9. Miscellaneous Mischiefs
"Had a good Christmas, Hermione?"
Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting round the rickety wooden table in the kitchens - which was slowly becoming their table - with a slightly shy looking Neville, scoffing into their favourite cakes while exchanging Christmas stories with each other. It was the first Friday back after the holidays, and with no lessons the next day, the first year Gryffindors were making full use of their free time. Dean and Seamus were busy pestering house elves about which of the sweets were the most unhealthy, so they could stock up on them for later, while Lavender and the Patil twins were gossiping at the end of one of the four long tables which spanned the room in symmetry with those in the Great Hall directly above them. Padma was, so far, the first non-Gryffindor to join them, but was fitting in well, while Harry got the feeling Neville had just come along with everyone else and was too scared to go back on his own now curfew had passed.
Harry was feeling slightly guilty about Neville; knowing the strong, confident man he would become, the shaking, fearful child in front of him appeared quite pathetic. He knew he hadn't been as good a friend as he could have be, and put encouraging Neville on his list of things he ought to be keeping an eye on. Unfortunately, that list was now getting rather long.
Safeguard the Stone. Watch Quirrell for suspicious activity. Encourage Ron to do more - or at least some - work. Encourage Hermione to do less work. Watch Draco for suspicious activity. Watch Pettigrew for any activity. Try to free his godfather as soon as possible. And he should probably also be working on trying to find the ring-failed jay, the cure for the infection that had laid low his wife and a good deal of the rest of the wizarding world, the reason he was back here in the first place.
"Quite good, Ron; it was nice to see my parents again, and take a break from everything going on at Hogwarts. I got a bit of reading done too." Hermione replied.
Harry looked her over and was relieved to see that it did seem that she'd had a relaxing Christmas. He had no doubt that 'a bit of reading' summed up to what most people would consider a small library, but a good deal of the stress that had built up on her face before the holidays had subsided. She looked calm but determined, just as she always had when she was at her best.
"Your book was very informative, thank you Harry."
Harry smiled back. He had thought hard about the present he'd given her for Christmas; a book seemed a bit stereotypical, even if it was, after all, Hermione, but had eventually settled on Magical Creatures and their Civilisations by an Irish wizard named Owen Golfer. He'd felt sorry for his part in the term she'd had, and felt it was the best way to soothe her; Hermione always did take advice better when it came from a book.
In retrospect, Hermione had had a particularly rough first term. She had the benefit of an early birthday, so she'd had an entire year between her eleventh birthday visit from whichever teacher had gone to explain things to her and her start at Hogwarts. However, magic wouldn't have been present in her everyday life - not like they were all steeped in it at school - so she probably hadn't been as used to the idea as she'd have thought. Things had improved; the castle was grand and comforting, she'd made friends, but she'd had to adjust as well, not just to the idea of magic, but also to the idea that she was no longer automatically at the top of every class. Both the wizards competing with her for the spot came from famous wizarding backgrounds and seemed to be putting in rather little academic effort, which wouldn't have helped to dissipate any muggleborn stigma she might have overheard.
Then, she would have arrived at Halloween, and her realisations of what a house elf was. All the teachers she had learned from and respected, and all the friends she'd made, were all apparently fine with what could easily be considered slave labour. Though she had been talked out of any drastic action, Harry wasn't sure how much peace she had made with the idea. Hence, the book: Golfer explained much about elves and their stories and histories, and much better than he or even Dumbledore could have put it.
The other half of her Halloween story had very nearly seen her and her friends brutally killed by a marauding troll. The very next week, one of those friends had nearly been killed again during a school sports match, during which she'd set fire to the teacher that they thought had been the attempted murderer. That another of her year had left the pitch dazed and heavily concussed barely registered as a footnote, which wouldn't have been terribly consoling either. To round off the term, the teacher she'd set on fire had turned on eight eleven-year-olds in his class like an avenging banshee, before she learned there was the potential of a large pile of gold sitting in a school corridor, guarded by a vicious three-headed dog, all of which the faculty was, again, apparently fine with. Put together, these events could probably be considered rather traumatic.
Really, it was a slight miracle that she'd come back at all, and it was a true testament to her determination and loyalty to her first true friends that she looked so composed going into a new term. Harry himself was terrified, and he'd had a good deal longer to come to terms with Hogwarts than she had. In all honesty, it was probably going to get worse before it got better.
"No problem," was all he could get out, "I'm glad you found it useful."
That, of course, led to Hermione telling them all about Golfer's facts and opinions. While not the most riveting tabletop conversation, it no doubt boosted Hermione's confidence that she knew something he didn't. Ron would hopefully learn something, and Neville was humming along politely at the appropriate intervals, so he'd feel involved too, which would help with many of Harry's problems for the term.
Luckily, many of Harry's other tasks overlapped; keeping an eye on the Stone and Quirrell would be one and the same, and Pettigrew was only a threat if he joined up with Voldemort. Since the Dark Lord was on his watch-list anyway, that meant Harry didn't need to go looking specifically for the rat.
He wanted to, oh, how he wanted to. But he didn't need to, and this year, the Stone took priority. Wormtail would have to wait.
The only oddballs were about Draco, and Sirius. At the moment, Harry had no idea what to do about either of them, so he didn't.
Come midnight, he still had no plans, but was nevertheless feeling much better; Padma and the eight Gryffindors snuck back to their respective common rooms, safe in the knowledge that any patrolling teachers or prefects were in another part of the castle. Harry had promised some of the proceeds of their adventure to bribe the Weasley twins into causing a suitable distraction at the required time. While he was quite sure Fred and George were capable of fetching their own snacks from the kitchens, they took it as their sworn duty to help with 'corrupting' the first years and aid them with whatever troublemaking they could think up. They were therefore being perfectly cooperative as long as they were well fed at the end of it, which suited Harry just fine.
Turning over in his bed that night, he let out a long sigh. He had much to do.
That same Friday night, Draco was putting his new cloak through full readiness testing. At least, that was what he was telling himself. The uninformed observer, if he could see Draco through the cloak, might describe him as 'sneaking around the Forbidden Forest after dark'. However, those that knew better would notice that he was walking calmly and confidently, and so was most definitely not 'sneaking', and was only going after dark so he wouldn't be missed in the castle.
After all, those who were invisible had no need to sneak.
The latter half of the winter holidays had been spent preparing a secluded part of the manor grounds so that it could host 'special visitors' from time to time. It was the perfect site, surrounded by forest, partially underground, and best of all, utterly ignored by the rest of the family. It had been created two hundred years ago on the wishes of a many-times great aunt, and no-one in the family had needed use of it since. Draco himself had only found it after many hours walking around, searching for such a spot. His thinking, interrupted by Quidditch schedules and tutoring sessions during the previous term, had arrived at a sudden realisation over Christmas that created a new project for him to get to grips with in the New Year.
His long-term plan hinged on hiding himself away from both sides for the duration of the war, doing his best to be forgotten about while Dumbledore and his merry band of fools kindly saved magical Britain from a lifetime of terror under the Dark Lord. The Philosopher's Stone didn't change the plan; if he could get it, everything would run so much smoother, but he still had no intention on getting involved in any wars he didn't have to. However, the Malfoy name was unlikely to be forgotten, and if there were rumours of his ruby prize, the attraction would be tenfold. One man, even one family, had no chance of defying either wizard forever, and his dreams of peaceful retirement would lie shattered in the dirt at his feet.
In short, Draco needed guards. Guards for him, guards for his family, and hopefully, guards for the Stone.
It was equally obvious that human guards would not do. For a start, the more families or the mightier wizards that disappeared with him, the less likely they were to be left alone. In addition, witches and wizards tended to be slightly less absolute in their loyalties than Draco would like; he and his own father had straddled enough of both sides in the last war to know that. While there were methods of enforcing such compliance, he hesitated to use them; the Dark Mark was not the only stain on his soul that had been removed on his return to the past, and he rather liked his conscience unspoilt now he had it in one piece again.
Upon reaching the forest, he broke into a jog. He wanted to test his footing underfoot, and his mobility under his cloak. The first shadows of the trees were ideal; far enough away so that he wouldn't be seen from the castle if he slipped up, but not too far into the forest where he might be interrupted by something dangerous.
It was blissful.
His movement was totally unimpeded, the lower reaches of the cloak seeming to mould themselves onto his legs as he ran. He was not silent, and there were many creatures in the forest with good enough hearing to notice him even if he thought he was, but the magic on the cloak was strong enough that the sounds of twigs snapping and leaves crunching underfoot were muffled, and beyond any human senses unless the eavesdropper was standing right next to him. The seams did not catch on loose branches, and the hood did not buffet at his head. He was invisible, and very nearly undetectable too.
His father hadn't been exaggerating when he had told him solemnly, that Christmas evening, that it was the best invisibility cloak money could buy. Rumour had it that the Potters had one whose charms were eternal, and passed it down from father to son across the generations. Draco's cloak would not last forever, but with careful management it could easily manage at least a half-century of use, and when you were eleven (or even twenty-six), was there really that much of a difference between the two?
The silence of the forest broke as his ears adapted to the quiet. Chirping, whistling, snorting. Little signs that the little boy was not alone in the woods. He returned to his thinking.
So if he needed to garrison whatever hideaway he chose for himself, and if witches and wizards would not do, that left the realm of magical creatures. Not anything too intelligent; that would muddy the ethical waters too much. The cool wind - for it seemed between his cloaks (invisibility and otherwise) he would not get properly cold, despite the Highland chill - slithered up his left sleeve and over his forearm; over the bare skin that six months ago he had not thought he would see again. His body was clean, his soul was whole, and while there would be many who would classify his actions as 'morally dubious' he had no intent on letting them go far enough that this new purity was risked. Besides, anything that could think too deeply for itself could act for itself, and Draco would not chance betrayal.
While working on his den back at the manor, he had thought up other requirements too. A short breeding cycle, for one: anything that was dangerous on its own (a dragon, had been the first of his ideas) would be too large to go unnoticed, and he would only be able to smuggle a few creatures into the grounds - or out of whatever grounds he borrowed them from. Anything else would have to be raised, and he only had a few short years before the war began in earnest. Assuming he ended up with many of these sentinels, they would need to naturally form a strong family unit. That way, Draco could control the leaders and have the rest of the colony follow suit. And, of course, his guards would need to be intimidating enough to be worth fearing.
So Draco had decided upon exploring the forest, searching for suitable candidates.
Vampires, while strong and easy enough to hide, were far too independent, and would be nigh impossible to catch in the first place. Any other creature that turned on him might kill him, but the fate of those bitten by the undead lords would be far, far worse than a simple death. Werewolves might have done nicely, except they only took monstrous form once a month, leaving Draco with no guards and several humans to entertain twenty-six days out of twenty-seven. A Cerberus was also promising - it was, after all, Dumbledore's guard of choice for the Philosopher's Stone - but finding a breeding pair would be horrendously difficult, and that thought gave Draco an image he tried to shake out of his head as quickly as possible.
The easiest way to make a decision was probably going to be to check what he could find.
And if it was small enough to subdue and sneak off Hogwarts grounds, so much the better.
Harry decided that solving mysteries at Hogwarts was much easier when you already knew the answers.
He was sitting with Ron and Hermione in front of the Gryffindor fireplace. After a delayed brunch, courtesy of their kitchen misadventures late last night, the three of them had decided to solve the mystery of the third floor corridor that afternoon. Unbeknownst to the other two, who despite their optimism probably thought of it more as a long-term project, Harry did indeed expect to get most of the investigative work done before dinner. On the table in front of them sat a book on Flamel; a well placed chocolate frog card had been enough to get a name and achievement (Nicolas Flamel, of the Twelve Uses of Dragons' Blood) and from there it was a simple matter of the three of them lifting the book from the library after hours one night using the cover of Harry's new invisibility cloak. It hadn't even been in the restricted section, so they neither needed to go together nor to sneak in at all, but Harry had decided it was probably good to get a practice in with the cloak as soon as possible.
"Nicolas Flamel... lives in Devon, with his with his wife, Perenelle, and their great-great-great grandchildren..."
"Great-great-great grandchildren? How old is he?!" Ron asked Hermione.
"Six hundred and sixty-five." Hermione answered. Ron paled and made a 'huuuu' sound.
"You think you should have lead with that?" said Harry. Hermione shrugged, grinning. "How did he manage that?"
"A Philosopher's Stone."
"What's a - NOT NOW, PIG!"
A small, fluffy missile had dive-bombed the table they were sitting at, sending fragments of parchment flying.
"Ruddy owl - yes, you" - for the owl had looked up at him with adoring eyes on his rebuke - "don't do that! What do you want? More biscuits? Here, take some and shoo." Ron said, handing a couple of biscuits to a grateful Pigwidgeon, who chirped happily and fluttered over to the ledge above the fireplace.
"How did you come up with the name Pig in the first place?" Hermione asked.
Ron scowled at Harry. "I didn't. Harry called him Pigwidgeon after dinner on Christmas, and now the damn thing won't listen to anything else."
Harry had indeed accidentally referred to the owl as Pigwidgeon, and the owl seemed just as disinclined as its predecessor to be renamed when Ron didn't like it. Of course, Harry didn't know whether this was the very same owl, as he'd never paid particular attention to the old one, but so far they looked and acted similarly enough that the name had slipped out by mistake. The chances seemed minute, impossible even, but Harry had spent long enough as an Auror in his previous life to have given up on believing in coincidences. The implications of fate and destiny that went with the happenstance were, for now, best ignored.
Hermione glanced at Harry in a curious way, and he found himself at a loss as to what to say. He could hardly explain that it looked like a Pigwidgeon he already knew. He wondered what Ginny's excuse had been, all those years ago, and his heart gave a little flutter. Ginny, the wife he had left behind, dead on a hospital bed, and for whom all this being done for. He shook his head clear.
"It kind of suits him, right?" he managed to splutter out.
The three looked at Pig, who looked less like a pig than possibly any other pet in existence, before Ron and Hermione turned back to Harry.
"So what's a Philosopher's Stone, Hermione?" he asked nervously.
As a distraction, this was a fairly good one, and Hermione returned to her impromptu lecture with gusto.
By the time it came to return to the Great Hall they knew quite a bit, and between Harry's carefully directed questions and Hermione's encyclopaedic knowledge they had guessed a good deal more. There were two main abilities of the Philosopher's Stone; creation of the Elixir of Life, and the ability to transmute base metals into gold. Both abilities were naturally highly desirable for anyone who wanted to steal it and so did nothing to narrow the list of suspects down. Everything fit, from the small package that Hagrid had taken out of the vault in Gringott's on the day he took Harry to Diagon Alley to his comments about Flamel and creating gold from whatever was on the third floor corridor. Unfortunately, they had no evidence that the vault was later broken in to (that edition of the Daily Prophet was long since lost), nor that there was anything yet killing unicorns for their blood in the forest. This made it hard for Harry to pin the blame on Voldemort without sounding unduly alarmist.
And so, at the end of their hypothesising, Snape was still the main culprit, but Harry was not overly bothered. His friends still knew that the Stone was there and had to be protected, and that they should take care around the castle. Indeed, the less they knew about Voldemort, the safer they were likely to be from him - he would be trying to avoid undue attention at all costs.
Maybe, just maybe, things a were starting to go according to plan again.
In the early hours of Monday morning, for the third night in a row, Draco was out of bed. He was not, this time, in the Forbidden Forest, but instead on the forbidden corridor on the third floor. It was a good thing he was invisible; if the Sorting Hat got wind of how many so-called 'forbidden' places he ended up, he'd find himself resorted into Gryffindor by sunrise.
He had been told before Christmas what awaited him there, but he had to see. He had to know. Not because he didn't trust Crabbe and Goyle - their reactions had been easy enough to read - but because a part of him knew that all of this was far too ridiculous to be seen through any eyes other than his own.
He was also sensible enough to wait for the required resources before embarking on any missions that could get him killed. But now, invisibility cloak on and wand in hand, he was ready.
He crept through the deserted corridors, hearing every creak of every floorboard and every muttering of every ghost.
Eventually, Draco reached the forbidden door. He turned the handle to check if it was locked - it was - and then whispered,
"Alohamora!"
Sure enough, the lock clicked open and the door, at his gentle push, swung open. He stepped inside.
As soon as he did so, the snarling started.
Crabbe and Goyle were right; it was a Cerberus, and a big one at that. It was easily twice as tall as Draco - not that that particular observation meant much given his current form - and many times as wide, with three fearsome heads that sniffed at the air around him before turning down to glare at him. Heads with jaws that would have no problem swallowing him whole, and enough teeth that they wouldn't need to.
Draco gulped. Evidently, the creature's nose was not so weak as to be fooled by invisibility cloaks, and for the first time that night, he felt scared. He was confident enough that he could take down a Cerberus in a fair fight; he was, after all, a wizard fully trained if not yet fully grown. Doing so without alerting any of the staff to his presence would, however, be impossible. Besides that, they were confined together in a small room that in no shape or form encouraged a 'fair fight' and very much encouraged a swift and violent evisceration at close quarters. Worse still, while his mind was comfortable in the beast's presence, his body was evidently not, and he felt with shame his eleven-year-old hands shaking as he stepped back from the monster. Eager to be away, he took in the small room one last time, and barrelled back out the door. Hastily re-locking it, he took off back the way he had come, and quickened his pace until he was over halfway back to the safety of the common room.
He turned the room over in his mind. Small, abandoned. Well out of the path of any normal student. Containing one large dog with three large heads - and one, very small, but very definite, trapdoor. He shook off the last of his fear, and a savage grin returned to his face.
The smile threatened to split his skull. He had found the stone.
He pulled the blankets over himself as he snuggled under the bed. As exciting as midnight adventures were, he did need sleep. Especially with the plan for the next weekend; he was still to convince Snape to get him the potion he needed.
Not that it would be particularly difficult, he smirked again, still smiling.
