hours…

"Mr. Potter. You've been strangely quiet. Have you any thoughts on the matter?" Professor Black asked him pointedly with an expectant smile.

"I think…" Harry stumbled over what to say, "I think that people ultimately get what they deserve." He said finally, although the words tasted foul as he said them.

"An interesting, yet perhaps, uninspired notion. Thank you, Mr. Potter. This begs the question of karma, or some force, sentient or otherwise, that delivers punishment. Is this magic…"

After class he and Susan walked to the lake and had lunch under a grey September sky. They ate pickled salmon, crackers, and goat cheese, and drank a very dry red wine from Catalonia. Giant tentacles sometimes broke the surface and sent small waves that lapped at their naked feet. He laid on his back and watched owls deliver letters, and sometimes a hippogriff flew from the forbidden forest and tried to eat an indignant delivery owl.

"Harry, how are you? You were so quiet during class." Susan asked.

"I'm fine, really." He said automatically. She looked at him with those knowing blue eyes. She ran her fingers through his hair, as if to coax an answer from his brain.

"You can tell me, Harry. I just want to help." She sighed, not expecting an answer. But, with wine loosening his tongue and the beauty of the school grounds inspiring him, he felt verbose.

"I feel oppressed."

"Oppressed?" She repeated, surprised.

"Yes. Professor Black spoke about equality and powerful wizards – it made me think of all the expectations." He said, closing his eyes as an autumn breeze rustled the leaves of the forest.

"Whose expectations? Everyone thinks you're normal, maybe a bit stronger than the rest, but nothing crazy!" She said, eyes glowing.

"Not from them. From my father. My father expects the world from me, but..." He paused unsure, "But I hate him. I've never said it aloud before."

"Oh, Harry." She laid next to him and put her head under his arm.

"I hate who he is and I hate how he made me. He made me angry. I'm so angry at all the wrong things but I can't help it." They didn't say anything more for a while. He collected his thoughts and shoveled them back into the cellar of his heart.

They were like that for a while until Hedwig landed on his chest, yellow eyes big bright and beaming. She held a crisp envelope with a red seal that depicted a stag.

"Speaking of – from my father." He brandished the letter and petted Hedwig. She nuzzled his hand for a moment then flew off to roost.

Son,

I write to you from London. I've heard the Ministry wishes to recruit you. I implore you to consider their offer. Furthermore, your mother has instructed me to tell you that you shall oversee your sibling's extracurricular education.

Best Regards,

Father

"Quite terse." Susan said, reading it with him.

"I wouldn't have expected him to want me to be a bureaucrat." He said. He read the short note multiple times before setting it alight. "What do you think?" He asked.

"I think you should go wherever your heart desires," She said, kissing him on the cheek and standing upright.

"I think it's a good idea – joining the ministry, that is.

"Come. Let's go to the library." She said, frowning.

2

Hermione often contemplated her place in the magical world, and if she belonged at all. She often felt like a misplaced shoe among those children of elite she shared classes with. But Hogwarts had everything she ever dreamed of – an inexhaustible library. And what a library it was! Volumes and tomes filled bookcases from floor to ceiling. Score upon score of rows. All free to peruse for an inquisitive mind. She felt right at home among the ceaseless wealth of knowledge. And she was not without friends. Early on she met a student named Neville Longbottom. Together they shared a love for the less violent side of magic – potions, alchemy, herbology, runes, wards, and arithmancy. The world of magic had so much more to offer than destruction, they said. There was beauty, life, and the surreal. She wished to unlock what conventionality deemed impossible. She wanted to create life – with magic as the seed.

"It's impossible, Hermione." Neville said as they sat in a dusty corner of the library. "People have tried for millennia to bring life back to the dead. It's impossible."

"I hate that word! Nothing is impossible, Neville." She huffed, though smiling. "I don't care about resurrection – I want to form a living, breathing being with a soul. A sentient creature forged solely from magic!"

Neville stared at her, amazed. Despite her enthusiasm, he felt it an impossible task, but still he admired her for it.

"Would you help me, if I asked?" She asked expectantly.

"Of course, Hermione. I would." He said. He thought she was quite pretty, and ravenously intelligent.

"Another thing," She said, flipping the pages of Necromancy through the Ages, "I belong to this particular organization that promotes the welfare of muggles. It's meeting on Saturday. Would you be interested in coming along?" She asked in an offhand manner, continuing to scan the pages of the ancient tome.

"Muggles?" He said, surprised. "Why does their welfare need improving?"

She became flustered and formulated and diatribe in her mind before she thought better of it.

"They have very few rights compared to magical people, and are treated quite poorly." Hermione said tacitly, thinking of Tom Riddle. "They deserve better treatment." She said flatly, avoiding the use of the word 'equality'.

Neville, having no strong convictions in either direction, simply wished to spend time with Hermione.

"I would love to join you, Hermione."

And so the pair became inseparable; they were an odd duo – one an unassuming and ambitious muggle-born from the poorest of London's east side, and the other a tall and dignified heir of a family with ancestry as dated as the stones of Hogwarts. But he was enamored by the girl's fiery and impassioned intellect.

Thursday night they met Daphne Greengrass in the potions laboratory. The woman, whose long dark hair blew curiously in the windowless room, seemed unusually demure to Hermione and Neville.

The potion they brewed required a strict adherence to a recipe developed by Daphne and Professor Snape the year prior. Its purpose was to shield the consumer from fire for a brief period. It had only been brewed successfully once, and that was with the assistance of the esteemed potions master, who had no equal in creating novel potions. At the end of the three-hour session they excitedly held a flask of bubbling light blue liquid.

"I named it Hell Quencher. Now we need to test it." Daphne said.

"Who shall try it?" Hermione asked.

"I will." Daphne said. In one quick gulp she swallowed the potion. Instantly her breath frosted. "My insides feel like peppermint."

Neville started a small pillar of fire. Daphne, with steeled resolve and a furrowed brow, stuck an arm in the stream of liquid flame. She smiled triumphantly and stepped into the fire for ten seconds. She exited, undamaged, and proclaimed "It works!"

Neville and Hermione congratulated her as she ran down the corridor – "I have to tell Harry! And Professor Snape of course!"

"She's quite the brew master." Neville said.

Friday evening found them at the Three Broomsticks. The cozy little pub was packed with villagers, faculty, and students. A group of wizened country warlocks smiled toothily at her from their table on the second landing, and the table beside them cackled with laughter at some indecent joke. A piano played itself in the corner while an elf danced a jig on its closed lid. The hearth roared with a hot fire, despite the warm temperatures. They played a game of wizard's chess. They were both decent players, but Neville destroyed her troll king in only seventeen moves. She drank a cold beer called Dragon's Breath and felt her cheeks flush.

"Alright there, Hermione, Neville?" A deep voice said from behind her. She turned to see Harry Potter and Daphne - each holding a pint. The four sat together and discussed the beginning of the term, and the successful potion they had brewed the day prior.

"What would you like to pursue after you matriculate, Harry?" Hermione asked. She studied his face and saw unusually green eyes and messy black hair. He looked disheveled, with unkempt robes and a smudge on his cheek, which gave him a common and more approachable countenance. She knew he had offers already from the ministry, but, curious, she wondered what options a talented individual with connections really possessed.

"Well, I'm to interview with a few departments in the ministry next month, but I haven't the faintest idea of what I really want to do," He said, smiling. "It is, after all, only our first year at university."

"What did Professor Snape say about your potion?" Neville asked Daphne.

"He said he wants me to be his apprentice!" She said happily.

It was with great surprise and apprehension that Hermione saw Tom Riddle enter the boisterous pub. He looked puzzled as he searched the room for someone. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. Should she approach him? she wondered. She desperately wanted to speak to him, but she shied away from his searching gaze and hid behind her glass. His eyes landed on her, and for a brief moment she thought he was looking for her. But, as if she didn't exist, he disappeared into a back room without acknowledging her. That brief sighting sent her head spinning. She felt so childish – as if her schoolyard crush smiled at her. She couldn't properly catalog what she felt – was it infatuation, fear, or something else?

Returning from reverie she noticed that Harry was yelling at a hapless barmaid. His eyes burned with some deep emerald rage that frightened both Hermione and the poor girl, who shrunk in fear. She was a mousy thing, and, through her years among them, learned to fear angry wizards. The pub patrons were curious for vagaries, not for just another petulant wizard upset at a muggle. They ignored the yelling as if it were a placid dialogue, and buried their noses in their glasses. Daphne and Neville continued speaking nonchalantly, and Hermione was then filled with a deep indignant sense of injustice. Her mind raced with cathartic scenarios, however her visualizations stayed imagined; she was paralyzed. For all her impositions on life and liberty, her actions embarrassed her. She hadn't the strength of character to speak for the girl, who could've easily been Hermione's sister. Afterwards she felt dirty. She wished above all that Tom was beside her instead of Neville, who, she realized, was kind to only those he was raised to see as equals.

And with that burning image of a terrified barmaid seared in her mind, she excused herself and looked for Tom. She knocked on the door he had gone through, but heard no response. She peeked inside and saw an empty private room. A fire burned within and dimly illuminated a low ceilinged room. Its windows were covered with an expansive tapestry of the origins of Hogsmead, and above the thump thump of heavy footsteps could be heard. She stood in the empty room baffled. She searched the dark room for another exit but found nothing but cobwebs.