This is the third-to-last chapter. The story should, with any luck, conclude on Wednesday. Then there'll be a short pause, and then I'll start posting the second year, No Mouth But Some Serpent's.
In the meantime, enjoy!
Chapter Eighteen: Putting the Pieces Together"But, Professor McGonagall—"
"No buts," said the Head of Gryffindor House's voice, which, following on his twin's voice, made Harry anxious to know what was going on. "I am very disappointed in both of you, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger. To be caught out of bed is no trivial matter. Fifty points from Gryffindor, each, and two weeks' detention. Also for each one of you," she added, as though she thought she had to make that clear.
Harry eased closer and peered around the corner. Connor stood with his head down in front of McGonagall, looking incredibly dejected. Hermione stood beside him, and seemed near tears. Blaise stood smugly off to the side, arms folded and head nodding—at least until McGonagall rounded on him in turn.
"And you, Mr. Zabini," she said. "Twenty points from Slytherin for being out of bed after curfew, and you will serve a week's detention."
Blaise blinked and began to splutter. McGonagall swept past him, not bothering to listen to his objections, and down the corridor. Harry, who was returning from one of his late-night sessions with Snape in the second floor dueling classroom but doubted that McGonagall would be in the mood to listen to that, flattened himself against the wall and thanked Merlin that she was taking the opposite corridor from him. Connor and Hermione trailed back in the direction of Gryffindor Tower, still looking dejected.
Harry watched his twin's back in frustration. It was now May, and still Connor hadn't come and spoken to him about the Philosopher's Stone. Harry didn't understand what was going on. Of course, Connor hadn't spoken to him about a lot of things, even when they did spend time together, but Harry could not believe it was taking this long for Connor to put together the one mysterious, guarded location in the school where nobody was to venture upon pain of death with the Stone.
A moment later, he shook off his disappointment. Blaise was coming down his tunnel, since it led to the dungeons. Harry at least had the chance to find out what had happened.
"Hi, Blaise," he said, stepping casually out of the shadows. "What was that all about?"
Blaise froze for a moment, then forced a laugh. "Oh, just a prank on the Gryffindors that went somewhat wrong," he said airily. "They were carrying a dragon up to the Astronomy Tower, if you can believe that. I suppose they dumped it over the side."
"A dragon?" Harry's heart began to pound. He hadn't heard anything about that. His thoughts immediately leaped to Hagrid, whom Connor had developed a friendship with, and then to the Forbidden Forest. Had Connor been in the Forest? Had he encountered Quirrell?
"Yeah, a Norwegian Ridgeback, one of Hagrid's pets." Blaise sneered. "I saw them with it in his cabin earlier this week, and then I saw them take it out of his house tonight. I thought I might earn some points for Slytherin if I told McGonagall about them being out after curfew." He scowled. "But the old cat wasn't in the mood to be reasonable."
"And what were you doing out of bed after curfew?" Harry asked.
"Spying on the Gryffindors," Blaise retorted. "I just told you that."
Harry raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything, letting his doubting silence speak for him. Blaise scowled at him in turn and edged away. Harry studied his face carefully. Vince and Greg had always been too loyal to Draco to give Harry any trouble, and they shied off from teasing Connor because Draco did. Blaise was—different. He seemed sometimes to take it as a personal affront that a Slytherin had a Gryffindor brother, and had started to go out of his way lately to tap Connor on the shoulder, laugh at him, trip him, and taunt him. Harry hadn't given it much thought, other than nodding in agreement when Connor went on a tirade against Blaise. It was just normal House rivalry, just normal childishness.
Wasn't it?
"Why did you track them down in Hagrid's house and spy on them in the first place?" he asked, more quietly.
Blaise gave his head an arrogant toss. "Because I wanted to know what they were doing, of course," he said. "That half-giant is a menace. I have no idea why Dumbledore keeps him on. Having a dragon in a wooden house, honestly!"
Harry eyed him for a long moment, and said no more. Blaise was already seeking to turn matters around, from the expression on his face.
"And what were you doing out of bed after curfew?" he asked, trying to look as if he had a plot and failing. "Hmmm?"
"You'll have to ask Professor Snape that," Harry said with a shrug, and then turned back in the direction of the Slytherin common room.
He could feel Blaise draw in his breath to demand an explanation, but in the end he let it go without saying anything, and followed Harry. Harry whispered the password—rigor mortis—and walked quickly through the common room. He didn't want to spend a minute longer with Blaise than necessary.
Of course, once they were both washed and in their beds, then Harry lay awake and thought about Blaise until it was nearly dawn.
What does he want? Could he be after Connor because he's a Death Eater? That made Harry frown, though; Blaise's sole living relative was his mother, and Arabella Zabini had never shown signs of being a Death Eater. A Dark witch, yes, but the two weren't the same thing.
Could he even be the traitor who let the Lestranges through?
Harry tensed up for a moment, then shook his head. No. Their mother had written him several times, and whenever she talked about the treachery, she gave the impression that it was not only an adult but someone in the Order of the Phoenix. Blaise certainly wasn't that, whatever else he was.
Then what does he want?
Harry didn't know, but he resolved, as he finally began to drift off to sleep, to cast Consopio on Blaise from now on, before he left for his late-night training sessions with Snape if possible. It would do no one any harm if Blaise was back in bed before curfew, and sleeping when he ought to be.
And, come morning, I can just happen to mention that Blaise was the one who lost points for us, and he won't be very popular for a while.
Of course, most of that was just a distraction from the one thought he really didn't want to think.
Why didn't Connor tell me about the dragon?
"His name is Norbert."
Harry frowned at Connor. His brother had finally come to talk to him, after Harry had sent a rather insistently-worded invitation via Hedwig, this morning, right before the Slytherin-Hufflepuff Quidditch match. He was pulling on his gloves when Connor slouched into the training room, ignoring Flint's glare, and came up and stared at Harry.
"And?" Harry pressed, unable to keep a certain coolness from his voice.
Connor shrugged. "And we gave him to Charlie Weasley—Ron's brother. He works with dragons in Romania. Norbert will be safe there."
Harry let his breath out. This was the question he most wanted to ask, and it seemed that Connor wouldn't volunteer the information on his own. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"
Connor jerked away from him, eyes wide and hair falling into them. He looked tired, Harry noticed, and one hand went up to rub his scar in what Harry was sure was an unconscious gesture. "Because I don't know if I can trust you," he said, loudly enough for everyone else to hear. "You've gone over all Slytherin, Harry."
The rest of the team's preparations stopped. Harry closed his eyes in dread, knowing who would speak up next.
"And so what if he has?" drawled Marcus Flint, stepping forward. "We happen to like him that way." He was smiling, but his eyes were hard. Harry winced. He wouldn't put it past Flint to punch Connor in the ribs, right here and now. The Slytherin Captain wasn't forgiving of anyone who tried to rattle his players before a game began, unless the rattling came from him.
"It's just words, Flint," Harry said quickly. "He doesn't mean anything by it."
"Yes, I bloody do, Harry!" Connor stopped, their father's temper flaring in his eyes. "I do, and it's time I said it! You've gone too quiet. You hang out with Slytherins when you could come up to Gryffindor Tower. You smile at the most awful things they say, as if they were actually funny. You don't even care that they think less of you because you're a half-blood! That's disrespectful to Mum, not just you! You've changed, Harry, and I hate the person you're becoming!"
Harry shut his eyes, feeling as if he'd been punched. He'd had arguments with Connor before, but nothing this serious. And in that moment, he really would have renounced everything that made the Slytherins accept him. He wanted to beg his brother to forgive him. He'd been hurting Connor again, just as their mum had told him in her Christmas letter, and he hadn't made it right yet.
And then, startlingly, abruptly, and unexpectedly, at least for him, his hurt changed to anger.
Harry opened his eyes, and saw Connor back away from him. Harry took a step nearer. He was shaking and couldn't seem to stop, any more than he could stop the words that flowed out of his mouth in the next moment.
"I'm just trying to make the best of the situation, Connor! No, I wasn't happy when I got put in Slytherin, but it isn't all awful. All right, I joke with them and spend time with them, but they're my Housemates. I would spend more time with you if you seemed to want to do it! You're barely happy any time I'm there. You'd rather talk to Ron and Hermione. I don't blame you for—for listening to them, for picking up their prejudices, but don't say that this is all my fault! It's partially yours, too!"
He was shouting by the end, which had never happened. Usually Connor got upset and Harry stayed calm, asking for forgiveness when his brother had spent the initial flood of his temper. But now Harry's fists were clenched, and he saw Draco, come to wish him good luck before the match, sag against the wall, one hand on his forehead and his face pale. Harry was glad that he didn't have his wand. He ignored the increasing temptation to use wandless magic.
And he kept his gaze on his twin, long enough to see shock replace the anger in Connor's eyes, and the ashes replace the fire.
"I didn't know you hated me that much, Harry," he whispered. "I—"
"Get out, Gryffindor." Flint's voice had gone deep and quiet as the growl of a huge dog. "I'm giving you five seconds to get out of here before I pound you flat, and that's only out of respect for your brother. One. Two. Three—"
Connor turned and walked away. Harry watched him go, and waited for the coolness of shock to crash down on him in turn.
It didn't. He still felt angry, and the foremost impulse in him was to make Connor pay. Shutting his eyes, he tried his best to rein in his temper.
He opened his eyes when Adrian Pucey, one of the team's other Chasers, pounded him on the back. "That's more like it," Adrian said, his voice aglow. "Go out there and win. Show the bloody Gryffindors that they can't rattle you."
Harry nodded back, smiled tightly, and then moved out of the changing room, leading the team onto the pitch.
Slytherin beat Hufflepuff 410 to 190, and Harry had rarely exulted in catching the Snitch so much. The celebration afterwards, and even the way the entire team shielded him on the way back to the dungeons, so that, Adrian explained, he "wouldn't have to see any Gryffindors you don't want to see," weren't half-bad, either.
All the while, Harry kept waiting for his anger at Connor to transmute to shame, the way it would have at any other time, and to feel the impulse to apologize to his twin.
It never came. Harry had nothing to shut in the secret box of his thoughts that night, because he couldn't convince himself that his anger was unjustified.
"So Connor's too stubborn to come right out and ask you where the Philosopher's Stone is. But I'm not."
Harry glanced up. Hermione Granger was standing next to the table he and Draco had found for studying in the library, her arms folded and her intimidating gaze boring into him. Harry almost smiled. Sometimes, Gryffindor forthrightness was an advantage.
From the blaze in his eyes, Draco didn't seem to think so. "Go away, Mudblood—" he began.
Harry said, "Draco," in the way he'd heard Narcissa Malfoy say it. Draco shut up and glowered down at his book. Harry leaned across the table to pat his shoulder. "I'll be right back," he said, and then stood and moved away from the table with Hermione, into the deeper corners of the library, where they were less likely to be overheard. He did find himself craning his neck for a sight of Connor—it'd been two weeks since their fight, and still his brother hadn't approached him—but Hermione seemed to have come alone.
"Spill," Hermione said. Her arms still hadn't unfolded, and she had a look that would have put Lily's "scolding face" to shame. Harry inclined his head and admitted the truth.
"The Philosopher's Stone is behind a certain door on the third floor, being guarded by a giant dog of some kind."
It was miraculous to watch the way Hermione's face changed, as her racing brain put all the pieces together. A moment later, she muttered, "Stupid," and slapped her forehead, which Harry had to admit was also gratifying in its own way.
Then she frowned at him. "But if it's protected, then why did you want to warn us about it?"
"Because I saw Professor Quirrell trying to get through the door a few times," said Harry. "He'd go in, talk to the dog, and then always come running out. Then Professor Snape warned him off. I don't think he ever did work out how to pass the dog. But—"
"Oh, no," Hermione whispered, and her face had gone pale.
"What?" Harry demanded, standing up fully.
"Hagrid said—he said that the man who gave him Norbert was asking him about Fluffy," Hermione said. "That's the dog's name," she explained, when she caught Harry's blank stare.
"Fluffy," Harry couldn't help but repeat.
"Don't ask, it's Hagrid," said Hermione, as if that explained it all, and Harry supposed it probably did, if one knew Hagrid. He determined to get to know the half-giant a bit better next year. "The man was cloaked, and Hagrid couldn't see his face, but he told him something about Fluffy being charmed by music. What if the cloaked man was Professor Quirrell, and he's going to try again, now that he knows how to get past the dog?" Her face had flushed with hectic color now, and she looked as if she would run from the library and try to inform Professor Dumbledore immediately.
Harry put out a restraining hand. "It's rather odd that he hasn't tried so far, don't you think?" he asked.
Hermione reluctantly settled herself back against the bookcase. "Well, yes. But then, why hasn't he?"
"He's waiting for something, I think," said Harry, and frowned. "But I don't know what that something would be. Dumbledore's probably going to move the Stone at the end of the year. The longer Quirrell waits, the more of a risk he runs."
"Maybe there are other traps, too, and he doesn't know how to get past them," Hermione offered. "Or maybe there's another deadline approaching, something he wants to do first."
Harry stiffened. "Hermione," he asked, "where is Connor right now?"
"In Gryffindor Tower," she said, frowning at him. "As you would know if you'd bothered to come and talk to him at all in the last two weeks."
"We had a fight," Harry said shortly. "But—listen, is there any time when he might be alone? Without you or Ron to protect him? Out of reach of anything the Professors can do?"
Hermione closed her eyes and assumed an expression of intense concentration. Harry wouldn't be surprised to know she was rattling immense amounts of information around in her head, seeking for the perfect answer. He knew she'd found it when her eyes flared wide again.
"The detentions," she whispered. "Professor McGonagall said that Connor was going to serve detention with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest next week. Something's been killing unicorns, and they want to find out what it is."
Harry almost told her it had been Quirrell, but checked himself. Quite apart from the inevitable questions he'd have to answer about why he hadn't told Dumbledore yet, Hermione would go running to the Headmaster, and then Connor would be pulled off that detention and Quirrell would wait for another time to strike. Just as with the Quidditch game, Harry thought, it was better to know when and where Connor's life would be in danger rather than rush around on it.
He thought, for a fleeting moment, that that was Slytherin.
And so? was his next thought.
"All right," he said. "I'll be with him there, Hermione."
"But you don't have detention," she pointed out, frowning at him.
"I know," said Harry. "I'll sneak along. Professor Quirrell won't know I'm there. And don't tell Connor, either, or he'll try to do something stubborn and stupid," he added.
Hermione sighed, made a few half-hearted protests, and then agreed. Harry suspected she was tired of the feud between him and Connor—Connor had apparently spent most of his time since then moping around the Tower—and grateful for anything that would end it.
Harry watched her leave the library, then walked back to his study corner with Draco, rehearsing everything he would need in his head. He stopped when he reached the table and saw Draco staring expectantly at him, rapping one finger on the corner of his parchment.
"Philosopher's Stone?" he asked.
With a sigh, Harry sat down and began to explain. At least he could trust that Draco wouldn't go running to Professor Dumbledore.
Harry shook his head as Hagrid split Connor and Neville Longbottom, who had a detention for a stupid mistake he'd made in Potions, up. Both of them were to fire red sparks into the air from their wands if they ran into anything dangerous, and green sparks if they found the person who'd been killing unicorns. Except that Hagrid called it a "creature," of course. Hagrid was going with Neville, and leaving his big dog, Fang, with Connor.
Harry waited until the sound of Hagrid's crashing had faded into the bushes, then stepped out of his hiding place and walked along beside Connor. Connor was so caught up in his misery that he didn't even notice Harry at first, and then he turned around and cast him an ugly expression in the light of the lantern he was carrying. His other hand gripped his wand.
"What do you want, Slytherin?" he asked.
"For you to stop acting like an idiot," Harry replied, falling into step with him and brushing a trailing vine out of the way. "It's been nearly a month since we fought, Connor. Don't you think you're dragging this out too long? I am your brother, in case you forgot." His own hand was in his pocket, on his own wand, and he warily watched the bushes. So far, there was no sign of Professor Quirrell, and Fang hadn't given any warnings, but Harry was not sure how far he trusted the dog's nose. He would trust his own magical senses more. They weren't picking up anything either, though.
"I didn't forget," said Connor, his face twisted with anger and hurt and broken shards of pride. "That's why it hurt so much. Why did you abandon me, Harry? We're supposed to be twins. Best friends forever. We're not supposed to argue and jostle each other like we've done. Look at Fred and George Weasley. I've never seen them have a fight."
"They're in the same House," Harry said.
Connor turned away from him. "So you're going to let that matter more to you than our blood relationship?"
"No, or I would be in my bedroom right now," Harry said, and brushed away another vine. The trees rustled and creaked in a wind too high for them to feel. The lantern lit the path ahead better than a Lumos spell would, which Harry was grateful for. "I came out here when I didn't have to, when I knew it'd be hard for you to run, Connor, so we could talk."
"Hermione told me about the Philosopher's Stone," said Connor. "That you knew right where it was all along."
"Yes," Harry admitted. "And I wanted you to be the one to discover it, and bring the news to Professor Dumbledore. I thought that would make you feel important, special, happy. You'd be able to claim a victory as truly your own, and start taking your place as a leader."
"But it would have been you buying me the victory again," said Connor, his words grinding in more pain. "I don't want that, Harry."
Harry turned and caught his brother's arm, spinning Connor to face him. Connor glared at him in the lantern's light. He had the beginning of tears in his eyes, and he brushed angrily at the tears with the back of the hand that held his wand.
"Then decide what you do want," Harry said quietly. "The reason I've been working so hard for you, Connor, is that I want you to be the leader. I want you to be the Boy-Who-Lived. I want people to look up to you. It hasn't happened so far. Ron and Hermione like you, but the Slytherins think you're a git, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs think about you only when you do something spectacular—like the troll or the Lestranges." He saw Connor wince and close his eyes. "It's going to take more than that. I thought pushing you into it subtly would do the trick, but it didn't. So. Tell me what you want. What are your plans? What are you going to do to unite the four Houses behind you? Woo the pureblood wizards? Make everyone trust that you have the confidence and the strength to take on the Dark Lord? Win allies among the magical creatures?"
"Why should I have to do all that?" Connor protested. "I defeated Voldemort when I was a baby. I know more now. I should just have to face him again, and he'll be destroyed completely."
Harry sighed. "I think it will take more than that, Connor."
"Why should it?" Connor stepped away from him and traced his scar with the edge of his wand. "This is what it means to be the Boy-Who-Lived. I have this scar, and that's all I really need."
Harry felt his heart melt with pity, and so melt the last of his anger. He and Lily had done no favors by keeping Connor so blind. He really should have learned about politics in the wizarding world from the time he could walk, even if his love was essential to defeating Voldemort. Their mother had found a way to teach Harry in secrecy, under their father's nose, and Sirius's and Remus's. She could have found out a way to convince Connor of the truth without taking away his purity.
"Connor—" he started, meaning to apologize.
Another vine dropped from the trees above them just then, and curled around Connor's neck. He let out a startled cry and dropped the lantern. Harry scooped it up and held it frantically higher, ready to shoot off red sparks to let Hagrid know they were in danger.
It wasn't a vine that dropped out of the trees in the wake of that snatch, but a huge snake, whom Harry could almost imagine was laughing at them instead of hissing. She wound a portion of her body tight around Connor, and then took off into the Forest, bearing him with her.
Harry shouted and fired an Incendio at her tail, but missed, so quickly did she slither. He ran after her, feeling his fear and anger give his feet wings, and his scar begin to burn.
The snake disappeared among the bushes ahead of him, but Harry could follow the trail of bent grasses and leaves she left, and the growing pain in his head was a sign of its own. It wasn't long before he made out the snake coming into a clearing where a cloaked figure waited. The snake dumped Connor at its feet and then slithered behind her master, still making that hiss that sounded like laughter.
Snarling, Harry grabbed his wand and stepped free of the bushes.
"So." It wasn't Quirrell's voice speaking, but that cold one, which Harry had heard once before. It made his scar flare like fire, and Connor stirred and gave a weak moan as though his scar was also paining him. "Harry Potter. At last." The figure bent over Connor. "And the Boy-Who-Lived, who will shortly be the Boy-Who-Died. I have waited so long for this moment."
Harry gathered himself, and sprang into battle.