The end of October crept ever nearer at Hogwarts; the prospect of another holiday feast and another break from classes filling students with excitement. Hagrid, the impressively massive gamekeeper of Hogwarts, oversaw decoration; and he was no novice. Hagrid took long trips into the forbidden forest to retrieve the skulls of magical creatures, hired ancient ghouls to spook the students, and grew pumpkins as large as himself.
Many teachers had prepared Halloween-themed lessons for the days that preceded the holiday – Bat-bogey hexes in charms, wand-carving pumpkins in transfiguration, a thoroughly boring tale about a nasty, Muggle-killing scarecrow in History of Magic, etc. All except Snape, who only acknowledged the upcoming event by becoming more bitter and irritable.
Percy had told Harry that Snape gets increasingly stricter each year, and it was frankly frightening. Snape was already so unjust and cruel, Harry couldn't imagine it getting worse – that is, unless Snape has one of Vernon's belts laying around...
Harry subconsciously rubbed the scars under his shirt. How often they were overshadowed by the one on his forehead; the one that broadcasted his identity to the world. In a way, he was thankful. It meant he didn't have to think about the ugly, jagged, white lines that splayed across his back and shoulders. Until he showered, at least.
During these times, he'd often stand in front of the mirror, staring hopelessly at the shadows of abuse left behind by his family on his underdeveloped, eleven-year-old body. How ironic it is that a scar made him famous among wizards when he can't even remember getting the cursed thing. If he tried to remember really hard and clenched his eyes shut tight under his cracked glasses, he could recall a flash of green light – the killing curse he'd read about so much. While it wasn't a particularly happy memory to dwell on, it was the closest memory to his parents he had, and it filled him with the conglomeration of emotion he required to wake up Tomorrow: hope that he'd be prepared enough to avenge his family, and hate toward the man – the monster – that orphaned him before he could walk; before he could help himself and his family.
A deadly combination: the recipe for determined vengeance. Vengeance on the thing that tore his family apart before he could meet them – and tore apart countless others as well.
Because lest he forgets the other families torn apart by the same man, lest he victimizes himself solely, and neglect the undeniable fact that he was depended on by others more than he depended on himself. The difference between himself and the other families – he was... lucky enough to survive his encounter with "The Dark Lord". Certainly, he was lucky; a killing curse hit him in the face and he was the one left standing.
But what if Voldemort had been left standing, as all logic said he should be? What if Harry was given the release of death his parents were, and he was able to meet them in the plains beyond mortality?
Prophecy, fate, destiny – a predetermined zenith , apex, conclusion, perhaps... in an otherwise undetermined story. No matter how the story goes, no matter what choices are made, whether you turn left or right – that moment, or those moments, are inevitable and will come to be.
All Harry could hope for is that his time would come later rather than sooner; he wanted to see Mrs. Figg again next summer.
The day of Halloween was a relief for many; it meant a relaxed weekend of celebration, sweets, and no homework. Hagrid's decorations were incredible. In the great hall, live bats fluttered around above the tables grasping the small candles that normally levitated there. Ten-foot-tall jack-o-lanterns lined the walls, real spiderwebs hung from torches (not exclusively for Halloween, but added to the effect), a clutter of skeletons was blowing (inexplicably) on various brass instruments and slamming on drums tunelessly with bone drumsticks, and the school ghosts had started randomly popping out of walls to frighten students.
On the other hand, Bat-bogey hexes flew through the air like houseflies, students were making disastrous attempts at turning water into rum, and the spell used to carve jack-o-lanterns was responsible for a student being rushed to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
Neville still had a nauseous look of disgust when they sat down for lunch on Halloween day.
"Bleach my eyes!" he exclaimed, gagging on his bagel. Harry couldn't help but agree – he'd been thinking about aiming a Scourgify at his own. The spell, essentially a modified Diffindo made to cut out the shape of a face, is not something you want to be hit by.
"I heard The Weird Sisters will be performing with the skeletons at dinner," said Hermione.
"Who're The Weird Sisters?" Harry asked.
"I don't know, I just read it on the notice board,"
"They're a witch band," Neville interjected, "Gran listens to them,"
Harry looked over at the skeletons, who were scraping randomly on a musical saw, producing one of those horrible sounds that make your entire body cringe.
"As long as they're better than this lot," said Harry. "Have you given any more thought to the third-floor corridor?" he added, turning to Hermione.
"You mean the thing we talked about a few weeks ago? Not really... I researched Dumbledore's past a little bit when I was bored, to see if I could figure out what the object might be, but there is a surprisingly small amount of history on him,"
"But everyone knows Dumbledore, and he's in the order of Order of Merlin and stuff," said Neville.
"I meant beyond recently. Dumbledore's pretty old , but there is only history from the last twentyish years, beyond that is all vague and untrustworthy. There is essentially nothing on his childhood, teen years, or young adulthood besides his hometown and family names. Anyways," she said, shaking her head, "I didn't find anything likely to be in that corridor,"
"Well, thanks for trying, Hermione. I'll keep looking next week."
As soon as everyone forgot about Harry's stunt on Malfoy, the Slytherins' obnoxious arrogance rebounded with more ferocity than ever. During potions class that afternoon, they started throwing magical paper airplanes sporting extremely mean and offensive messages and going inexplicably unnoticed by Professor Snape. A particularly fast one hit Harry straight in the ear, causing him to gasp with pain, which the Potions Master chose to interpret as a laugh.
"Keep your abysmal humor out of my classroom, Potter," he said nastily, "ten points from Gryffindor,"
"But professor, Malfoy-"
"Don't blame others for your stupidity," he snapped. "Another five points,"
Harry was outraged, not just at the ridiculous injustice, but at the lack of such injustice toward the Slytherins, who had started laughing so hard that Malfoy fell out of his chair.
His attention was stolen by the note itself, which was repeatedly ramming itself into his torso. Unfolding it, he revealed the message within: Say hello to your mother for me.
His fist clenched, crushing the parchment into a ball.
"Don't read the notes," he whispered to Hermione and Neville.
"Harry! You're hand-"
With another gasp, he dropped the parchment, which had, without him noticing, ignited in his hand and thoroughly burned his palm. His hand, now shiny and melted by the ball of flame he'd been grasping, flared with pulses of pain every time his heart pumped blood through it.
"What the hell?" he whispered angrily, "Was the paper enchanted?"
"I'm don't think so, that's pretty advanced," said Hermione worriedly. "Are you okay, Harry? That looks painful,"
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said dismissively, glaring at Malfoy. He most certainly wasn't fine; the gates holding back his tears were wrought solely by pure will. His hand felt like he put it in fucking acid, but his voice stayed steady, "I'll just go to Madam Pomfrey after class,"
"We'll go with you," said Neville.
"Thanks, Neville, but don't worry about it. I'll meet you both at the feast,"
Harry left the infirmary with a thoroughly sore and shiny hand, another fine scar for his collection. Madam Pomfrey had made him stick his hand in a bowl of green, viscous liquid, which relieved the pain immediately. After fifteen minutes of soaking, he withdrew his hand, still shiny with melted skin. Madam Pomfrey had frowned at this, but said, "It must've been enchanted fire... the scarring shouldn't affect your hand. You may leave. Enjoy the feast."
He walked fast; the Great Hall was close to the infirmary and with enough luck, he would get there in time to grab some food before it disappeared. As he placed his hands on the great steel handles of the Great Hall doors, he was shoved back with so much force that he fell to the ground.
Before him, the entirety of the student body was rushing through the doors looking thoroughly panicked. Prefects were trying to herd the students like sheep but were being pushed around as Harry had. After several failed attempts at standing up, Neville appeared out of nowhere and pulled him to his feet.
"What in the bloody hell is going on?" Harry yelled.
"Quirrell said there's a troll in the dungeons!"
Harry looked at the swirling mass of students and teachers around him. He grabbed Neville's wrist and pulled him out of the crowd.
"Neville - where's Hermione? "
"She left for the bathroom ten minutes ago," his face blanched. "You don't think she's still in there?"
"We have to check," said Harry. "The troll is in the dungeons, right? It should be safe to go to the bathroom and get her,"
Neville looked down the corridor worriedly but nodded. Making sure none of the teachers or prefects saw, they slipped down the hallway toward the lavatories. Their triumph of reaching the bathroom door was shattered, however, by a series of low, thunderous booms growing louder every second. A horrible stench of rotting flesh and sweat filled the hallway. At the end of the corridor, a massive, stone-colored cave troll rounded the corner, an equally huge wooden club dragging behind it.
They both stopped cold in front of the door, not daring to move or make a sound. The troll slowly made its way toward them, occasionally pausing to stare through windows or classroom doors. It didn't turn down any adjacent corridors, it didn't enter any rooms, it just walked stupidly toward them.
"Neville," Harry whispered, "Go inside the bathroom and get Hermione, I'll distract it,"
"But-"
"What?"
"It's the girls-"
" Oh come on, just do it,"
Neville disappeared behind the bathroom door, making no sound. Harry crouched in the shadow of a pillar on the side of the corridor, silently watching the troll as it made its way closer. It was only forty feet away when the bathroom door reopened, and Neville slid into the hallway alone.
" No! Neville, it'll see-"
But the troll's eyes already locked on Neville, and consequentially found Harry as well. For a few horrible moments, it just stared stupidly at the pair of them, but then, with a great roar, it raised its club.
"Oh, hell,"
It ran down the hallway toward them, taking almost ten-foot strides, a disgusting, guttural yell escaping its great mouth and club raised in its hand.
"RUN, NEVILLE!"
The pair of them sprinted in the other direction, not daring to check the advancing progress of the troll. Hearing it was enough – each step it took shook the very floor beneath them, and each step got louder.
"Split - up," Harry gasped to Neville, who didn't need to be told twice. He immediately broke off, turning down a side corridor toward the library. With a quick over-the-shoulder glance, it was obvious that the troll was still pursuing Harry, and that Neville had gotten away.
How the fuck do I get out of this one?
The troll was now dangerously close, Harry could feel its breath on the back of his robes. It was only a few moments before it would take a swing with its massive club and turn him into a pancake.
So, he did something very desperate, and very stupid.
He stopped dead in his tracks, turned around, and ran right between the troll's legs. It stumbled, disoriented by Harry's sudden disappearance, and looked around stupidly. Harry ducked behind an armor stand, breathing heavily, and sank to his knees, mind racing. He looked around for anything useful, anything to help him against a troll.
His first charms class entered his mind, and an idea struck him.
" Wingardium Leviosa ," he whispered, pointing his wand at the armor stand. A battle axe, previously gripped by the armored hand, rose into the air. With good enough aim, Harry thought, he could take down the troll in one hit.
From his unseen location in the shadow of the armor stand, he aimed the axe at the head of the troll, and with a deep breath, thrust his wand through the air like a baseball bat.
The axe embedded itself into the troll's back. With a goosebump-inducing scream of anger, the troll started blindly swinging its club. It smashed through the wall above Harry, filling the air with dust and littering the floor with bits of stone. Harry took the chance to sprint back the way he'd come.
The beast was too fast, however, and it saw him attempt his escape. In just a few seconds, the angry troll had closed the distance between them. It reached down and gripped Harry so hard he felt his ribs break, pinning his arms to his sides and hoisting him up in the air so Harry was staring straight into its ugly face. It let out another roar, spraying him with saliva and mucus.
Heart racing, Harry shifted his wand, trying to point it directly into the troll's hand that was gripping him. He could feel the wand digging into his hip; his only hope was that the tip was the end pointing away from him. The troll's gasp only allowed him short rasps of breath, so it was with great difficulty that Harry gasped, " Diffindo."
But alas, it was effective. A large slice opened in the troll's hand, pouring hot blood all over Harry, but ultimately forcing the troll to drop him. He fell all ten feet from the troll's head to the ground, landing with a sickening crunch as his left ankle broke beneath him.
The will-wrought flood gates had been forced open. Tears running down his face, unable to walk, he pointed his wand at another armor stand, causing the sword in its grip to fly up into the air. The troll, which was rearing to charge Harry again, looked terrifying ; blood, dirt, and grime covered every inch of its massive body, and its eyes were almost glowing with anger.
It was more important than ever that Harry stay focused – he must hit his target this time, or he will die. He flexed his arm to stop the shaking and, ignoring the booming steps of the troll, he flung the sword through the air.
The sword pierced through the troll's eye like an arrow, stopping at the hilt. The troll, whose tiny brain had almost certainly been struck by the long, silver blade, stumbled in its sprint of rage and collapsed face-first into the floor five feet in front of Harry.
It became strangely quiet in the moment that followed; dust particles slowly settled around the rubble of the smashed wall and the carcass of the cave troll. Harry's heart was beating fast with no sign of slowing down, he was still trying to catch his breath from his broken ribs, and his ankle flared painfully with every movement. As Harry allowed his body to go limp, two thoughts entered his mind: where on earth were the Professors, and where on earth was Hermione? Both had been strangely absent from the entire event.
As if reading his mind, a group of teachers rounded the corner of an adjacent corridor. He saw Filch, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout – apparently, neither Quirrell nor Snape had thought a troll important enough to be present. Harry's Head of House let out a blood-curdling scream when she saw his condition and immediately rushed over.
"Potter, are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Professor," Looking down at his robes, he immediately understood why she had screamed; they were still covered in troll blood, mucus, and saliva of varying colors. "A minute earlier wouldn't have hurt, though," he shivered, so much fucking blood had poured out of that thing onto his body, getting beneath his clothes, in his eyes, hair, in his mouth, swallowed, even...
He bent over and retched all over the floor. Because he was unlucky enough to miss the feast, there was nothing in his stomach; sour, yellow bile dripped from his lips, burning his throat and tongue. McGonagall turned away. The other Professors were examining the cave troll with differing expressions, and Flitwick had his nose pinched tight. There were a lot of bad smells in that corridor, and Harry's vomit wasn't even close to the worst one.
The vomiting left him feeling faint and delicate. He was shaking harder than ever, every heartbeat pounding in his ears, and as he turned back to McGonagall, threads of vomit handing from his lips and chin, his vision faded into nothingness, and he slumped over onto the disgusting floor.
Déjà vu is a strange feeling: a strange, almost alien familiarity with surroundings or experiences you've never actually experienced, or that you've convinced yourself you haven't through logical reasoning. Of course, the exact same event can't happen twice, but then again, you could swear you know exactly what that person is going to say next, before lo and behold their words exit their mouth, both similar and different from what you thought you were expecting. In addition to the already overwhelming confusion of the feeling, you can never be sure if you are remembering a dream, a real event, or if your brain is making shit up to confuse you.
Reminiscent ramblings aside, that feeling was running through Harry's mind as he opened his eyes in an unfamiliar bed. The stone ceiling of the castle was high above him, and his bed was walled by several white curtains.
He barely suppressed a groan as he sat up; it felt like he'd ran a marathon and collapsed into a bed waiting for him at the finish line. He stretches his arms – his ribs felt painful and sore. He stretched his legs – his right ankle was delicate and weak.
Of course, he deduced, I'm in a hospital bed.
That's why it was so familiar, and yet so unfamiliar; he'd never been in a hospital or anything similar until that day for his burned hand – still shiny and scarred – and now he was laying in one of the beds he had glanced at during his previous visit.
The hospital wing seemed to be magically lit by a large crystal chandelier of which Harry could see the top. His curtains blocked his view of the window, so he could not tell what time it was. Nevertheless, he was awake and alert enough to hear a quiet conversation a few feet away, seemingly just outside the curtains.
"Quirrell said the troll was in the dungeons!" came an angry, impatient whisper.
"Well, clearly it wasn't, Argus. You know your way around this school better than anyone, you could've checked in a heartbeat,"
"Dumbledore, sir, I-"
"A student-" his voice lowered considerably; " -Harry Potter was almost killed. I told you to check where the troll was, and where did you go?"
"Sir, I was-"
"Where the did you go, Argus?"
Dumbledore's voice was terrifyingly low, seething with anger; it was scarier than if he had been yelling and sent shivers through Harry's body.
"I was looking for Mrs. Norris, sir, I'm sorry!"
"You chose your cat over a student's wellbeing when you know very well the consequences of a student's death? The troll could have been the Chamber of Secrets all over again,"
"Please sir, how could I have known there were students in that corridor? They were supposed to be with their houses,"
Dumbledore's voice became calm but no less frightening. "You would've known if you'd done what I said," Dumbledore sighed. "You mustn't forget your debts, Argus, I expect better in the future. You may leave,"
Shuffling footsteps quickly disappeared toward the far end of the wing.
"He's in good health, Poppy?"
"Yes, s-sir," Madam Pomfrey responded meagerly. Dumbledore sighed.
"Minerva, please reward Longbottom,"
"Yes, sir,"
"Now if you'll excuse me, I need to have a word with Professor Quirrell about some misinformation... Poppy, I'll return when he wakes."
And Dumbledore disappeared as well, the sound of his robes gliding along the ground signaling his departure.
"It's dreadful, don't you think, Severus?"
Snape grunted.
"It just doesn't make any sense! How a troll got into the same part of the castle as Longbottom and Potter, why they were over there in the first place. And how, pray tell, did Potter single-handedly kill the damn thing?"
" Well it appeared, upon my examination," Snape drawled, "That he flung several weapons at it. A rather vulgar method, if you ask me. We shall wait undoubtedly find out when he awakes..." Snape pulled the curtain aside, revealing what appeared to be a slumbering Harry.
They departed as Dumbledore had. Harry decided it best to wait a while before "waking" to avoid suspicion. When he finally chose to rise, forty-five minutes later, he made an exaggerated amount of noise for Pomfrey, who had moved to the other side of the room.
"Stay in bed, dear! You still have potions to take!"
She removed the curtains, revealing that it was quite late at night. After drinking several unpleasant potions that seemed to have no effect, he was poked and prodded for another ten minutes, which made the effect of the potions clear. He was no longer sore at all, in fact, he felt better than he had in a long time. Once Pomfrey was satisfied, Harry came to a horrible realization.
He was wearing a hospital gown that he hadn't put on himself.
"Er... Madam Pomfrey?"
"Yes, honey?"
"How'd I get into this gown?"
"Oh, your robes were all torn and dirty, so I changed them out,"
Harry blanched. "And did – did you see...?"
Harry was sure she'd misinterpreted his concerns, but the result was the same.
"Oh - no, no honey," she laughed, "Don't worry, it's a spell that swaps your clothes,"
Harry sank back into his pillows, letting out a sigh of relief. Dumbledore entered the wing across the room.
"Oh - Dumbledore is here to ask you some questions, okay?"
"Yes, that's fine,"
Dumbledore, dressed gloriously as ever, arrived at the bedside, eyes sparkling and smiling warmly.
"Good evening, Harry," he said, taking a seat beside him. "I'm afraid we haven't had the chance to talk as of yet,"
It was hard to feel any anger toward the old man, he seemed so kind, wholesome, powerful... Harry's negative feelings toward him – the man who wanted to hide magic – nearly disappeared.
"No, Professor,"
"...I primarily wanted to ask you about the troll incident, if you'd be so kind,"
"Yes, Professor,"
"I did not see you at the Halloween feast, where did you happen to be?"
"I was here getting my hand healed, Professor," he held up his shiny palm, "I burned it in Potions,"
"It's still scarred," he said, looking down at it.
"Madam Pomfrey said it won't make a difference,"
Dumbledore frowned as Pomfrey had.
"Could you please tell me what happened?"
"Well... Malfoy was throwing paper airplanes with rather rude notes around the class, and I grabbed one and-"
"Sorry to interrupt, but I was referring to the troll," he smiled.
"Oh - right," Harry swallowed, "I left the infirmary, hoping to get some food before it disappeared-" Dumbledore waved his wand, and a tray of food appeared on Harry's lap, "-but when I got to the doors, a bunch of people started rushing out, and I got knocked down." He took a few bites of mince pie.
"Then Neville helped me up and said that Hermione'd gone to the bathroom, so we went to get her, but when we got to the bathroom she wasn't there, and then the troll appeared and Neville got seen and it chased us and he split off and I threw-swords-at-it-"
"Slow down, my boy, you'll choke on your food," said Dumbledore. "It was quite considerate of you to go after Mrs. Granger, but most unfortunately, her movements mirrored yours,"
At Harry's look of confusion, he explained, "She returned from the bathroom and got caught up in the crowd as you had, I assume you didn't see each other. She returned to the common room to wait for you and Longbottom."
Harry's heart sank. He had put Neville in danger for nothing.
Dumbledore continued, seemingly reading his mind. "Neither Mr. Longbottom nor Mrs. Granger was harmed, don't worry. You, on the other hand, had quite the time, it seems,"
"Yes, Professor, it was chasing us, so I told Neville to split off... it followed me, and I barely escaped. I had to levitate weapons from the armor stands and throw them at it, and at one point It grabbed me, so I cut its hand open,"
"Quite a frightening venture for anyone, more so for a first-year... very impressive fighting, Harry."
"Yes, sir,"
"You've been teaching yourself, haven't you?"
Harry's heart skipped a beat.
"Yes, sir. Professor Quirrell's content isn't satisfactory for me,"
"Perfectly reasonable, Harry. I hired him for his experience in the dark arts – yes, many of the tales you hear in his class are nonfictional... but alas, his teaching is as incomprehensible as his speech,"
"...Sir, where were all the Professors? I must've been running from the troll for ten minutes, and it wasn't quiet ,"
"We were – misinformed – by dear Professor Quirrell. He came striding into the hall, dramatically announced the presence of a troll in the dungeons, and fainted right onto the floor. After securing the students, we searched the dungeons, which are rather large, but it was nowhere to be found. The booming from its steps was dismissed, blamed on something else – but lo and behold, you were found lying beside its thoroughly dead body."
Harry shivered once more at the thought. He could feel bile rising in his throat once more, freshly fed with mince pie, but he willed it to stay down. Dumbledore's next question rather shocked him.
"Are you okay, Harry?"
"Er... yes, Professor, Madam Pomfrey said-"
"I don't mean physically. I'm sure it was an exhausting experience, inside and out."
Harry forced a weak , unconvincing smile onto his face. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
"I'm fine, Professor."
After the headmaster left, a tired Madam Pomfrey extinguished the torches with a wave of her wand. The Hospital Wing fell dark, lit only by moonlight scattered through the windows. Harry stared at the ceiling, his mind racing fast as ever.
Sleep did not come.
His body may have been more exhausted than ever before, but his mind was not. He'd been given new material to mold, new webs to weave, more connections to make...
What a fucking day.
His choice to read some asshole's note ended with Harry fighting a troll. It was almost impressive how fast the day turned around.
His mind replayed the events of the day like a movie, but unlike a movie, he couldn't close his eyes or cover his ears. The blood, the squeezing, the horrible feeling of being chased when you know you're slower than your pursuer; it poisoned his mind and body, so he did not sleep.
He looked down at his hands: one unmarked, one shiny and burned – both shaking. He'd killed a troll with those hands.
The entire thing shouldn't have happened, in all honesty. Hermione wasn't in the bathroom. The troll wasn't in the dungeons. Harry had intentionally brought Neville to where the troll actually was for no reason and put them both in danger. Only two months into Hogwarts, and he'd almost killed himself and another student. His confusion, anger, and sorrow now had their topping cherry: guilt.
The night disappeared as Harry lay stewing in his thoughts, and the sun rose from behind the mountains, beaming merrily upon the school grounds. After an annoyingly thorough examination, Madam Pomfrey deemed him "physically stable enough" to go to breakfast, and he left. Her use of the word "enough" seemed underexaggerated because whatever potions she'd given him the night before made his body feel new. There was no soreness from running, no bruises from being ... squeezed...
When he reached the door of the Great Hall, his heartbeat accelerated. When he pulled the great knob, would a tsunami of students come flooding out once more, knocking him to the ground, trampling him, and bringing news of another great beast within the castle?
Of course not, he thought scathingly, kicking at the ground. Nevertheless, he braced himself.
No students came rushing out of the hall, in fact, everyone was sitting. He had arrived mid-breakfast. Making his way over to the Gryffindor table, he noticed pairs of eyes on him everywhere he looked. Maybe it was normal, and he was just more perceptive because of the potions, or maybe – he blanched slightly – news had gotten out? But how could it have... everyone was in their dorms, and it was all cleaned up before the day started...
"Harry!"
He flinched violently as a large mane of bushy hair collided with his face. It took him a moment to realize it was Hermione hugging him, not a troll's hairy hand.
" Oh my goodness, I'm so glad you're okay, Neville told me about the troll, but he said when he got away, it kept chasing you! Then this morning he said you weren't in the dorms..."
"Don't worry, I'm fine," said Harry reassuringly. "Madam Pomfrey just wanted me to stay the night so she could keep an eye on me,"
He sat next to Neville, who looked nervous as ever. "How about you, Neville?"
"Don't worry about me, Harry, I'm alright,"
"Good to hear,"
Harry's mood improved drastically. He'd thought for a minute that Neville might be resentful, what with Harry bringing him to a troll for no reason, but it seemed his shortcomings were forgiven.
Harry served himself some steak and kidney pie, but when he took his first bite, he nearly gagged. The chewy chunks of meat, the red-brown gravy... he pushed away his plate.
The first half of November passed without incident, that is, nothing exciting happened. During the two weeks leading to the match, Harry and Hermione continued excelling in many classes and learning additional spellwork in their free time. When they were struck by bouts of demotivation or boredom, they'd riffle through random books, looking for powerful magical objects that Dumbledore could be keeping in the castle. It became more of a time killer than anything else; their chances of finding out what the object was were slim to none, mainly due to their lack of knowledge on it. They knew it was valuable, possibly dangerous, but other than that, they only knew it had to be smaller than a Gringotts vault, which did not narrow it down at all. In a book of famously powerful magical objects, they realized that many things fit the criteria: ancient weapons, strong curses, infamous wands wielded by equally infamous wizards... they were overwhelmed.
On a positive note, the arrival of another (hopefully troll-free) event brought more excitement to the castle, especially for the older students, who were preparing for their O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S.
The first Quidditch match took place on a breezy Saturday morning. As Harry made his way down the grounds toward the massive Quidditch field, he felt the same excitement as all the students that surrounded him. His face was painted with a genuine smile, and the prospect of enjoying a game of Quidditch with his friends was more of a relief than he could truly appreciate at the time.
After climbing many sets of stairs, Harry, Hermione, and Neville took their seats in the stands, which provided a wide view of the entire field. Down in the middle of the field, they could see the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams standing across from each other. Suddenly a student's voice boomed loud enough for everyone to hear:
"WELCOME TO THE FIRST QUIDDITCH MATCH OF 1991 – GRYFFINDOR VERSUS SLYTHERIN!"
Twin roars of applause issued from the respective stands, which were colored to match their house. The commentator's voice counted down, and with a great, "THEY'RE OFF!" the teams rose into the air. Harry's eyes darted across the field, trying to take in all the information being offered. He watched Beaters swatting the black Bludgers at opposing players, he watched Chasers hunting down the big, red Quaffle and throwing it through hoops, drawing thunderous reactions from the crowd. He watched the Gryffindor Keeper fighting furiously to keep several Slytherin Chasers from scoring, to which he was successful. His gaze finally came to rest on the two players who seemed completely unaware of the game around them – the Seekers. They were flying above the other players, peering down toward the field, looking for the golden, fluttering Snitch that was lurking somewhere amidst the controlled chaos of the Quidditch game. He could barely see their emotionless, calculating expressions as they hovered on their broomsticks, swiveling around, looking everywhere they could. How he wished he was up there flying around, feeling the wind, hearing the crowd cheering about something besides his scar. He silently wished first years were allowed on the team.
A glint of gold caught Harry's eye and he located the Snitch, which was hovering near the ground, blending in with a yellow tapestry strung across the front of the Hufflepuff stands. He almost wanted to yell out to the Gryffindor Seeker, but surely that wasn't allowed, and besides, the Slytherin Seeker was closer to the Snitch and would hear it.
"Blimey, there it is!" said Neville when Harry pointed out his findings. "How the hell did you see that?"
"Wait, where is it?" asked Hermione, who was squinting in the direction of the Hufflepuff stands.
"Just near the bottom," he said, pointing, "It kind of blends in with-"
A deafening roar burst out of the crowd like a gunshot. Harry covered his ears.
The Gryffindor Seeker had taken a magnificent dive toward the Snitch, the Slytherin Seeker on his tail. They closed in, the Snitch vanishing from sight - the crowd held their breath - and then, miraculously, the Gryffindor Seeker rose, fist held high in the air, and flew over the stadium.
Once more, Harry's hands flew to his ears' protection, and he winced at the excessive noise.
The game was over, Gryffindor had won, and Harry had found a new passion.
Back at Gryffindor tower, a high-energy party was being held to celebrate the house's victory.
Small, wrinkly creatures were popping up literally out of nowhere, bringing food, drinks, and entertainment. After delivering their load, they would disappear with a snap of their bony fingers, returning a short minute later with more goods.
Harry quickly realized that he, Neville, and Hermione were easily the most socially awkward people there, perhaps in their entire house. They sat in a distant corner, observing the crowd of cheering, singing students as they passed pies, tarts, cookies, and drinks to each other, conversing merrily about the match.
Some of the older students had somehow gotten their hands on firewhiskey and were taking shots – before long, they were slurring their words and vomiting fiery, smoking bile into the trash cans. Whether they were dared or just curious, some younger, inexperienced students chanced upon sipping some but ended up spitting it onto the ground, where the liquid came to rest, slowly smoldering away.
After realizing that firewhiskey was above their threshold, the younger students turned to butterbeer, of which there was a seemingly endless supply. Harry imagined the whole thing might have been enjoyable if he was inebriated like everyone else, but seeing as how he was completely sober, it was extremely uncomfortable to watch. Maybe the other sober students were in the dorms...
"What do you say we grab some shit and go to the dorms?"
Hermione gave him a half-hearted look of disapproval, as if to say, " watch your language," but agreed. They grabbed some food, grabbed a butterbeer each, and were only a few feet away from the stairs when a loud voice stopped them.
"And where are you three off to?" asked one of the Weasley twins. The other quickly appeared at his side, reminiscent of Filch and his damned cat.
"We were going to sit up in the dorms, the party's a bit crowded," said Neville.
"Nonsense!" the twins said in unison.
"The party has barely started-" said Fred.
"-and we can't have the highlight of the party leaving, can we?" finished George.
" Colloportus ," they said in repeated unison, pointing their identical wands at the dormitory door. The door slammed shut with incredible force, and a muffled yell of surprise could be heard from inside.
"What do you mean, the highlight of the party?" asked Hermione, glaring at the twins.
The Gryffindor seeker, whom Harry did not know the name of, had moseyed over at some point. He seemed drunk; Harry suspected the firewhiskey. "We're talking about Potter, of course. Won us the game, he did,"
At Harry's look of utter befuddlement, he continued, "I saw you pointing at the Snitch from the stands. You've got a good set of peepers on you,"
"Thanks...?"
"Yeah - we were letting you cool down for a bit, but now the party's on! In fact ..." he climbed drunkenly onto the table beside him and stood up with wobbly legs so everyone could see.
"Attention!" he yelled. The party fell quiet. Climbing onto the table had apparently made him dizzy, and when he spoke, his words were slightly slurred. "I hope you're enjoying the party and shit... and whatever..." the crowd cheered, and he took a swig of butterbeer. "Now, you might think our v-victory was due to my magnificent-" he belched loudly, "-dive, and grabbing that Snitch like m-my ex-girlfriend. But GUESS WHAT?" he held out his arms, trying not to fall off the table, and Harry covered his face in his hands. Neville was staring up at the Seeker with a look of amazement, and Hermione was glaring at him. "My best friend – my, my best fucking friend in the whole world helped me find the Snitch. Come... come up here, H- arry ," he extended his shaking hand and belched again.
Utterly bemused, Harry climbed onto the table, which was not large enough for both of them. The crowd cheered louder still. The Seeker, whom Harry still didn't know the name of, wrapped him in a side hug as if they were childhood friends. He stunk of vomit and firewhiskey.
"If you're thirsty, we-we've got butterbeer and fire – hic – whiskey. If you want a little something more... fun, ask Gred and Feorge here for some Alihotsy leaves. Anything else you need, ask a house-elf, they'll hook you up-"
And the unnamed Seeker fell off the table, passing out onto the ground. Harry stared down at him for several seconds before carefully climbing down.
"Merlin's beard, where are the prefects?" asked Hermione incredulously. A crowd of students, curious to try whatever Alihotsy leaves were, surrounded " Gred and Feorge " and provided the trio an opportunity to escape. " Alohomora," she whispered, silently unlocking the door.
Upon entering, they found one of the prefects sitting on Harry's bed, looking miserable.
"Percy?" said Harry.
"Thank Merlin, I thought I'd be stuck in here till midnight," said Percy as he stood up.
"Why didn't you just unlock the door?" pondered Hermione.
"Alohomora only works on the same side of the door that it's locked from ,"
"Oh, well... the Seeker just fell off a table, and I don't know who the other prefect is, so..." said Harry.
Percy's shoulders sagged. "Of course. Can't resist a party, he can't," he ran his hands through his hair. "He's the other prefect, if you can believe it. His name's Layton James," Percy sighed. "I reckon I should take care of him. Have a good night,"
The trio sat down and had a good laugh for the first time in weeks.
Another two weeks passed. As Hogwarts grew cold, they were forced to exchange bitter farewells with Autumn and awkwardly greet Winter like an annoying classmate you purposefully avoid.
Harry coexisted with his fellow Gryffindors (Ronald, Dean, Seamus) conflict-free, simply by ignoring them most of the time. If provoked, usually by Neville or Hermione, he would participate in friendly conversation, and it would be a good time. Harry had no intention of befriending them, but he wasn't an asshole; he respected that Hermione and Neville enjoyed their company and didn't mind it.
The same dynamic held true until a week before Christmas. Harry was sitting with Hermione by the fire, and Neville was playing a chess game with Ronald; nothing special for a cozy winter weekend in the common room. Other students were scattered around the room doing various activities (most of which corresponded to the year they were in and hence the amount of homework).
Harry, upon glancing over at Hermione, saw that she was staring at the chess game, or rather, at Ron. Harry studied her gaze; it was unmoving, unblinking. Her lips were parted slightly, and Harry had the feeling she was oblivious to everything else around her.
Harry's heart sunk inexplicably as he realized what was happening. He felt a strange, unfamiliar fusion of emotions; resentment, sorrow, and pity were distinguishable among other dark, sallow feelings. He had no reason to be angry at Ron, it wasn't his fault, but for some reason, Harry wanted to pummel him.
He shook his head, looking away toward the fire. Hermione was her own person, and could make her own choices, but goddamnit ... why him? He wasn't exactly smart, he didn't follow rules, he was kind of obnoxious – nothing like Hermione. Plus, she hadn't heard the things he'd said about her...
Nevertheless, it was none of Harry's business. She thought he was cute, or whatever, maybe she wanted to snog him - his fists clenched – and although that's gross, it's none of his business. His eyelids shut like doors over his eyes, and he thought determinedly.
He'd stay out of it. They can snog all they want, they can hold hands and... and eat food, and sit together and – it was none of his business. None. Of. His. Business.