TITLE: The Field Trip
AUTHOR: Allocin
SUMMARY: Harry and Dean have to escort students on a field trip, but when the museum is attacked, they come into their element in quite unexpected ways.
RATING: PG
CATEGORIES: Action/Humour
CHARACTERS: Harry Potter, Dean Thomas
TIMELINE: Sixth Year AU
TECHNICAL: This story will make a lot more sense if you know of the 'Sharpe' TV and/or book series, and Lord of the Rings.
INSPIRATION: A random piece of 'Sharpe' fanfic.
DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter is not mine. Don't sue.
It was a rare thing to have a field trip in Hogwarts, but for Harry Potter, rare things had a way of always occurring to him. As Prefect, it was his job to shepherd the back end of the gaggle of First, Second and Third Years while they gawked at various Muggle weapons at the museum in York.
"Move along," he ushered them when Professor McGonogall sped ahead to the next display before anyone got a chance to read the captions. Harry himself was not much of a fan of history, though as with most boys, weapons held a certain appeal. But even he would have liked to take the tour a little slower than the Professor was; the Dursleys had, of course, never bothered to go to a museum, and would never have taken him anyway. Such things, even in the Muggle world, were new to Harry, and Harry did like new things.
"Come along, Mr Potter," McGonogall called. Several First Years giggled and twittered at Harry's blush, but Dean Thomas shuffled them onwards. Hermione, Prefect again in Sixth Year, was naturally at the front of the group with Professor McGonogall.
"We're on the top floor now, I think, Harry," Dean said cheerfully, "We're almost done. I'm starving." Harry nodded, the electrical lighting (which was more fascinating to some of the children than the armour displays) glinting off his glasses.
It was then that the power went out. Several Hufflepuff girls screamed, snapping the Prefects into serious action. The group were forcefully moved down the long corridor to Professor McGonogall.
"Wands out, children!" she called, as she was quite sure there were no Muggles around to hear her. "Let's see if we can't have some light in here." Thirty young voices murmured feebly 'Lumos' to no effect. It was when even Hermione failed to produce the simple charm that the severity of the situation hit the Prefects.
"Someone's cast a Magic Dampening Shield over the building," she whispered. Unfortunately, the Third Years had learnt about this charm the previous week in Defence Against the Dark Arts and immediately began to tell the lower years. McGonogall hushed them and gathered the Prefects to her.
"I shall stay with the students, to keep them calm. Four of you should also stay with me. The other two need to find a way out of the building to raise the alarm," she instructed.
"I'll go," Harry volunteered.
"Me too," said Dean. Hermione looked at them with what looked suspiciously like tears in her eyes, which of course filled the two of them with confidence. McGonogall nodded at them.
"Good luck, Potter, Thomas. Try to be quick," she said. They tore off, and as they disappeared around the corner, they heard their classmates ordering the children into as tight a bundle as possible.
Harry was used to the dark because of his unbreakable sneaking habit at Privet Drive and Hogwarts, so he was more adapted than Dean to hearing certain telltale noises. Like muffled footsteps on the stairs, or the sweep of flowing robes, the likes of which he could hear now. Suddenly, an absurd idea hit him, but he could think of no other way of getting out of the building in one piece. Bracing himself, he forced his elbow through the glass display window, which encased a 19th century rifle ("Replica" said the card) and actual cartridges. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, stuffed the paper cartridges into his pocket and shoved open the Fire Exit.
"Run!" he yelled, and he and Dean raced down the stairs. The noise would no doubt attract the attention of whoever was attacking them - Harry had his suspicions - but that was exactly what he wanted. It would draw them away from the frightened children above.
"What. Is. That. For?" Dean gasped, one dark hand clutching at a stitch in his side. Harry didn't bother to answer, so busy was he on trying to breathe. The rifle thumped annoyingly against his legs but they didn't dare stop. They could hear slower running feet above.
Peering quickly through the window of the ground floor Fire Exit for loitering Death Eaters, the two crashed through, deliberately making as much noise as possible.
"Harry, wait!" Dean called suddenly. Harry spun around, catching up with Dean, who put his elbow through another display cabinet to grab a bow and a quiver of arrows.
"You know how to use that thing?" Harry asked unsurely. Dean gave the rifle a pointed look, and nothing more was said. What Harry didn't know was that Dean had taken some archery lessons before he came to Hogwarts, and still practiced over summer (in between football).
"Where should we station ourselves?" Dean whispered. Harry tried to think, but the only thought in his head was that he wished Ron was there - not because Dean was bad company, but because Ron was the master tactician.
"Up the stairs," he said at last, "That way we can get them coming up or going down." They raced up to the junction half way between ground and first floor, and at Harry's signal, began to make as much noise as possible.
"Hurry up, Harry! Come on! We have to get out, quickly!" Dean yelled, stamping his feet.
"I'm stuck Dean! You go with out me!" Harry answered, but couldn't stamp his feet because he was busy loading the rifle.
Harry had never fired a gun in his life, especially not one that was built on the design of two hundred years ago. But Harry had lived with a woman who liked Sean Bean. Aunt Petunia never failed to watch the reruns of 'Sharpe' on ITV, and ever since he was small Harry could remember hearing a strong Sheffield accent barking orders from the living room, while he sat in his cupboard of cleaned the kitchen. Consequently, he knew the exact mechanics of loading a Baker rifle. He had just never tried it before.
It sounded like a whole herd of elephants was tramping down the stairs as Dean cocked an arrow and aimed it up. Harry was at the last stage of loading the rifle ("Bite, pour, spit, ram, aim") and he, too, aimed it up the stairs.
The white Death Eater masks proved their undoing, as the boys could easily see them in the murky dark. They didn't know what hit them as Dean fired a silent arrow dead accurately, and Harry's gun let off an ear-shattering blast. Two Death Eaters fell, and as Dean loaded and fired two more arrows, Harry quick-loaded the rifle (after rolling the painful after shock out of his bruised shoulder).
The stench of sulphur quickly filled the air as the rifle kept firing, and the smoke made it increasingly difficult to see.
"I feel like an elf!" Dean shouted over another deafening gun blast. Harry, who with his cheeks smudged and burnt with flecks of hot gunpowder looked like a savage, frowned at Dean.
"But how could they be archers? They have clawed fingers!" he answered. Dean rolled his eyes, which promptly began to stink from the fumes of the rifle. At least it seemed the flood of Death Eaters had finally stopped. He lowered his bow, grateful that there hadn't been more than twenty of the enemy - his quiver was now empty bar for one lonely arrow. He turned to Harry, who was wiping at his stinging, watery eyes, which merely smudged the black soot on his face even more.
"I don't mean the real elves, Harry. I mean from Lord of the Rings," he said. Harry's frown did not shift.
"What's that?" he asked. Dean shook his head sadly, but didn't answer, instead watching Harry count his cartridges. "Four left. And my shoulder is killing me," he groaned.
All of a sudden the lights came on, temporarily blinding the two boys. They ignored this, however, when they heard yet more feet on the stairs, both aiming their weapons up. Dean, whose fingers were slippery with blood after twanging the bow, accidentally let his arrow slip. It crashed into the wall and splintered, landing at the feet of Professor McGonogall. She blanched, then gave Dean a stern look. He had the decency to look sheepish, even as blood dribbled down his chin while he sucked at his fingers.
"Harry! Dean!" Hermione cried, jumping down the steps to give them both a hug. The children and other Prefects were peeping nervously through the banisters, in shock and awe at the sight of the carnage on the stairs. Death Eaters do bleed, and the rifle had managed to rent several very nasty wounds that were spilling all over the steps. Out of the blue, a whole division of Aurors Apparated in. Harry only just noticed the brown robes before pulling the trigger on the rifle.
"Well Potter, Thomas. It wasn't what I asked of you," McGonogall said primly. Dean looked ready to protest, but had his mouth full still. "But at least you boys are safe. We're all safe." She smiled indulgently at them, before gesturing for them to join the other students on the stairs. "Turn around, children!" she ordered, "We shall leave the building in the right direction."
"Through the Gift Shop?" a Second Year Slytherin asked. McGonogall's sour face sent them all hurrying up to the stop floor again, though the children did stick abnormally close to the Prefects.
"We'll take those, boys," a heavily scarred Auror said, gesturing to Harry and Dean's weapons. They handed them over, albeit reluctantly, and dragged themselves up the stairs. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, they felt bone tired, and not a little sick.
Hermione was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, eyes brimming with excitement. "Where on earth did you learn to use weapons like them?" she asked.
"At home, during the summer," Dean answered flatly. They both looked expectantly at Harry, who had a queer look on his face as he stared at the wall. They followed his gaze to a picture of a group of men bedecked in uniform, all wielding rifles.
"Harry?" Hermione queried. He started, and his eyes were abnormally wide when he turned to them. He explained quietly about his Aunt and the television programme. Hermione and Dean looked from Harry to the picture and back again, before breaking into gales of laughter.
"Harry Potter," Hermione gasped between giggles, "of the 95th Rifles!"
Out of the picture peered the Chosen Men, as still as the day they posed.
A/N: Let it be known that I understand that picking up a 19th century replica rifle might not be the average person's first defensive thought - but Harry Potter is hardly an average person. I understand that listening to Sean Bean bark orders from the TV does not equate to actual training in using a rifle - but desperate times call for desperate measures (and he does have a lovely voice). I understand that the museum setting is really a genuine museum in York - but I can't remember the name of it. I understand that ITV haven't shown 'Sharpe' reruns in about a decade - but this is an AU. I understand that this is really just gratuitous fandom-crossing - but I just don't give a damn.