“And that’s between Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel!”

Hermione and Harry share a significant look, and Hagrid turns bright pink immediately, looking between the both of them with horror on his features.

“Hey, now, hey now-” he begins to protest, but it's much, much too late: they'd just come down to chat to Hagrid, and hadn't really hoped to get any information about anything when Harry had asked about Fluffy, and honestly, what kind of name is that for a three-headed dog? But Hagrid had gotten all too flustered, and now they have a name to look for.

“See you later, Hagrid!”

“Have a nice day!”

“OI! Don’t you two-” Harry realizes that Hagrid sighs rather than looking back to see it. He and Hermione had gone down to see him for her very first day back, after Harry had filled her in on his cloak, the Cerburus AND nearly being caught by Snape. There’s still two or three days left of the holiday, of course, and they have time to research.

“Nicholas Flamel. Sounds familiar.”

“It does to me as well. Any ideas?” Hermione shakes her head, and Harry hums, thoughtful.

“I’ll ask around.” Hermione gives him a sideways glance, seeming surprised.

“What, with the Slytherins? Harry-”

“With my housemates. And it's not like asking a teacher: they won't get suspicious.”

“Who you won’t tell about your cloak.”

“I won’t tell anybody about my cloak. Consider yourself lucky.” Harry punctuates this comment with a flick to Hermione’s nose, and she stares at him, indignation hilariously obvious on her face.

“Can’t you keep your hands off the ugly shrew, Potter?” Pansy Parkinson grumbles as she walks past, pug-face scrunching up with the effort to talk.

“Leave speech to the more evolved of our species, Parkinson. We wouldn’t want you to strain yourself,” Hermione retorts. Harry laughs at Parkinson’s irritated noise as she walks by, and he high-fives Hermione, grinning at her. It’s nice to have her back – ridiculously nice, actually, and it’s exciting to talk to her just after classes. It’s weird, how he’s gotten so used to having friends to talk to, when he never used to have them at all.

Harry’s not stupid: he doesn’t write off about Flamel in his letters – after all, whatever it is, it’s being protected by a Cerberus for a reason, and there’s no sense putting out a beacon if people don’t realize it’s at Hogwarts, and he doesn't want to ask a teacher, but students won't bat an eyelid at a weird question.

“Excuse me? Jakob?” Jakob Mikkelsen is a tall young man, elfin in appearance, pale, limby and ethereally beautiful, and he’s a seventh year, ready to leave once his NEWTs are over. Most importantly, he's not a prefect, and doesn't really talk much to the prefects either.

“Potter?” Jakob Mikkelsen’s voice is mellifluous and positively enchanting: he speaks, as he always speaks, as if each word is from some poem no one else has been notified he’s reciting. For a second, taken over by the (presumably) genetic charm of the other boy, Harry forgets to speak, and then he remembers: “Um, I was reading one of the books I got sent for Christmas, and Nicholas Flamel came up in one of the references. What’s he known for? I wanted to find some more on him in the library.”

“He’s an alchemist, Potter.” Jakob’s lilac eyes are clear, but his voice remains dreamy. Slender fingers reaching out to adjust Harry’s tie, he offers a pleasant smile. Harry forgets to breathe. “We’re studying him at the moment. He’s the only known creator of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Oh.”

“Potter?”

“Mmm?”

“Lungs.” Harry heaves in a breath at the reminder, and Jakob shows his teeth as he grins, tapping the knot of his tie with an easy affection. “There. Off you go, now.”

Harry stumbles a little as he walks into his dormitory, and he’s still burning red as he sits down on the edge of his bed. Draco, Theo, Crabbe and Blaise are already in there, sat on Draco’s with a set of cards between them, and regularly he hears the familiar bang and following hissing sound of a card snapping. Draco’s lucky the house elves are so willing to repair his burnt bedsheets.

“You look bright,” Blaise comments immediately, plump lips quirking into a smirk. He likes to see people blush.

“I talked to Jakob Mikkelsen,” Harry admits.

“What on Earth did you do that for?” Blaise asks, evidently discomfited with the thought, and Draco tuts at him, shaking his head disapprovingly. Blaise raises his head in easy defiance: unlike Crabbe and his larger counterpart, who is yet to return to Hogwarts by Floo, he and Nott do not easily bow to Draco’s whims and opinions.

“Is he a Veela?” Harry asks, thinking of the description he’d read in his Introduction to Wizarding Society, which had had a section on various non-human members of magical society – mostly part-Veela, vampires, hags and goblins.

“Veela are only female. Males with Veela heritage can’t do the glamours.” Draco speaks authoritatively, because he knows about Veela. Apparently his family are accused of being Veela all the time.

“No one knows that Jakob is, but he’s some sort of half-breed.”

“Elf,” Crabbe grunts.

“Vincent, he’s not gonna be a bloody elf, is he? The only elves we see are house elves, and house elves don’t look like him.” Theodore Nott sighs in a fraternally exasperated way, and Harry regards him with a slight fondness: Nott has several younger sisters at home, and subsequently he reacts to almost everything with boredom, vague responsibility and a sort of half-annoyed assistance.

It's actually really nice to have someone like him around.

He speaks with finality but not any particular authority; despite this, everyone wordlessly accepts what Theo has said. That’s generally the case.

“He’s probably some sort of fae. Why’d you talk to him, anyway?”

“Just homework stuff.” Theo snorts, as if homework wasn’t a big enough issue to pay for by talking to Mikkelsen, and Harry sprawls on his bed, dropping his glasses aside and lying on the side. He watches the other boys play snap, and he lets his eyes droop a little: he only gets up properly when Draco pokes him in the cheek and orders “Dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry says sarcastically, and pretends not to notice how pleased Draco is about it.