Home for the Holidays

"It's no wonder no one can stand her," Ron Weasley said savagely to Seamus Finnigan as they pushed their way through the crowded Charms corridor. Harry Potter, hurrying to meet Gryffindor Neville Longbottom for their next class, perked up his ears automatically. "She's a nightmare, honestly."

Harry didn't hear Finnigan's reply, but he did see Hermione Granger brush past them, tears streaming down her face. Harry glanced back at Ron Weasley, and reached the obvious conclusion. Annoyed, he pulled Neville out of the crowd with a little more force than necessary.

"What?" Nev asked as Harry pulled him along.

"What just happened with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger?" Harry demanded. Draco would've asked why a blood traitor and a Mudblood—Gryffindors, too—mattered to him (but he would have asked it sotto voce). Nev simply answered the question.

"Flitwick paired them up for the new 'making-things-fly' spell."

"Wingardium Leviosa? And what, Granger showed him up?"

"I'm sure he could've done it," said Neville uncomfortably. "You know, given a couple more tries."

"Right," Harry agreed in disgust. Honestly, Ron Weasley's ego seemed to need even more support than Draco's. In his position, Harry would have wanted Granger as an ally. Her skill with the spell was hardly an isolated occurrence. In fact, Harry mused, perhaps Granger would make a useful ally…

Harry, Neville and Draco overheard one of the Gryffindor girls, Something Patil, telling her friend that Granger was crying in the girl's bathroom on their way down to the Great Hall for the Halloween Feast.

"Crying?" scoffed Draco. "Over that idiot Weasley?"

"He is a bit of a prat," agreed Neville. "The way he won't talk to Harry just because he's a Slytherin. He practically worships me, because I'm the 'Boy-Who-Lived,' or whatever. The twins are all right, though."

At that moment, they entered the Hall and gazed joyously around at the Halloween decorations. The trio separated, Neville heading for the Gryffindor table and Harry and Draco seating themselves at the Slytherin one. The feast appeared, and they were just helping themselves to food when Professor Quirrell ran into the Hall, turban askew and eyes wide and frightened, exclaiming about a troll in the dungeons. Harry and Draco exchanged one startled glance; then Quirrell fainted and Dumbledore restored order, sending everyone back to their dormitories to finish the feast.

"This can't be good," commented Draco apprehensively as he and Harry followed Timothy Bole and Suzanne Carey toward the Slytherin dormitories. "We're going to the dungeons. The troll is in the dungeons."

"Right," Harry answered distractedly. His mother and stepfather would be going to face the troll. They were both quite accomplished magically, of course…he found himself wondering where exactly his sisters were at the moment—most likely the kitchens, getting their Halloween feast—the house-elves wouldn't let them come to any harm…probably the safest place in the castle, the kitchens…Thinking about his sisters reminded him of another potential damsel in distress.

"Granger," he said suddenly. Draco stared at him. "She doesn't know about the troll," Harry elaborated.

Draco raised his eyebrows, as if to say, 'So?'

Harry rolled his eyes, annoyed at having to explain. "So, we should warn her. She's smart, it might get her on our side, and it'll annoy the hell out of Weasley."

"You've convinced me," said Draco promptly, and they snuck back toward the girls' bathroom. They saw Sev on the way, heading in the opposite direction of the dungeons. Harry immediately suspected him of going to check on the three-headed dog, which, he'd found out, Hagrid had christened Fluffy, while everyone else was busy. There was definitely some mystery there.

They smelled the troll before they saw it; Harry hoped the teachers weren't far behind. It was grotesque. It lumbered along through a convenient door, while Harry and Draco watched, horrified.

"What now?" Draco whispered. "If my father knew trolls were allowed in here…"

"They're not strictly allowed," Harry started, but was cut off by a shrill scream. He hurried forward, Draco following reluctantly. The troll had blundered into the girls' bathroom!

"Okay," said Harry, thinking fast, "we'll go in there, grab Granger, and get out. Ready?"

Draco gave him a Look. "Fine, fine…" he sighed long-sufferingly. "If you get us killed, I'm telling my father!"

They crept inside. The troll was advancing on a terrified Hermione Granger, cowering against the opposite wall. The troll bashed the sinks with its club, seemingly just for fun, and Granger whimpered.

Harry and Draco reached her, and began yanking on her arms in order to get her to move. "Come on, Granger!" whispered Draco in frustration. "Freak out later, escape now!"

But Granger seemed too terrified to move. In desperation, Harry darted to one side, and shouted, "Oy, peabrain!" at the troll in order to distract it. Draco started whispering furiously in Granger's ear. The troll lumbered toward Harry, and whatever Draco had been saying seemed to work, because Granger went red, glared at him, and raised her wand.

"Win-wing-gar-di-i-um Levi-leviosa!" she said, her voice and her wand shaking. The troll's club rose slightly, then fell on its foot with a resounding crash!

Harry thought he saw the floorboards crack, but wasted no time in idle speculation. He raced around the troll as it roared in pain, and grabbed Granger's arm, pulling her toward the door as fast as he could. Draco, on her other side, needed no encouragement.

At last, they were out of the girls' bathroom! Harry darted forward once more, slammed the door, and turned the key in the lock.

"Well, at least that's over," Draco began shakily. There was an ominous sound from behind the locked door. The troll was using its club to attempt to batter it down!

"It'll hold," said Granger, in a small, terrified voice. "It'll hold."

As the door began to show signs of breaking from the strain, the three eleven-year-olds raised their wands, fear apparent in each face. Harry braced himself, mentally reviewing every spell he'd ever learned—

"Harry!" called a welcome voice. "Where's the troll?" Harry's mother asked, getting right to business as she came up to them.

Granger gestured mutely; Albus Dumbledore said mildly, "I apprehend the troll is behind that door, Lily. Oblige me by opening it."

"Bad idea," muttered Draco, and even Harry had his doubts.

"Must you do everything the brute force way?" complained Sev, arriving upon the scene, with a dire frown. Harry raised his eyebrows expectantly. Would an explanation be forthcoming?

Lily was already opening the door. What followed was hardly the epic battle of Harry's imagination. Dumbledore pointed his wand at the troll, said a few words, then stood back while the troll collapsed with a resounding boom that shook the castle. Lily went into the girls' bathroom to reattach the sinks and see about the hole in the floor, and Dumbledore, now supported both by Severus and by Professor McGonagall, turned to the three first-years. Professor Quirrell hovered in the background, shaking.

"What were you thinking, three first-years taking on a mountain troll?" demanded Professor MacGonagall.

"They succeeded in trapping it," Severus pointed out sourly. Harry wondered at the source of his bad mood…perhaps Fluffy had proved difficult to handle?

"What were you thinking, allowing a troll to get in?" countered Draco, still shaken. "My father—"

"It's not their fault," said Granger bravely, cutting Draco off. "It's mine. I w-went looking for the troll, I thought I could deal with it on my own—you know, because I've read all about them. If Harry and Draco hadn't found me, I'd be dead now. They didn't have time to come fetch anyone. It was about to finish me off when they arrived."

Harry and Draco quickly put on their most innocent, heroic expressions. Inwardly, Harry's mind was racing…Hermione Granger, lie to a teacher? It was unprecedented. And quite possibly profoundly excellent. After all, she was smarter than most Ravenclaws…

Professor MacGonagall took several points from Hermione, but awarded some to Draco and Harry for their fearless rescue. She didn't look too happy about giving Slytherin more House points. Severus gave the three of them a curious look, before going to help Harry's mother with the floor repair. Dumbledore told them, eyes twinkling, to hurry back to their dormitories, before he too departed, and they were momentarily alone.

They looked at one another; then they all said, "thanks," and headed off to their respective dormitories. Even Draco refrained from making a snide comment about Granger's parentage. On the whole, Harry thought, Halloween had been a success.

"He was what?" Neville asked again, the next day. Hermione Granger had joined their councils, and she looked interested in the mystery of the third-floor corridor—although she maintained that no teacher would attempt to steal something Dumbledore wanted kept safe.

"Going to check on Fluffy," Harry repeated, exasperated. "And apparently he was injured, too, you should've seen—"

"But that means he must be trying to steal whatever's there!" argued Neville.

"Not Professor Snape," Draco stated positively. "He's thick-as-thieves with Dumbledore, everyone knows that. He's probably in on whatever Dumbledore reckons is going on. My father says he's much too tolerant of Mudbloods, anyway—"

"That better be a direct quote, Malfoy," Harry growled. "Not," he continued thoughtfully, "that it makes it much better to think it's your father insulting my mother—"

"And me!" added Hermione. She looked around at the three boys, all of whom had been raised in Wizarding families. "Right?" she asked uncertainly.

"Your mother's a special case, everyone knows that," began Draco. "She's like, the only Muggle-born my parents are on speaking terms with, and if you're not sensible of the honor that is—"

"Your father's a bigoted idiot," said Harry in disgust.

"How dare you, Potter! Unsay those vile words!"

"Then don't insult my mother!"

"Fine," Draco said sulkily. "You're just lucky my aunt's in prison."

"And you," said Harry, rounding on Neville. "How dare you insinuate that my stepfather has anything to do with whoever's trying to steal whatever Fluffy's guarding?"

"Well, who else could it be?" Neville complained. "I told you how my scar hurt when I saw him talking to Professor Quirrell!"

"So, if I were condoning the suspicion of teachers, which I'm not," began Hermione. "I would ask why you were convinced that, of the two, Professor Snape was the thief?"

"Well, it's not Quirrell," said Neville. "It can't be! Can it?"

Harry studied his companions thoughtfully. "I'm fairly certain Quirrell is the only new teacher this year…" he said, thinking aloud.

"That doesn't prove anything, though. It could be anyone—it could be McGonagall!" suggested Draco, grinning.

Hermione looked offended. "It is not McGonagall," she insisted, nose in the air. "And this discussion is pointless."

They didn't learn any relevant new information until after the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match—which Slytherin won by about twenty points. Harry and Draco both privately considered that, if either of them had been allowed on the team, Slytherin would have won by more than that. On the way back from the match, the four of them—Harry, Neville, Draco, and Hermione—ran into Hagrid, and he let slip their next clue. Really, Harry thought a little guiltily, it was laughably easy to maneuver Hagrid into giving away crucial pieces of information. Already, he knew the three-headed dog was called Fluffy and could be lulled to sleep with music (any genre). This would have been even more useful if he had any intention of going to the forbidden corridor, of course, but information was information.

And now they knew there was someone called Nicolas Flamel involved. Draco wanted to ask his father, but Harry vetoed that on the grounds that Mr. Malfoy, a member of the Board of Governors, would certainly want any mystery dealt with, and Dumbledore would smile enigmatically and not tell him anything, and the whole thing would end with Mr. Malfoy giving Severus a hard time because as Dumbledore's 'right-hand man' he could be expected to know all about it, and that would only lead to trouble…Harry thought about asking his mother, but Neville advised against it—

"We want to figure this out on our own," he argued. "Besides, Aunt Lily will never let us do any real investigating, and she might tell Gran."

Harry doubted his mother would sink so low as that—try as he might, he couldn't entirely like Nev's Gran—but agreed anyway. It would be more interesting to figure it out themselves, and besides, he'd never heard his mother, or Mr. Malfoy for that matter, mention anyone named Nicolas Flamel. Perhaps they'd never heard of him either.

So the four of them spent the weeks leading up to Christmas vainly looking for Flamel, on the premise that he had to be in the library somewhere. They still hadn't found him by Christmas vacation.

Everyone was going home, or so it seemed to Harry. Nev to his Gran, and Draco and Hermione to their parents…he was spending Christmas with his father. He was rather nervous about it, actually—he'd gotten several letters from Uncle Padfoot over the semester, but nothing—not one word!—from his own father, and that made him feel apprehensive, ashamed, and angry—angry at himself for feeling ashamed when he'd done nothing wrong, angry at his father for being angry that he was in Slytherin, and most of all—the part he would never admit—angry at his father for not being there. For leaving. He knew, of course, that it was his mother who had actually left, taking him with her—but somehow, that never seemed to matter. It was his father who had abandoned him, even if they did still see one another for holidays and every so often, and even though his mother was the one who'd moved on…

"Harry, my boy!" Uncle Padfoot was there, when he got off the train (his mother, stepfather and sisters had all wished him a good holiday before he left, and Draco had made him promise not to forget to surreptitiously examine everything of his father's for signs of Nicolas Flamel).

"Hey, Uncle Padfoot," Harry said absently. He returned his godfather's embrace, but his bright green eyes sought out his father.

For a moment, neither of them said anything, and Harry studied the face that looked so much like his own. James Potter's eyes were brown, though. He looked back at Harry steadily—

And then he smiled, and Harry knew it was going to be all right.

"Hey, Prongslet," James said, a little hoarsely. "Long time, no see."