36 views of hogwarts

36 Views of Hogwarts is a collaborative project inspired by Hokusai's Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji. We will explore the world and characters of Harry Potter in 36 views each.

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neville: view seven

No one thought of Neville Longbottom as a boy with secrets. No one, as far as Neville could tell, thought about him much at all. It wasn’t hard to keep a secret when no one was looking at you.

No one was looking when he went to the Forbidden Forest. Anyone who might have seen a boy in Gryffindor colors trudging out that way across the lawn would shake their heads anyway. Not Longbottom, they would think. He’s not the sort. The forest was, after all, full of mystery and danger. It was the sort of place that other boys might go to try to prove their prowess, their toughness, but certainly not Neville. Neville wasn’t tough. Neville was cautious, hardly the picture of Gryffindor courage.

But, you see, Neville was not afraid of the Forbidden Forest. He never went in very deep; it wasn’t a mission of exploration. He simply walked amongst the trees, read his text books while seated on an old fallen log. He listened to the whisper of the leaves, the sound of faraway (and not so faraway) hooves and paws on the ground, the groan of old wood. He felt calm here, more confident than he ever did within the harsh stone walls of the castle. His spells worked better here, like magic was flowing through the soft ground beneath his feet, blowing in the breeze through the trees. And that was his little secret.

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severus: view two

He hadn’t seen the old trunk for some time, hadn’t even known it was still tucked up in the attic at the house on Spinner’s End until he’d had reason to go looking for it.  Severus kneeled down and trailed a finger through the thick dust. Had it really only been three years since he’d last rolled his school trunk through the barrier at Platform 9 3/4? He could usually stop himself from scanning the crowds waiting around the Hogwarts Express, shrieking and hollering to see old friends on the other side of summer. But Lily Evans was a magnet. He glanced to his far right, and there she was, alone yet centered in the chaos, wearing a pretty sundress the color of the sky. She saw him too, green eyes flickering to life with recognition. She was smiling. Lily Evans hadn’t smiled at Severus Snape since that fateful day. He’d forgotten how she could make time stop like that. He took a step in her direction, feeling something start to bloom in his chest. His heart hammered his deepest hope: It wasn’t too late, it wasn’t too late. He raised a hand to wave and--

“Evans!” Potter casually elbowed Severus as he ambled past, practically tackling Lily to the ground like an oafish neanderthal. She burst out laughing and made fun of his stupid hair and let him twirl her around. Severus turned away, disgusted.

What might it have been like if Hogwarts had been the place he’d been promised? Severus wondered, as he set to scourgify the trunk. Hogwarts had saved him from his parents, had put a wand in his hand, given him the power and strength he’d dreamed of ever since he was a cowering child, but it had also taken away the only person who’d ever mattered. He was only 22, and already there were too many ghosts. 

He ran his hands along the domed lid, turning his thoughts instead to the trunk’s debut voyage. He and Lily had walked through the platform barrier together that day, entering the wizarding world exactly as they had promised each other they would. She had done her red hair in a pretty braid, and her eyes went wider than Severus had ever seen them when she took in the monumental sight of the Hogwarts Express and the strange, yet wonderful people around them, people who were like them. He imagined his eyes had been just as wide as hers. They spent the entire train ride to Hogwarts pinching themselves and lobbing chocolate frogs at each other.

It was the end of summer again. The gorgeous day streamed through the stuffy attic window. The last time he had packed this trunk, Lily Evans had been alive, and now, as he prepared to pack it again, she was dead. But there was one thing he had left remaining to him: Hogwarts. Home. And he was going back.

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remus: view six

It was quiet in the hospital wing, but that special kind of Christmas quiet, because everyone else was either home with their families or gathered in the Great Hall for dinner. Even Madame Pompfrey had stepped out to join the holiday festivities (though not before triple-checking that Remus could be left unattended for an hour). He somewhat begrudgingly put up with her fussing, urging her to not miss dinner on his behalf, but surprised himself with how disheartened he felt once she was gone. Without even Madame Pompfrey bustling around in her office, the hospital wing was just so empty.

He sunk down a bit in bed, tossing Confronting the Faceless onto the nightstand. Continuing to prepare for the war he knew he and his friends would face once they left Hogwarts for good was not exactly the most cheerful Christmas activity. Thinking about the encroaching darkness in the wizarding world made Remus wish all the more that he was home with his parents, enjoying a little golden bubble of safety and peace, if even just for a winter break. 

The rest of the Marauders had all gone home for Christmas. Remus didn’t blame them. He technically could have gone home, too, if he’d wanted, but the Whomping Willow felt so much safer, and, well, he didn’t want to ruin another holiday for his family, forcing them to listen as he tore himself apart. Their son, the monster.

As soon as he thought the word, he forced himself to focus on the Christmas lights hanging overhead. (Remus had promised James he’d stop referring to himself as a monster.) There had never been Christmas lights in the hospital wing before. Madame Pompfrey must have done it specifically for him (she wasn’t really a holiday person), which was embarrassing, but also made him tremendously grateful. 

His last Christmas at Hogwarts, his last Christmas as a student, and he was stuck in bed, barely able to walk to the bathroom on his own thanks to last night’s rough transformation. But there were Christmas lights. They only broke his heart a little bit. 

Remus rolled over in bed, wrapping the heavy comforter around him more tightly. He heard distant footsteps, probably Madame Pompfrey with a plate of leftovers for him. He hoped there was a bit of roast. 

“MOONY!” 

Remus bolted up in bed, too shocked at the sight of the Marauders barreling straight for him, dusty snow in their hair, to notice his aches and pains. “What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“Happy Christmas!” James cheered as Peter dumped a small pile of presents and Christmas crackers at the foot of Remus’ bed. “You didn’t think we’d let you sit here all night by yourself, did you?”

“Of course not,” he choked out.

Sirius ruffled Remus’ hair, which normally Remus hated, but in this instance, it only made his heart swell all the more. “Cheer up already, Moony,” Sirius said. “It’s Christmas.”

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tonks: view four

The end of the match burst into life, and Tonks held it close to the wick, letting the flame creep dangerously close to her fingertips, impatiently waiting for it to take. 

Tonks had never been the girl who waited. Historically, she wasn’t great at it. Yet here she was, all pregnant and huge on Christmas Eve and waiting. The candle wick finally accepted flame and she blew the match out, blinking against the bitter, residual smoke. She was waiting, but she would not cry, not for anything.

“He’s on his way, Dora,” her mother said from the squashy purple armchair nearest the crackling fire. Tonks remembered the first time Remus had been in her apartment, how she’d pulled him into that chair with her, how everything felt like a Lumos spell lighting up her skin. No, stop. She had to stop.

“This rain is driving me up the wall,” she grumped. “So much for a white Christmas.” But despite the unseasonable weather, she couldn’t help reflecting on how cold this Christmas felt anyway. Husbands. Stupid, runaway husbands, who come back with their stupid, deep brown chocolate eyes, saying all the right things, going all in. And then those stupid, runaway husbands leaving once more to fight the forces of evil without her. Typical. 

“Well, while we wait, should we start opening presents?” her father said brightly. “The best part of Christmas Eve, if you ask me.”

“All right,” she said, pulling herself away from the window. Her staring daggers at the empty street corner would not make him suddenly apparate there. “Just... not the package with gold wrapping,” Tonks said. The instructions on the tag were clear: don’t open until I’m with you. Damn him. 

She forced a smile. “The tree is trimmed, pudding eaten, onwards to presents, then!” Tonks awkwardly bent over - she’d never get used to pregnancy belly - and plucked a present from the pile. “Hope you like it, Mum,” she said, gently handing it to her. “Shopping becomes quite the adventure with dark wizards on your heels,” she joked. “Turns out, their opinions on perfume versus cashmere aren’t the most complex. Horrifically unhelpful.”

Her mother had just undone the green bow, when Tonks heard the door open and felt her heart stop. Remus was already across the room and meeting her as she turned on her heel, his arms pulling her into him, dripping everywhere and not caring one bit. 

“I saw your candle in the window,” he whispered into the top of her head.

“I thought it might bring you home.”

“So it did.” 

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harry: view eight

The boy who lived in a cupboard under the stairs would never have believed all the happiness that was to come. There was pain too, of course, and struggle, but there was also joy. Friends, mentors, and one day even a family of his own. He loved playing Father Christmas to his children, his nieces and nephews. He loved starting traditions that were rooted in love and togetherness instead of exclusion and fear. He loved introducing his in-laws to his favorite Muggle holiday songs and games, and he loved discovering new wizarding stories and traditions. But for all the joy his adult Christmases would bring, there would never be anything quite like Christmas at Hogwarts. The feeling of that first real Christmas, the feeling of belonging, was something that he would carry in his heart throughout his life.

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hermione: view nine

Crookshanks was not, strictly speaking, the most festive of cats. He steadfastly refused any attempt at even putting a jaunty bow upon him (much less some sort of costume), circumvented any spell she could think of to keep him away from the tree, and came terrifying close to setting himself on fire any time decorative candles were lit. He bit through wrapped packages of fruitcake, leaving pinprick teeth marks in the soft cake, and he batted mercilessly at any stray bit of tinsel hanging within reach.

But when she curled up on the sofa with a book and a big mug of hot cocoa, fairy lights twinkling, it just didn’t feel like Christmas if he wasn’t settled beside her, purring loudly.

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ron: view three

It was that Christmas, Ron knew. They’d had Christmas Eve at the Burrow the night before, and were going to the Grangers for dinner, but Christmas morning was all for them. Ron had never thought he’d need more family than what he had, especially not extra parental figures, but that was before he’d met Hermione’s parents. They were wonderful. Dentists, of all things. 

As he and Hermione walked towards the very still park, he slipped his hand into hers, fingers laced together, her thumb idly stroking his. Their footfalls in synch, and he nudged her with his shoulder to get her to smile at him in the way that always made him want to melt into the floor. 

Normally, he liked when they were out on one of their regular walks (”morning constitutionals” Hermione would slyly joke in her best prim, McGonagall voice) and they saw other people out and about. A zing of pride always ran through him when strangers passed, knowing that they knew that he, peaky-looking ginger boy, was with someone so lovely and beautiful. 

But it wasn’t just all that. It was how almost frustratingly smart and clever she was, how he could barely keep up with her most of the time but was so pleased she invited him along to try, how she was never afraid to push back, how she fought injustice with everything she had. Hermione Granger was never quiet; she roared. And she made him want to be better. She did make him better. When he was a teenager, he’d think about the “perfect woman,” someone who was always sweet, always agreeable, not a hair out of place. Someone who just wanted to support him in his endeavors and not make waves. Ron didn’t want perfect anymore. He just wanted her. 

”Oh, Ron,” she said, breaking the quiet, leaning in closer so that he could smell the lavender in her hair. “It’s snowing,” she said, eyes shining as brightly as the snow that was coming softly down around them. That Christmas day, Ron felt like a git for not recognizing so universal a truth until that moment. This was the girl he was going to marry.

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charlie: view five

It was a complete coincidence that the first clutch of the longhorn Charlie had been studying for the past two years were due to hatch at the end of December, though according to Molly Weasley it was a direct affront to her and to the very institution of Christmas.

There was no telling when, precisely, the eggs would hatch, and apparating around the dragons was always dicey. Charlie would have had to leave his basecamp and travel to the nearest village before leaving for home, and there was no guarantee word would get to him in time once the eggs started to hatch. He couldn’t miss this, not after all of his waiting and careful study.

He wasn’t the only one staying in Romania over the holiday; he wasn’t even the only one who got a very strongly worded letter from home. I do hope that dragons know how to make the trifle you like, Molly’s letter had said, as though he wouldn’t find a whole Christmas feast on the table whenever he did make it home to celebrate.

The camp wasn’t exactly outfitted for feasting, but they made do. The chief dragonkeeper lived in town with his family, and his husband sent up a beautifully roasted turkey that they all happily picked apart. Charlie wasn’t sure who had produced the bag of marshmallows, but soon enough they were all gathered outside, laughing and watching the tendrils of smoke coming up from the forest as if in answer to their bonfire.

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ginny: view five

“What do you mean you’ve never been skating?”

Harry shrugged. He was still rumpled from sleep, pillow creases on his cheek and his hair even more of a mess than usual. “I didn’t do a lot of outside recreation as a kid.”

“We should go.” Ginny idly stirred her coffee with her wand. Hermione thought it was disgusting and poor wand maintenance to boot, but it was a habit she couldn’t seem to break. Not that she’d tried especially hard. “There was a pond, not far from the Burrow? We all used to go out there when it froze. Come home half-frozen, Mum would have a fit.” There had been a ragged collection of ice skates, and Ginny had to wear two pairs of thick woolen socks and stuff crumpled Prophet pages into the toes to make the oversized skates fit her little feet. But it had been so worth it.

“Yeah, sure.” Harry yawned and stabbed at a sausage with his fork. “Why not?”

When they did get out there on the ice, Harry as wobbly as a newborn fawn, it reminded her of all those winter days she spent red-cheeked and giggling with her brothers. She watched Harry inch his way across the ice. He chanced a glance back at her and his grin was blindingly wide...for the instant before his feet went out from under him and he fell hard on the ice. She skated over, trying not to giggle as he groaned, and realized for the first time that Harry was her family now.

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scorpius: view one

By the time he was 11, Scorpius had very strong opinions about most things. Draco was man enough to admit where he’d gotten that from.

He was particularly insistent about picking out his own Christmas gifts. He cut quite a figure, a serious-faced little boy with silvery blond hair and long black robes, walking in step with Draco. He permitted Draco to hand him a few shiny galleons before entering a shop, but would not hear of Draco coming in with him.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” Scorpius said severely, and so Draco waited outside on the cobblestones, facing away from the window after a withering stare from his little son. Nearly an hour later, Scorpius emerged clutching a stack of neatly wrapped packages tied up with twine.

He didn’t think of it again until Christmas with his parents, when his mother carefully unwrapped the small box Scorpius had so eagerly presented her with.

Narcissa let out a soft “oh” when she pulled the teacup out. Draco leaned over and flinched when he saw what was written on it. Lucius leaned over, squinted at it for a moment, then scoffed.

“At least it’s labeled this time.”,

And Draco’s mother, the perfectly poised Narcissa Malfoy...snorted. It was a delicate snort, but a snort to be sure. “Oh, hush.” She set the cup down into the box, and turned back to Scorpius with a smile. “Thank you, darling. I love it.”

Scorpius accepted a tight hug from his grandmother, and returned to his place on the settee next to Draco. Draco wrapped his arm around Scorpius and gave him a gentle squeeze. He may have been young, but Scorpius was already a clever boy.

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percy: view four

Percy sometimes suspected that Christmas was designed specifically with his mother in mind. It was everything she loved, wrapped up into one holly jolly package: sentimental music, soft fairy lights, warm sweaters, good food, and all the hands on the Weasley clock firmly pointed home.  It made him feel better to imagine his father prying Percy’s clock hand away from the rest, maybe slipping it inside one of his junk drawers, lost forever among Muggle odds and ends. At least that way, the remaining hands would point true and his mother wouldn’t have to be reminded of the Weasley son who walked away. He knew he had to be firm; that was the only way to get anywhere in life. But he hated hurting her.  Earlier that day, Percy had passed his father in the halls of the Ministry. He knew his father’s usual route to his shoebox office, and was usually able to avoid him, but today they’d just so happened to cross paths. Percy had prepared for this (it was inevitable, really). He looked straight-ahead at some imaginary point, because this man who could so readily align himself with liars and anarchists was no father to him. Not anymore. He wondered, though. Who was going to go Christmas shopping in London with Father this year? Arthur Weasley was not the most organized and johnny-on-the-spot when it came to buying a Christmas present for his wife, and so, for whatever reason, it had always been Percy’s job to go into London with him for a last-minute shopping trip. “You’re my right-hand man, Perce,” his father would say, as they traversed the crowds and the stores and the many, many Christmas present options. And it was, well, kind of magical. For that one afternoon a year, Percy got to be the only son to share a smile with Father, to be the first and last person turned to for a second opinion. They always stopped at a particular sandwich place that served the best French onion soup, because they were the only two Weasleys who liked the stuff. Sometimes they got hot chocolate, too. Father made sure he got extra marshmallows. No assistant job, not even Junior Assistant to the Minister, had ever been better. But his favorite part had been the escalators in one of the Muggle shopping centers. His father always made sure they rode up one and down the other, at least three times. Percy didn’t always get his dad’s love of the trappings of the Muggle world, but this one he understood. Escalators were calm. Orderly. The steps appearing right before your feet, gently ferrying you to your destination, then disappearing again right as you stepped off. Like they were being conjured by some unseen, but very dutiful wizard. And once it started, you couldn’t just get off. You had to let it take you. Returning his Weasley Christmas sweater had been like stepping on the escalator. He couldn’t turn back now.  Though sometimes, only for the briefest of moments, he wished that he could.

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luna: view seven

The world was quiet, in the wintertime. The rest of the year things had a tendency to be quite loud, with all the interesting creatures and wild things lurking in every corner, in the trees, occasionally even in one’s own hair. Luna had had much fewer troubles with nargles since her last trim, though it might have had more to do with the more readily available mistletoe. Human hair was, after all, never a nargle’s first choice of roost.

But apart from nargles, the winter seemed like it made everything softer and smoother. The snow muted things, making the whole world fresh and new. It was like their little house had been transported to somewhere entirely new, and each snowfall created another scene to explore. She liked to go walking in it, making new paths, never stepping in the same spot twice. She preferred walking that way year-round, but the snow made it ever so much easier to avoid where she’d been. Every step was a new adventure, a fresh start.

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sirius: view six

He couldn’t deny being a bit disappointed.

“I don’t see where you have any right to complain,” James said. He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Think about Peter.”

Sirius waved it off. “I just expected something with...more panache, you know? A panther. Maybe a falcon. Not a great bloody dog. There’s not much flair to that, is there?”

“I s’pose.” James twirled his quill between his fingers, looking off to the side, like he always did when he was lying. Sirius frowned and kicked James’ ankle. “Ow, c’mon, Black, I’m gonna need this leg later.”

“What do you mean, you suppose? Are you saying I seem like a loyal lap dog to you?”

“It’s not like you turned into a Pekingese.” James rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying...big, dark and shaggy? A little dangerous, but playful too? It doesn’t exactly not sound like you, does it?”

Sirius was quiet for a moment before his face split into a grin. “You think I’m dangerous yet playful, eh, Potter?”

“Merlin.” James buried his face in his hands. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

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walburga: view one

Walburga Black had made an art of mourning. She made a striking figure during her daily stroll, dark robes billowing around her, her face shielded by a black veil. There had been a time in her youth when she’d been seen in her house’s trademark green, but the house of Black was one of many storied traditions. For every family member struck from the tree, each disappointing relation eliminated from her life, Walburga donned her mourning attire. She seemed to relish it almost as much as she enjoyed the physical act of blasting a name off the family tapestry, acting out the symbolic deaths of those who had crossed her.

By the end of her life, her husband dead, her son dead, her other son dishonored and imprisoned, alone in her big house apart from her loyal house elf, her mourning clothes were well-worn. And some thought that, perhaps, had she known what was to come, she would not have worn them so cavalierly in the past.

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peter: view four

Minerva knew his type. The hanger-on. The flunky. The one who hid in the long shadows of flashy friends. To be fair, it was an intelligence, in its own way. Some people could never recognize themselves for what they were, but Peter Pettigrew was a boy who intimately understood his limitations. Though that wasn’t why Minerva found herself disliking him so.  Usually when a student bumped up against their personal impediments, they became frustrated, and frustration would turn to motivation and drive. A limitation became boundless possibility; the best of transfiguration spells. But Peter Pettigrew didn’t rise. He had no interest in rising. Instead, Potter, Black and Lupin carried his weight. How many times would she catch Lupin doing both their work in partnered assignments? Or Potter whispering Pettigrew answers? Or Black swooping in when he thought she was being unfair to Pettigrew? They were brilliant students, the three of them. Why would they waste their time and their talent on someone so useless? And how dare Pettigrew let them? It was deeply infuriating.

As the years crept forward, Minerva watched with disgruntled satisfaction as Pettigrew continued to be exactly the student she’d pegged him for from the start. There he sat, dead center of her classroom, eyes glazed over while she gave a lecture on the intricacies of the animagus spell. A boy who clung instead of a boy who reached. A shame.

But there was one afternoon, when the rest of the Gryffindor fifth years had filed out, that he’d stayed behind, still as stone at his desk. After ignoring him for a few minutes while she shuffled some parchment, she’d reluctantly spoke into the silence. “Most students who would rudely stare into space rather than listen to a transfiguration lesson usually bolt the first chance they get. What’s the matter, Pettigrew?”

Pettigrew stirred, as though waking from a troublesome dream. “Oh,” he said. “Nothing.” He yanked his bag up over his shoulder, bit his lip, then confessed, “Well, actually. Sirius and Remus aren’t speaking to each other. Again.” He seemed almost tearfully grateful to have finally found an ear. Minerva felt a sudden pang, but immediately shoved it aside.

“I’m sure they’ll get it sorted, Pettigrew,” she said, very business-like. “What you should concern yourself with is being late for Potions.” He nodded, but paused in the doorway, leaning a little into the frame. “I hate when they do this,” he added softly. “I just want us all to be together.” He stepped out of her classroom without another word. She noticed later that evening in the Great Hall, how Pettigrew made Black smirk, then Lupin smile, how suddenly they were all (somewhat reluctantly) laughing together, how he tried to Spello-tape the pieces of his friend group back together. She assumed he succeeded, because a week later, the four of them landed in Filch’s office for “public indecency.” 

Years later, she read about what happened in the Daily Prophet, that Peter Pettigrew, the boy who never asked more of himself, had faced a terrible betrayal and in response, bravely given his life to avenge his beloved friends. It made Minerva wonder. Maybe she’d never known him at all. 

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voldemort: view three

He was never popular, even before he was feared. He was a strange boy, always withdrawn and self-possessed. He had little need for the social approval of his peers; the other boys were confused by what they perceived as a threat to the social order.

It wasn’t uncommon for him to find strange objects in his bed. Pudding under his pillow; bugs between his sheets. When he woke up in the night to the feel of something cool and smooth slithering over his skin, he assumed it was another prank. But he opened his eyes and started into the black beads of the snake’s eyes.

There’ssss food under your mattresss, the snake said. Tom wasn’t entirely sure how he knew it was the snake speaking, or how the sound resolved itself to words into his head, but he knew. Are you ssaving it?

Tom swallowed around the sleep-stickiness of his mouth. “No,” he said, and was gratified to hear his own voice match that of the snake. “Help yourssself.”

The snake bobbed a little before slithering away down the bed, He felt its tail flick one last time against his calf before it disappeared under the mattress. There was probably a bit of sausage there, left by one of the other boys in the hope it would go unnoticed until it went rancid. But now, he realized, there was someone on his side. He had an ally that none of them knew about.

And Tom Riddle fell asleep with a smile on his face.

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bellatrix: view four

She swears to obey, to cherish, to be eternally true.  She promises her devotion, her power, her love. It is Rodolphus’s hands that she holds, his eyes that she gazes into, his wand that meets hers, but there is only one man who can claim any part of her vow. He is so much more than a man, and his face is the one in her mind, even as Rodolphus touches his cool, dry lips to hers.