A/N For this chapter, music is essential to the full experience, and, as good of a writer as I like to think I am, I'm simply not up to the task of describing the songs and do them any justice. That being said, there is a solution - youtube. I suggest you open the links beforehand and pause the videos until their respective notations come up in the body of the story. (Remove any spaces)
1www. youtube watch? v=n_qbG JuxCYY
2www. youtube watch? v=QUILw RgAUFg
3www. youtube watch? v=aiRn3 Zlw3Rw
Over the next several weeks, the students settled into a routine. The Mootmates in particular were thriving in every course, but each had their specialties - Neville was, in practice and theoretical knowledge, preeminent of the year at herbology, perhaps the school as a whole, and was subsequently a quite gifted potioneer; Draco could have easily taught the history of magic lessons to much greater effect than Binns and had a knack for Charms; Susan, as expected from the niece of the Head Auror, was the defense specialist; Dudley, as a good spatial thinker with a nearly photographic memory, was a natural at transfiguration. None of their group much cared for the stars, beyond broadly romantic notions of the universe's vastness. Still, between the four of them, they held the top spot in every subject, with none of them falling outside the top 10 in any area (the closest being Dudley in history of magic, him being a first generation magical and all).
As September faded, Draco brought up the subject of magical etiquette one evening during dinner, citing the impending Halloween Ball as grounds for Dudley's education. He explained this education would be practical in nature. When pressed, he revealed all: "We're going to have a formal dinner, just us."
Doing the arithmetic much more quickly than his magical peers by virtue of the importance muggle education places on the skill, Dudley quickly protested that the table would be badly unbalanced (if in more numerous, less eloquent words). Draco looked briefly at a loss, but was saved by an eager and quick-thinking Neville, who had become quite close to Lavender through their mutual obsession with flora both magical and mundane, suggested without missing a beat that they include the girls that had taken to regularly joining them for meals - Lavender and Millicent.
Finding no other way to wriggle out of it, Dudley silently acquiesced. Susan and Neville, however, were visibly gratified by the turn of events. The Moot parted ways after all was decided, Neville and Draco tasked with informing their housemates of the event.
The dinner was held on a Friday evening, the 19th of October. It was chaperoned by the Penultimate Malfoy and his wife, Narcissa, a ravishing beauty of the Most Crotchety and Demented house of White. Dinner was a 7 course meal, specially prepared by the Hogwarts elves (the dinner comprised of an asparagus custard tart; followed by baked potato and leek soup; then a turbot fillet with pearl barley, burnt cauliflower, tomato and a garam masala sauce; interposed between the fish and main was a hearty, home-baked loaf of wheat-and-oat bread, liberally buttered; the main course was of braised lamb shanks, with a red cabbage slaw; a very green summer salad followed the main course; finally came a flummery pudding to cap the meal, which was paired with an excellent, if young, red Bordeaux for the adults and sparkling grape juice for the youngsters. If you were wondering…)
Conversation flowed naturally, as it is wont to do among good friends, despite the stilted atmosphere formality inevitably brought. Neglecting the encouragement of the chaperones, of course. Once dinner had concluded and the boys in their nervousness could stall no longer, the "band" (suits of renaissance armor with period instruments) entered through a passageway that none of the human guests knew of previously. As the animate outfits arranged themselves innocuously (or as much so as metal suits can), the young, male Mootlings drug their feet, while their dates and the chaperoning couple enlisted all of their considerable wiles to "encourage" the boys' participation in the dancing that was nigh.
Eventually, the pro-dancing faction won the day. However, little actual dancing was accomplished, for only Draco knew beforehand the sort of dances that would be performed at a real ball. What followed was a stereotypically awkward tutoring session in formal dancing, with much stepping-on of toes and not a few complete crashes. Regardless of the soreness that would await them come morn, all present greatly enjoyed themselves, even if a particular young man was less than pleased with his foisted-on date.
After the consensus was reached (marching orders were handed down) that it was bedtime (the party did, after all, consist primarily of 11-year-olds) the party went their separate ways. Before parting for the night, however, Dudley felt he needed to air his grievances. He made the ultimately poor decision of unloading his rancor on Draco, who was rather nearer to his parents than would prove beneficial to Dudley's health. He exclaimed in the least subtle stage whisper that Hogwarts had seen in decades "At least your date was pretty." with great petulance and a petty pout. Instead of offering his sympathy like Dudley hoped and expected, Draco went sheet-white and looked over Dudley's shoulder.
Behind Draco, Lucius' nostrils flared ever-so-slightly, the only indication of the affront he now bore. His wife was even more discreet, showing no outward signs of her displeasure, not even a tightening around the eyes. Behind Dudley, however, a much more spectacular show was on display. Millicent, having parted with her female friends for the night, was making her way to Draco, to accompany him to the Slytherin dormitories. She had just breached hearing range of Dudley's "whisper" when it was uttered.
She took it rather well, all things considered.
It came to Dudley's attention the following morning just how well.
The Moot, as was their wont, took breakfast that Saturday morning at the same time as they did on weekdays (the better to study). They were not joined by either Lavender or Millicent, who both preferred to sleep in a touch on weekends. Nothing unusual there. Dudley did, however, notice that Draco seemed a bit miffed about something, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of what it might be. He put such considerations by the wayside and focussed on his bangers and mash.
After they had finished both food and social consumption for the morning (a regular rotation of visiting soon-to-be sycophants and more useful allies had established itself during mealtimes) they headed up to the library as per usual to knock out whatever work they had yet to manage from the previous week. It was not to be this Saturday.
They were waylaid by what appeared to be a shockingly beautiful, 3-years-older version of Millicent. This goddess of soon-to-be-revealed martial prowess introduced herself as Melissa, Millicent's sister, her senior by 3 years. After the pleasantries had been successfully observed, she focussed her attention of her prey, Dudley, who was not currently in possession of his lower jaw. "Pick your jaw up off the floor and follow me." she commanded, with thinly veiled contempt and wholly revealed wrath.
Dudley seemed not to pick up on the tonal and facial cues, however, and took off after her at a steady trot to keep up with the older girl's stride.
Melissa lead the seemingly bewitched first year up several flights of stairs and through a handful of corridors, which, of course, Dudley wasn't paying nearly good enough attention to to retrace his steps. Finally, after 10 minutes or so of traipsing across the castle, they arrived at their destination - an unused and derelict classroom, adorned only by a solitary desk on which sat a pair of very thick, leather gloves.
Melissa walked over and put on a pair of the odd-looking gloves, the pair was significantly more worn than the remaining set. As she set to her work, she invited him to join in, saying "Put those on." brusquely. He complied with the haste of a child who has realized that he's in a great deal of trouble and the best way to survive is to simply do as one's told. He had a fair amount of difficulty getting the strange handwear to function properly, and at turns required the assistance of his soon-to-be teacher. Finally, however, the task was achieved and his boxing gloves, for he at last recognized them for what they were, were secured to his fists.
Before he could admire his handiwork too much, Melissa got down to business. She kicked the desk to the wall, sending up a summer's worth of dust in the process. That done, she addressed Dudley once more "My baby sister didn't like what you said last night. Cried all night, she did. I don't like it when my little sister cries. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to ensure that she cries as little as possible while I'm still here." At this, she raised her arms to the side, as an impresario of bygone days, and smiled. She smiled the most vicious, primal smile Dudley had ever seen, and he knew he never wanted to see such a smile again in all his life. As he reached this decision, she continued her monologue "That leads us to you - the cause of her tears. Consider me your tutor, your tutor in… etiquette. Seems the lesson didn't quite take last night, did it?" She cocked her head to the side in a grim parody of inquisitiveness and smiled that gruesome smile from before. He made as if to speak, but she beat him to the punch, snapping "Defend yourself!" before he could get a word in edgewise.
She came on like a hurricane, a storm of raining fists so fast he could hardly keep track, despite the harp, blossoming pain that accompanied each strike.
The first blow was a mere probing shot, a quick jab to the boy's midsection, still layered with the fatty tissues of youth yet to be outgrown. Yet it was strong for all its swiftness, forcing ice-eyed Dudley back two paces full, sending rippling waves of force made manifest through his torso. Winded, he retreated. Circling his antagonist, he regained what strength he may and all the while her gruesome grin gained in its morbid glee.
While her prey recovered, she danced her dance with death, springing forcefully from foot to fleeting foot. She waited with great patience, it wouldn't do to rush, not when her vengeance she enjoyed so much. When finally he came, onrushing with great haste, she stilled herself and once more made manifest the dance. Her mastery was such that his ploy was preordained, he came in high, where manly strength was best. This move foreseen, she ducked and dove, a dervish was she made, and, springing forth, made hay with her right fist. Contact. Worn leather met unlined face and such was the power behind the punch that long-limbed Dudley did do a pirouette. Ruined was the cheek whose line decried the ignobility of his birth, wrecked inside and out, as he spun left-to-right, a rope of blood and bile swinging in the wake.
Mercy forgotten, malevolent Melissa now gave herself more fully to the game that was afoot. She strove with a stride like Atlas, covering the interposing ground betwixt her and her prey. Once accomplished, she unfurled her off-strength hand in a lightning strike to blow his wicked head. The hit was clean, and two-for-one, he hit his head once more on the classroom wall, where none had been before. Melissa smiled again, the castle had joined her cause.
Her assault abated, her prey, weak-kneed arose and, shambling forward, gave one last heaving blow. She, loosing her martial joy in laughter ringing far, evaded the strike, and levied one of her own. Low she swept, and in reply did damage his inner thigh, the blow to which sent Dudley drunkenly aside. Without pause she came on again, thrusting up for follow through, and again former and current flesh met with a thundering impact, knocking blood and bone laced spittle in an arcing path. The upper cut removed him from his feet, and he did land prone, his eyes to heaven bent. She descended upon him and let fly a flurry of her fists, and in the end, his face bore little resemblance.
Her work finished, Melissa arose and, with nary an over-the-shoulder glance, left him to report his misfortune to the head nurse, Madam Pomfrey. Behind her was the shuddering mass of pummeled flesh that bore the name Dudley, his own blood slowly dripping on his face from where it had splattered on the ceiling after she punched him under the chin.
Dudley recovered his senses sometime later, lying in what he imagined a hospital bed would be like if he were living in the aftermath of the second world war. However, for all its simplicity of appearance, it was remarkably comfortable, yet unaccountably restrictive. Must be some sort of charm or enchantment, he reasoned. The first thing he noticed after the bed was his friends' presence. The 3 other Mootmates were arranged adjacent to his bed in chairs that looked much more comfortable than they had any right to.
The next thing he noticed was the pain. It was tremendous, if he had the breath for it, he would most certainly have screamed. As it was, the other occupants of the infirmary quickly took note of his changed condition and made haste to inform the matron of the latest development.
The nurse came tearing out of her offices as soon as she saw the children, assuming correctly that they came bearing news of her latest patient. She was, in equal measures, hawkish and mother hen-like - her tendency to busy herself with her patients and mother them only interrupted when she detected some threat to her patients' recovery, at which point she would, with prejudice, eliminate the threat.
She approached her charge with her famous bustle and a constant stream of platitudes she really ought to know were never heeded. She proceeded to administer numerous potions, interspersed with much wand-waving and incantations. After a solid half-hour of uninterrupted work, she, visibly exhausted, gave a small smile to the first-years that were so dedicated to their friend and retired to her chambers for a spot of pepper-up chased by as much firewhiskey as decorum allowed for.
As Madam Pomfrey made her escape, Neville and Susan, who were as yet not privy to the situation, pelted Dudley with questions. Fortunately for him, the wily master of the infirmary had foreseen his friends' inquisitiveness and had administered a quite unnecessary sleepless sleep potion to allow him a reprieve. She also made sure that the dose was potent enough that the rest of the school, Mootmates included, would be at the mandatory chapel service when he woke up.
When he did wake up, he found himself alone, for which he was thankful. It gave him time to think through the course of events that lead him to a hospital bed on the 1st floor, which is exactly what Madam Pomfrey had intended. He sorted through his recollections of what Melissa had said and thought back to the etiquette dinner of the night preceding his beating. After he had dredged up all he could remember of the final sequences of the night, he drew the correct conclusion that Millicent must have heard what he said to Draco.
This realization would later prove a pivotal point in his life, for it was then that he adopted the mantra strategy for living well. The inaugural maxim went something like this: Girls (later translated as: women) are always pretty (later translated as: beautiful).
He had just reached this conclusion when the hospital wing doors burst open to reveal his trio of friends dragging along a very harried-looking Madam Pomfrey. They, seeing that he was awake, redoubled their efforts to reach him in as little time as humanly possible (to great success, I might add).
Upon reaching him, the pair outside the know began to hail him with all manner of inquiry, which was hastily put paid not, as would have been expected, by the matron, but by Draco, who, with a subtle glance at Madam Pomfrey, secured their privacy. That accomplished, he turned to his fellows and addressed Dudley. "We'd all like to know what happened," he said with the faint air of superiority of those privy to a secret "why don't you tell us what happened, who did it, and, if you know, why they did it?"
Dudley took a moment to organize his thoughts and replied "I… it's… it's really embarrassing." He paused, regaining his composure and decided to just out with it. "It happened after Melissa asked to have a word with me. She took me through the castle to a place I've never been, an abandoned classroom." At this, his hands inexplicably raised themselves off of his sheets, as if warding off a spectral blow. "There were these… gloves… on a table. She made me put on a pair. We fought, and well, I guess you know how that turned out." He gave a wan smile, more of a grimace as he ended his tale.
Susan, who knew the Bulstrodes relatively well, was understandably confused - both Millicent and Melissa were on the quiet side. "But… why? Why would she lure you into an abandoned classroom to beat you up?"
At this, Draco stared pointedly at Dudley, surmising that the Ravenclaw would surely have discovered the sin for which Melissa's vengeance had been meted out. He made a show of clearing his throat to prod his fellow Mootmate along, while Dudley looked at his lap, a blush rising in his cheeks. "I… well, I insulted Millicent." Draco coughed more loudly "I… said she wasn't pretty at the dinner Friday and I guess she heard me…" He muttered finally.
At this revelation, Neville let out a low whistle and informed Dudley how lucky he'd been "You know, you should thank Melissa-"
"Thank her?! Why-" Dudley interjected, only to have Draco hold up a placating hand.
"He's right, you know." He said, seriously. Then, turning to Neville, he said "Go on."
"Well, she, by challenging you to an acceptable form of combat, made good the honor debt you owed their family. If she hadn't done that before Lord Bulstrode had heard and issued his challenge, you would have had to accept it and he would have been perfectly within his rights to kill you."
"And the Moot would have been very put out." Draco appended.
Susan broke in after Draco hammered home his point "Now, we need to work on damage control."
As Susan's very appropriate sentiment was made known, the doors to the infirmary slammed open, revealing a visibly irate Melissa and a inconsolate Millicent. The former was thundering their way, with her hand to her sister's arm, practically dragging her along. Seeing Millicent's distress did what no beating or exhortation by his friends could do - it broke Dudley's innocent, boyish heart and made him actually regret what he said.
Melissa opened her mouth to give a verbal beating on par with the physical one she'd given the day before, but Dudley, for once, beat her to the punch "Millicent, I am so so sorry," he said with easily recognizable sincerity, which put Melissa off her killing mood, fortunately for all involved. He quickly continued his plea "Please, I'll do anything, just please forgive me." He delivered his last with shining eyes and his heart on his sleeve.
Millicent, with a brand of mischievousness only found in little girls, saw her opportunity and she wasn't about to let it pass her by. She grinned behind the fall of hair she had been using to guard her face and said "Well… there is one thing." She raised her face and smiled more broadly "You could take me to the Halloween Ball."
Now, as I'm sure you understand, there is a marked difference between going to a dance and going with someone to a dance. Dudley was keenly aware of this distinction and was, understandably, mortified. But he did say "anything," and what good was he if he wasn't true to his word? He, in a truly heroic effort of will, was able to squeak out an "Ok," much to the delight of a much happier and manifestly excited Millicent. She let out an involuntary squeal and hugged Dudley tightly, which, oddly, didn't hurt at all. Thank God for modern healing. He thought as the Bulstrode sisters departed.
"Well, now that that's done, would you care to get some work done?" Draco asked with a sly grin while he held up Dudley's messenger bag full of the week's unfinished work. Dudley's only response was to groan as he held out his hand to receive his doom.
The following week and a half progressed as usual, and Halloween was upon them. The night before, Draco had dragged Dudley down to the dungeons to show him where he would pick Millicent up for the Ball, explaining that the location of dormitories was more or less an open secret but that the Heads of House would escort a date to a specified meeting place in order to preserve what secrecy they could. Draco also instructed him to pick Millicent up half-an-hour before the Ball was to begin.
When he finally made it to his dorm room, he noticed a moderately sized package was waiting for him on his bed. "This came for you, master."
"Thank you, Alfred." Dudley replied, picking up the parcel and opening it clumsily, for it was well secured with a gratuitous quantity of twine. Finally, after much twine-wrangling and amusement from his snake, Dudley managed to reveal the contents, a dress robe of deep, royal blue, edged with silver as opposed to the more stereotypical bronze. Also within was a brief missive:
Dear Dudley, the First Dursley;
Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lord Angold, the 37th Bulstrode. I understand that my daughters have made quite an impression on you. I do, however, hope this missive finds you wholly recovered and in a position to keep your promise to Millicent. I don't know how this family would handle another misstep in that regard. In any event, I pray that your studies go well - it may seem distant, but securing a career as a Muggleborn is disproportionately difficult and the expectations of excellence are already upon you. If ever you are in need of assistance, consider this a formal extension of whatever services are within my purview to render.
Faithfully Yours,
Angold Bulstrode
PS: Accompanying this letter is a set of formal robes, of the finest make and suitable for any occasion.
Odd. He pushed aside thoughts of the letter, its strange contents, and stranger timing and prepared for bed. He had a big day ahead of him and it wouldn't do to be sleep deprived. Fortunately, Alfred had a good deal of control over his sleep cycle and he was off to never never land almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.
The day of the Ball proceeded normally, but the nervous energy surrounding the students of every year made it so that instruction was more or less a hopeless endeavor. The professors, used to the cycle of hormones precipitated by events like this, had prepared accordingly and used the time to answer individual questions over the first cycle of mid-term examinations.
At long last, the end of the day's courses arrived and Dudley joined his peers in their slightly mad dash to the dormitories. As soon as he made the common room, he made for the bookcase and the 1st year trigger, only to be abducted by several girls a few years above him who had somehow caught wind of his impending "date." He was only able to escape the clutches of this coven of bookish witches when his highly evident and increasing panic at the prospect of being late made it past their mental "cuteness" shields.
His fears were well-founded as he arrived at the meeting place at 18:29, exactly 31 minutes before the Ball was to begin. Professor Snape was there waiting for newcomers. Dudley's timing, it seemed, was impeccable, as he saw what he assumed was the trailing edge of quite a substantial number of people heading toward the Great Hall and, from the other direction, a smattering of upper-year boys coming to fetch their dates on his heels. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite Ravenclaw." exaggerated the Potions master affably, a welcoming smile on his hook-nosed face.
"Good evening, professor!" Dudley responded with the false exuberance of the incredibly nervous. "I'm here for Ms. Bulstrode the younger."
"Indeed," Snape replied with an accommodating smile, "I shall conduct her to you shortly." With that, he swept off in an imposing billow of his overlarge cloak.
He returned with a much done-up Millicent on his arm, who seamlessly transferred her grip from the professor to Dudley. Dudley didn't need some axiomatic compulsion to convince him of the attractiveness of the girl on his arm, he could clearly see the same lines that her sister possessed that he had found so alluring before she proceeded to wail on him. Perhaps the junior Bulstrode would even exceed her sister's beauty. She wore a robe of silver filigree so ethereal as to give the tall, strong-lined girl the appearance of an adolescent angel of vengeance.
The pair made their way to the Great Hall, making smalltalk as they went. On the way, they passed the Astronomy professor, Aurora Snape nee Sinistra, who was clad in a robe of iridescent poison green so dark it was nearly black. They exchanged pleasantries briefly and continued on their way. The "couple" arrived at the Great Hall with much time to spare and made good use of it interacting with their peers. Fortunately, that interaction was much less awkward than Dudley had feared it might be, owing to the fact that Melissa had, unbeknownst to him, made very explicit threats to anyone who she perceived damaged her sister's happiness at the Ball. This was a threat that none dared test, having heard of Dudley's condition following their confrontation (secrets were very quick to spread in boarding schools, Hogwarts in particular).
As the time came to begin the festivities, Dumbledore exited the Great Hall, surveyed his pupils with the benevolent grin of senility and proclaimed "Wop-bop-a-loo-mop a-lop-bom-bom!" and swept back into the Hall, leaving the doors, and more than a few mouths, wide open in his wake.
The upper years, being more used to Dumbledore's particular brand of insanity, simply followed the old man into the Great Hall and disbursed to the various circular tables dotting the Hall. The tables were the same used in the normal course of events, but decorated for Halloween - black tablecloths with burnished bronze plates, goblets, and tablewear (magically sealed, of course). Other decorations were few in number but grand in scale: 12 huge tallow golems with Jack-o-Lantern heads danced around the perimeter of the Great Hall to music1 only they could hear. Quite badly, I might add. They were also horribly out of sync.
The Moot and their compatriots had joined up in the final minutes leading up to the opening of the Hall and moved together to find an open table near the dais where the teachers were seated. They were joined shortly by the Patil twins - Padma and Parvati, of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, respectively. Once all were seated, menus appeared on the plates and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall instructed the first years in their use - simply speak which option for each of the 3 courses you wished and your choices would be made available to you in due course. The Moot's table made their assessments quickly, being populated entirely by assertive youngsters, and the soup was transported to each of their places accordingly.
The table setting would have been daunting had it not been for the etiquette dinner on the 19th, as it was, it was a fairly conservative spread for a formal event. The Patils, new as the family was in Britain, were well educated in the area of formal conduct, so no unfortunate mishaps took place at their table. Many of the other tables containing first years, or recalcitrant upper years who refused to learn proper manners, had all manner of embarrassing and memorable accidents. Ronald Weasley, for example, put the obscenely lacey arm of his robe right into Harry's soup and dribbled it over Harry, himself, and an innocent bystander.
Dinner elsewhere progressed merrily, with good cheer and conversation. At the table with the Moot, the majority of that conversation centered around giving Dudley a hard time for his coercive date. Jokes on you, he thought as he smiled and shook his head as another gibe on that topic I'm having a great time. Finally the meal came to a close, much to the chagrin of certain corpulent members of the student body. As the food disappeared, all of the upper years decamped their seats, and the first timers followed suit. Once the chairs were all vacated, Dumbledore rose and waved his wand, banishing the tables and chairs to the sides of the Hall in neatly stacked piles between the dancing golems, who had taken to passing their heads amongst themselves periodically.
This accomplished, Dumbledore strode into the middle of the newly minted dance floor and called over his shoulder to Professor Flitwick, the Ball's DJ "Yo, drop me a fat beat!" The charms professor, being used to the Headmaster's eccentricities, was prepared and queued up the a mix of tracks2 he made for this type of requests.
As soon as the music started, Dumbledore, his mere presence clearing the floor, removed his wand from where he had it holstered on his right forearm. He started bobbing his head, getting in the groove of the song, sending ripples down his long hair and longer beard. He shook out his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to another. After several seconds of this, he seemed satisfied with his state of oneness with the music and began to dance with intricate footwork. he occasionally did tricks, somersaults, front-or-backflips, and the like. Seemingly dissatisfied with the degree of difficulty, he began to conjure ephemeral dancing partners that spun and flipped in concert with him, even going into a sort of orchestrated, rhythmic magical battle at some points. his performance reached a fever pitch as he did a series of maneuvers that culminated in him spinning his body above the ground using only his hands.
At the end of this final trick, he sprang up, his wand out, and blasted a nearby student with an overpowered, silent "Confrigo!" that sent the poor ginger first year boy crashing into a golem, sinking partway into the magically animated flesh. As he flew, Dumbledore shouted madly "Get thee to a nunnery, it's the only way you'll ever get laid!" into the silence produced by the end of the song list he had been dancing to.
Turning his attention to the justifiably terrified students nearest him, Dumbledore opened his arms wide, obstinately yelling "What?" at them. Then he made a mic drop motion with his wand, which, before it hit the floor, appeared in his hand again with no apparent effort on his part as he was lead away by a frazzled Deputy Headmistress.
A brief moment of shock as even the 7th years who thought they had already seen the zaniest thing Dumbledore would do processed what just happened. Fortunately, before speculation could run rampant, the sharp-witted Flitwick started playing some of the more pedestrian dance tunes. The students seemed to get the hint and began the wild thrashing that passed for dancing among the younger generations.
This state of affairs held steady for several hours, until the staff felt they had suffered enough of the hip music consisting of the following masterpieces and many more: Party Rock Anthem, Moves Like Jagger, On the Floor, Black & Yellow, Dynamite, We Found Love, and Like a G6) and insisted upon classical pieces and real, ballroom dancing. This suited the students just fine as they had been expecting this move far earlier and had, for the most part, been raised to appreciate the more formal styles of dancing. This shift had the unfortunate side effect of creating space between the dancers for Harry to exact vengeance for the perceived wrong the student body had done for laughing at his friend when he was thrown across the room by Dumbledore.
Harry was singularly gifted for the havoc he wished to wreak. His oath allowed him to influence the girls around him without touching them. Normally, this wasn't particularly helpful, however, when spacing was as important as it was on a dance floor, he could sow chaos with great effect. His "gift" had a certain range of efficacy, the magic created an impenetrable barrier roughly 4 inches from his body. He used this force field to trip, bump, and generally disturb all of the couples he could get in range of. After several operations, he had refined this practice to an art. He caused feet to tangle, toppling at least the immediately affected couple, sometimes more. He made feet trod on foot, which, if the lady were wearing heels, was quite painful for the partner. He was even able to force heads and pelvises together, making for significant awkwardness.
None could pin it on him because he never actually touched them. However, someone in the crowd had marked him - Dudley. He had traced the wake of his cousin's indiscretion through the crowd, wondering who could be causing such a disturbance, until, by chance, he saw Harry's face after a quite accidental kiss between an upper year Ravenclaw of East-Asian descent and a… sparkly Hufflepuff boy a few years her senior. He continued to keep an eye on the progress of his cousin as he and Millicent danced together.
Harry noticed Dudley with a Slytherin girl he couldn't identify and knew that he simply had to get to them. He abandoned his current shenanigans in favor of making a beeline for his cousin. He, not knowing Dudley was on to him, made to trip the happy couple. However, before he could make "contact," Millicent was twirled away. Dudley nonverbally made it known to Millicent that she ought to go sit with the rest of the Moot's party, which had given up dancing several songs before.
As Millicent made her way to the safety of the table, Dudley turned to his cousin and said "You leave her alone," with heat.
"What're you gonna do about it?" Harry taunted.
"This." He replied simply, pulling out his TAM Prototype guitar.
Harry responded in kind, despite not having mastered a single offensive or defensive spell, not that Quirrell taught any.
Harry didn't know that Dudley also knew no combat magic. Dudley did, however, have a distinct advantage over his cousin - he was an audiomage. He opted for a different song than he played in the woods since he didn't particularly care to risk turning bystanders technicolor, or murder his cousin, despite how much he detested Harry. Instead, he opted for a classic guitar piece3 that he had loved ever since picking up the instrument.
When the last scream of the 8-stringed instrument died, the Golems, whose "flesh" was alight, were using Harry's limbs as faux maracas and his torso was plastered to the ceiling (all his wounds had been immediately cauterized by some spell Dudley was weaving). Everyone else in the room was bald, dripping ectoplasm, and dancing an Irish river dance, which Seamus was enjoying immensely. The room was also dead silent, even the music had stopped in the middle of his performance.
Just as people began to regain their senses Quirrell, who had been conspicuously absent for the celebration, sprinted through the open doors of the Hall. "Troll," he screamed "Troll in the dungeon!" he staggered about, lamely looking around for a beat then said "Thought you ought to know." before dropping in a dead faint.
Under normal circumstances, this revelation would have engendered great an immediate panic. These were not normal circumstances. The entire school had just witnessed an 11-year-old dismember another student, who, thankfully was still living as evidenced by the screams of his post-shock agony. This macabre incident had produced a shock-induced clarity in the staff and student body.
McGonagall took charge forcefully, instructing all those not participating in NEWT-level Defense to congregate on the staff dais. Meanwhile, the staff and those 6th and 7th years taking defense would barricade the doors to the Hall and prepare a battle plan, including a way to lure the beast to their position.
Those near the entrance to the Hall held a brief meeting in hushed toned. At the end of the discussion, Snape spoke an incantation which was followed by a flash of silvery-white light. The others were busy conjuring great iron bars across the doors in addition to the one that had already appeared, seemingly out of thin air.
Some indeterminate time later, those at the doorway to the Hall began to feel increasingly pronounced tremors in the floor. They turned to one another, each trying to mask the fear they felt about their impending battle with what could only be an uncommonly large mountain troll.
Soon the resident of the entire Hall could feel the pounding of the colossal feet. And they trembled with fear.
Shortly thereafter, the pounding stopped - the troll had arrived, or so it seemed. Loud, frantic whispers began to proliferate throughout the student body, but, before they could really pick up steam, a great crash echoed from the doors to the Great Hall. The beast was come.
The troll slammed his hammer into the reinforced door repeatedly, but it held all the while. After several minutes of this barrage, a particularly potent blow sent a single splinter of the door caterwauling through the air to land halfway down the Hall, sliding to a stop as the next strike landed. Meanwhile, the golems sprung into action, gathering in the center of the Hall for a quick ro sham bo tournament, the purpose of which was made apparent only after its completion. The champion of the contest strode with mighty steps to interpose itself between the staff and the increasingly battered door. The loser (there was a losers bracket, in which a golem would only advance if it continued to lose) had his jack-o-Lantern head ripped from its tallow body and passed to the champion to use as ammunition in its duel with the troll. The 20-foot-tall construct stood as the troll continued to rail against the obstacle keeping him from wreaking wanton destruction, a smile adorning his pumpkin-flesh features not unlike a Manchester boy would have at his first derby, tossing its comrades head into the air with casual anticipation.
At long last, the left-hand door gave, shattering spectacularly. The troll stood, barring the path to freedom, raising its hammer, whose weight rivalled that of a small car. Before it could rain destruction down on the inhabitants of the Hall, the golem struck, throwing the head of its companion in the face of the intruder. The blow itself staggered the troll back one of its massive paces, however, the greatest damage was done when the large candle splattered its wax over the face of the troll and was ignited. Trolls, you see, are weak to fire - it and acid are the only things capable of rendering the troll's regenerative properties null and void.
Thus blinded and burning, the troll lashed out with a lateral, slashing blow, which the golem easily avoided. The swing had overbalanced the troll, leaving it weak to counterattack. The golem, aware of its advantage, made great use of it. It swung a mighty left-handed haymaker into the jaw of the troll, smearing its own tallow flesh on the beast in the process, which, too alighted, increasing the potency of the flames.
Enraged, the troll used the momentum of the blow to spin around and level a mighty swing at the head of the golem. This strike connecte, clobbering the Jack-o-Lantern head, smashing it to pieces. The detritus of the former decorative head sailed through the air, transcribing a parabola as the chunks were scattered throughout the Entry Hall.
The troll was not yet finished with the unfortunate golem. It used the momentum of the swing to ready another strike, this time swinging its hammer upward, whence it caught the golem under the right arm, shearing it off cleanly.
Thinking its opponent incapacitated, the troll turned to face its next combatant. However, the golem, bereft of its head and arm, made a mad dash at the troll, tackling it from behind in a 3-limbed grapple. The other golems, seeing the troll downed, rushed in to seal its fate. The nearest removed its head and hurled it, streaming fire, at its grappling comrade, lighting the tallow flesh fully and engulfing the troll in furious flames.
The troll loosed a Wilhelm scream as its body was immolated. The remaining golems, seeking to turn up the heat on their enemy, one by one, leaped, somersaulted, and flipped their way over the line of staff and NEWT students to fling their bodies on their conflagratory companion. The last to join their mates on the pile were the headless ones, who flopped onto the heap gracelessly.
Unfortunately, magically animated golems are short on reasoning skills. They had not anticipated that their bodies would muffle the flames, which, if put out entirely, would allow the troll to begin healing itself. The staff were more wily. As soon as the last golems had cleared the line, the Snapes lead the charge to ensure the continued burning of the tallow-fleshed golem pile. As they approached, they called out in unison "Flagrante!" which was followed by a ragged chorus of the same as a barrage of streams of fire erupted from the wands of all present. The flames ranged from cool red from the more junior, magically weaker NEWT defense students to the likes of Severus and Filius, whose flames were blue-and-white-tinged ripples. Between them, they circled 'round the mound of fat and wax, making certain that it would burn until all the tallow, and the troll beneath it, was gone. Once they had accomplished this, they began retreating as the flame's heat became unbearable.
The staff and students finally retreated fully into the Great Hall when the pillar of flame began to lick the ceiling of the Entrance Hall. Satisfied that the troll would surely perish, they sealed the doorway as best they could and McGonagall lead a team of staff and students conjuring triple-decker bunk-beds for the students. As she did so, she informed the student body as a whole that, for the night, they would be confined in the Great Hall so that they would be safe while the staff rooted out the source of the intrusion and if there were any remaining threats.
Dudley and the Moot selected a set of bunks in the far corner of the Hall, away from the doors, where they could, if need be, see the entire space, and react to unforeseen circumstances. The students had just settled down and Dudley was drifting off to sleep - a strange sensation after being put under, unknowingly, by Alfred for the past several months. However, he was disturbed by a gentle shake of his shoulder. He turned to face the disruptor of his sleep to see Millicent looking sheepish.
Despite her finery, she looked very much like the 11-year-old girl that she was in that moment. "I.. I'm scared, and… well, when I was scared at home, I'd…" she faltered, embarrassed, and began to turn away.
"No, it's fine. Here." Dudley supplied, moving his covers so that he occupied only half of the space and that Millicent would be on top of them. She smiled bashfully in response, crawling into the bed and positioning herself so that they were back-to-back, as scared children are wont to do. The pair fell asleep thus arrayed and were found so that morning by the staff as they made their rounds, doing an exhaustive headcount.
The roll came up 2 short.
It was repeated and came up 2 short again.
When the heads of house convened to determine who was missing, it came to light that the truant pair were first years. One a Gryffindor, the other a Slytherin - Hermione Granger and Daphne Greengrass. They were found outside the nearest girls' lavatory - a bloody stain on the marble flooring around 2 black robes.
Meanwhile, Harry was being stitched together by a very put out Madam Pomfrey, who took an extra portion of Ogden's Finest as recompense for the troubles of the day.
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In the dead of night, in a single-roomed hut on the boundary between the Hogwarts grounds and the Forbidden Forest, a clandestine meeting was taking place.
"What?" roared the half-giant.
"T-t-they managed t-to s-subdue the c-c-creature b-before I c-c-could m-make m-my es-scape, m-milord." The stuttering servant trailed off, the taste of the last word bitter in his mouth. Lord Voldemort served no man, especially not some filthy half-breed!
"Creature! Creature?" the bearded man yelled, then whispered dangerously. "Buttercup weren't jus' a 'creature,' she wa' a princess among tha trolls. Mos' resistant, tough, strong o' her kind." He said, misty-eyed. "How'd they do it, eh?" he challenged.
"T-they didn't u-use m-m-magic, milord." He hesitated, knowing the wrath of his master was nigh upon him. "T-there w-were g-g-golems, made of t-tallow - d-decorations, you s-s-see. They e-engaged the t-t-troll and s-sacrif-ficed t-themselves t-t-to immolate it, s-s-sire."
The behemoth man went wide-eyed at his servant's incompetence, backhanding him so mightily that the indentation was visible on the exterior of the structure. "Out." he commanded, and, despite the brokenness of his body, the half-giant's acolyte managed to do as instructed.
The now solitary occupant of the hut wept silently for the loss of the pinnacle of his decades-long troll breeding program. There would never be another the equal of his Buttercup.
