A little after three o'clock, Michael and Ron left Hogwarts castle and walked down towards the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid's cabin was made of wood and nestled under the eaves of the trees that formed the edge of the forest and although quite small and shabby it was scaled to him, which made it quite large for two eleven year old boys.
After hesitating a moment, Michael rapped his knuckles against the door and several booming barks exploded from within, a sound that was joined by claws scrabbling at the far side of the door and Hagrid shouting at 'Fang' to get back. Michael winced. He wasn't an animal lover – and detested having then jump on him, which the cats and dogs belong to various relatives were always glad to do.
After a few moments of this the door opened a crack and Hagrid could be seen behind it, one large hand gripping the collar of a dog that could have eaten every single pet Michael had ever had to endure, and still have had room for lunch. "Hang on," the huge gamekeeper said, "Back, Fang," he added to the dog, who appeared to possess the ancestral urges of all animals to lightly maul Michael. Grudgingly the black beast retreated enough for Hagrid to admit two of them.
The cabin had only one room – there was a vast bed in one corner, an open fire in the middle of the floor (a copper kettle was hung above it and the contents were boiling to jdge by the steam pouring from it) and from the ceiling hung dozens of hams and pheasants. Hagrid appeared to do quite well for himself foodwise.
"Make yerselves at home," the proud host said, releasing Fang once the door was closed. Promptly the dog bounded over to Michael and bowled him over before licking vigorously at his ears. After the initial pantwetting terror passed, the sensation was merely gorssly unpleaseant and Michael managed to introduce Ron to Hagrid and vice-versa.
"Another Weasley?" Hagrid asked, obviously familiar with the family's characteristics. "I spend half me life chasin' yer twin brothers away from the forest."
He offered them both rock cakes – shapeless lumps of bread with raisins hard enough to break teeth on. Both boys pretended to enjoy them, nibbling cautiously at the softer spots as they told Hagrid about the lessons they'd had that week and the classmates they'd shared them with. Michael tried to ignore the drool that Fang was layering onto the knees of his robes.
Hagrid didn't seem any fonder of Filch than they were, probably because as groundskeeper he was more exposed to the man's personality (and it's manifold defects) than the rest of the staff. His fondness for animals didn't extend to the man's cat either: "I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime," he confided. "D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her - Filch puts her up to it."
He also said that Snape hardly liked any of the other students so there probably wasn't anything personal about the way he'd acted in the class.
"It seemed quite personal to me," Michael growled.
"Rubbish!" said Hagrid. "Why should it be?" he asked, but he wouldn't quite meet Michael's eyes when he said that. "How's yer brother Charlie?" Hagrid asked Ron, changing the subject. "I liked him a lot - great with animals."
Ron began telling Hagrid what he knew about Charlie's work with dragons and Michael, who'd already heard that story, looked around absently, spotting what looked like an article cut out of a newspaper. Picking up the paper he saw that that was precisely what it was.
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.
Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.
"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.
Michael grinned. He could almost picture one of the goblins at the bank saying those words to some pushy reported. Then he frowned, doublechecking the date on the paper. "Damn," he muttered. The other two broke off their conversation to stare at him. "Sorry," he said, realising that he'd cursed outloud. "Remember that break in at Gringotts?" he asked Ron. "It was the same day Hagrid took me there. Bit of a coincidence."
"Yeh, it was a good thing…" Hagrid said and then clapped his hand over his mouth. "I shouldna ha' said that," he mumbled.
"Good thing?" Michael asked.
"Never you mind," Hagrid told him, but Michael was already thinking about how one vault had definitely been emptied that particular day – the one that Hagrid had visited. And that was much more of a coincidence that the break-in being the day when Michael had first gone to Gringotts.
.oOo.
After several classes that he had to share with Draco Malfoy (Ravenclaw and Slytherin were paired for both Herbology and Charms) Michael was glad to see that Gryffindor would have the dubious pleasure of the little snot's company once flying lessons began as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff would be paired up in the afternoon once the other two houses had had a go.
Malfoy, apparently considered himself something of a dab hand with a broomstick, and talked incessently about it during meals. Since Michael wasn't about to leave his back to the slimy little creature he made a habit of sitting on the far side of the Ravenclaw where he could at least keep an eye on him. As a result, he was witness to endless complaints that first years weren't allowed on the Quidditch teams and long, boastful stories about narrow escapes involving helicopters. From the descriptions it was obvious that Malfoy had never seen a helicopter since most of his 'feats' would have been evident folly to anyone with the slightest idea of how dangerous they could be.
Of course, Draco Malfoy was not the only student who seemed fascinated by flying and Quidditch – just about every student, male and female, who hadn't been raised entirely muggle could talk endlessly on the topics. It was worse than football had been at either of Michael's previous schools. By the morning when flying lessons would begin, wild claims had been flying around all four House tables. Michael had patiently sat through Ron's lecture on the subject on the Hogwarts Express and now he patiently endured the saga of Ron's encounter with a hang glider, which was at least a little more plausible than Malfoy's little flight of fantasy.
The few students who hadn't been on a broomstick were more or less evenly spilt between those who were keen to have a go and those who were nervous. Michael would not hesitate to count himself among the latter, although he did get a good laugh out of mentioning the flights to and from the Isle of Man when he was five. That had been on an aeroplane of course, but the matter of fact tone in which he dismissed it as 'rather boring' got right up Draco's nose.
When lunch rolled around, that day, Michael was surprised to see that Neville Longbottom wasn't evident at the Gryffindor table and Malfoy was strutting and looking smug. Rather than sitting down at the Ravenclaw table, Michael went over the Gryffindors. "What happened?" he asked Ron drily.
The redhead rolled his eyes. "Neville fell off his broom," he said. "He broke his wrist. And Malfoy ran off with the Rememberall Neville's gran sent him this morning."
"Neville's gran sent Malfoy a Rememberall?" Michael asked. "What's a Rememberall, anyway?"
"She sent it to Neville," Ron explained. "It's a little glass thing – it goes red if you've forgotten something."
"Ah," Michael said understanding. His gran was – had been – always rather miffed if he forgot about birthdays or the like. Doubtless, Mrs Longbottom was trying to 'subtly' hint that Neville wasn't meeting her expectations in that area. Then Michael frowned. "What did Malfoy do with it?"
"He hid it somewhere," Ron said. "Otherwise we'd be able to get it back for him."
Michael shrugged. "Oh, that's quite easily solved," he said. "Hang fire a moment."
Turning around he walked past the Hufflepuff table, and then past the Ravenclaw table, aware that eyes at the bottom of the Gryffindor table were fixed on him.
"So, Draco," he said cheerily. "Reduced to petty theft are you? Malfoy coffers a little dry? Don't think a Rememberall will raise all that much though – couple of weeks worth of sweeties at most, the way you go through them."
All this was said quite loudly and clearly, with the effect that almost half the Great Hall went absolutely silent and the older students also began to quiet as they wondered what had happened at the other end of the room.
Malfoy went red in the face. "I'm not a thief!" he snapped. "And there's nothing at all wrong with the Malfoy money!"
"There's just not as much of it as there used to be," Michael responded with feigned sympathy. "Now be a good little boy and return what you've nicked – all of it," he added as an afterthought. "You wouldn't want anyone to have to go through your stuff to check, who knows how many bits of 'missing' property might have gotten there by some totally innocent circumstance."
There was a screech from one of the Slytherin girls. "My earring!" she shrieked. "I thought I'd just lost it – give it back Malfoy!"
"I haven't got your stupid earring!" the boy snarled, turning upon her with a furious expression on his face.
"What is going on here!" Professor McGonagall snapped, having come down along the table to find the source of the disturbance.
"Potter's calling me thief!" Malfoy shouted.
"You took Neville Longbottom's Rememberall this morning," Michael said patiently. "It doesn't belong to you, Draco, and that's called theft. Don't you know anything?"
"Is this true?" McGonagall demanded of Malfoy.
"It is!" the blonde girl who'd mentioned her earring, said, earning glares from her House-mates. "And he must have been taking other things, because my earring went missing a few days ago!"
"I have no idea where your stupid earring is!" Malfoy replied bitterly.
Michael simply smirked and said nothing as Malfoy lost ten points from Slytherin, earned a detention with the Head of Gryffindor and was taken away by Professor Snape to fetch the Rememberall and have his trunk checked for other missing items.
"And why didn't you come straight to a Professor about this?" Professor McGonagall said repressively to Michael.
He shrugged. "I thought you would know – it was in front of most of the first year Gryffindors and Slytherins. I just figured I should give him a chance to return the Rememberall himself. I had no idea that there might have been anything else taken."
As it turned out, there was nothing else taken. When Malfoy and Snape returned to the hall, the blond boy grudgingly passed the Rememberall to McGonagall for safe-keeping and Snape handed the girl, Daphne Greengrass, an earring with an acid comment that she should have searched more diligently for it as he had used a simple locating charm to find the missing jewellery under her bed.
After that, the flying lesson itself was anti-climatic. After a little practise, Michael proved reasonably adept on a broom but didn't find any particular entertainment in it, so he wasn't among the students groaning protests when they had to relinquish the brooms to return for dinner.
As he walked into the Great Hall, Ron waved in greeting and actually left his food to meet him – an astonishing act of his part, Ron was very fond of his food. Before he could say anything however, another voice spoke.
"You think you're so tough, Potter," Draco Malfoy spat, standing with Crabbe and Goyle behind him and blocking the pair from the Ravenclaw table. "Hiding behind teachers, like you did?"
"It's a little smarter than hiding behind daddikins," Michael said cheerfully. "And quite a bit brighter than hiding behind your pet cave trolls over there. Hi Greg, hi Vinnie," he added, waving to the two hulking boys in the sure and certain knowledge that with the High Table full of teachers, neither of them could do more than crack their knuckles and scowl.
"I'd take you on anytime on my own," said Malfoy. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel."
Michael cracked his own knuckles.
"Wands only," Malfoy said hastily. "No contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"
"Of course he has," said Ron, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"
Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up. "Crabbe," he said. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."
Michael snorted. "I don't feel like waiting," he said loudly. "You want a duel then we do it right here, right now."
His voice didn't carry all that far, but it carried far enough. "What do you mean?" Hermione Granger said loudly. "You can't fight a duel!"
Heads around the hall and Professor McGonagall got up and began walking down the Gryffindor table.
"Malfoy challenged me," Michael said still speaking loudly. "Surely such an upstanding Slytherin wouldn't suggest anything against the rules."
"Duelling most certainly is against the rules," McGonagall said firmly. "What is going on here? Can't you and Mr Malfoy get along for even one meal, Mr Potter? This is twice just today that I've had to step in."
Michael shrugged. "He's the one making trouble. I'd never even heard of a wizard's duel until he suggested it."
"It takes two to fight, Mr Potter," McGonagall replied, her eyes narrowing slightly although her voice remained matter-of-fact. "Now go to your tables, all of you. I shall speak to Professor Snape and Professor Flitwick about your behaviour."
Michael and Draco glared at each other as they walked towards the Slytherin tables, Ron heading in the opposite direction, towards the Gryffindors.
Padma shook her head as Michael sat down opposite her. "She's right, Hal," she told him. "You and Malfoy are always fighting – I heard you punched him on the Hogwarts Express as well. You can't just go on doing that – the Malfoys are a very old family and they're very powerful."
"What's he going to do?" Michael asked. "Get his dad to have my dad fired from his job or something? Might be a teeny bit difficult."
"But think about the points you'll lose Ravenclaw if you keep fighting – you're being really selfish."
Michael glared at her. "I'm being selfish?" he asked incredulously, leaning forward over the table. "You're perfectly okay with Malfoy getting away with being a thieving bully as long as he doesn't bother you but I'm being selfish. And Professor McGonagall reckons 'it takes two to fight' so we should just leave him to get on with it. No wonder Voldemort got away with all this crap – evidently no one was willing to stand up to him in case there was a fight or someone docked them points. Gryffindor courage doesn't seem to go very far, does it?"
His voice had been rising steadily as he spoke and silence had fallen over the Hall after Michael snarled the name 'Voldemort'.
"Five points from Ravenclaw." Professor McGonagall's voice was frosty as she spoke. None of the students had seen her return, too intent upon watching Michael. "A great many wizards and witches died fighting the Dark Lord, Mr Potter," she added, her voice quieter but every word pronounced with cutting precision. "Among them, your parents."
"And you seem intent on making sure no one ever fights back again," Michael snorted, rising from his seat to face her. "Since you evidently seem to think no one should stand up to a bully, oh mighty Head of Gryffindor."
"Your professors will deal with such matters," she told him flatly, lips pressed firmly together, eyes locked on his own. "Now sit down or you will cost Ravenclaw even more points."
Michael put one foot on the bench and shoved his dishes back so that he could sit on the table. "Really?" he asked sarcastically. "Professors will stand up for their students and make sure they aren't bullied? Maybe you should ask yourself, Professor McGonagall, why didn't anyone go to you? There were more than a dozen students witness to Malfoy being a theiving git, half of them from your house. But how many told a Professor? Apparently none of them. Do you have any idea whey they might not have any faith you'd do anything? Maybe they think you'd slap them down like you just tried to do me."
There was a cough from the high table and McGonagall turned to see Albus Dumbledore looking at them through his glasses. "Detention," she snapped, eyes glinting like chips of glacial ice in a face rigid with disapproval. "My office, immediately after dinner."
"I'll be there," Michael replied quietly as the Professor stalked away.
.oOo.
The other Ravenclaws seemed surprised that Michael had any appetite at all for his dinner. Most of them were merely picking at the meal, but Michael ate heartily. As he pointed to older students who approached him with horror stories about McGonagall's detentions, even a man condemned to die is entitled to a last meal.
He lingered a little over pudding, admitting privately to himself that he was putting off the detention as long as he could, but when Professor McGonagall left the high table and went up the stairs to her office, not far from the transfiguration classroom, she found Michael leaning against the wall by the door, a small book open in his hands and a short length of crimson ribbon wrapped around two fingers. Looking up as he heard her approach, the boy used the ribbon to mark his place and the book vanished into the folds of his robe. He said nothing, only standing straight as she reached the door.
Silently, her eyes still icy, the Professor gestured to the door, and there was a clearly audible click as the lock turned. A moment later, the heavy oak door swung open, just in time for her to enter without breaking stride. Without prompting, Michael followed her inside standing just far enough inside for the door to swing closed behind him. The sound of the door hitting the frame sounded very loud as compared to the silence between the room's two occupants.
Still they said nothing, although McGonagall seated herself behind a large desk heaped high with neatly ordered scrolls and a rack of scrolls and bottles of ink in various colours. For his part, Michael removed his glasses, wiped the lenses with the hem of his robe's sleeve and placed them back upon his nose.
"On one level, Mr. Potter," she said at last, "This feels very familiar." There was no yield in her voice, only an intentness. "Your father, along with his partners-in-crime, found themselves stood very much where you are now far too often for my liking and or theirs. There are, however, certain differences." Her eyes flicked down to the Ravenclaw tie that Michael wore.
Michael said nothing, meeting her gaze calmly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Even now, Mr Potter, you do not seem to think that you have done anything wrong," McGonagall stated.
"I was rather… provocative with that 'mighty Head of Gryffindor' bit," Michael said thoughtfully. "Aside from that? No, not really." There was a bite of challenge to the last sentence.
McGonagall raised one eyebrow. "So," she said frostily. "Deriding the efforts of those who spent their lives fighting against tyranny is not wrong? Undermining the authority of the teaching staff is acceptable? Publically disputing a Head of House's concern for her students is unimportant? I would not wish," she said cuttingly, "to misunderstand your position."
"May I defend myself against your assertions?" Michael said, eyes blazing, voice soft and angry.
McGonagall inclined her head fractionally. "The floor is yours, Mr. Potter."
Michael returned the gesture with slight bow. "The remark that you interpret as 'deriding the efforts of those who fought against tyranny'," he said, in a lecturing tone of voice that did not sound at all that of an eleven year old boy. "Was an indirect response to your previous statement that 'it takes two to fight'. You were, if I recall, admonishing me for not letting Draco Malfoy do and say whatever he pleases, even if he is a thief and a bigoted bully. The parallel I was drawing was that if your assertion is correct then no one should have tried to stop Voldemort from doing whatever he pleased, even if he did kill people. If it takes 'two to fight', then what happens when one person attacks somone and they don't fight back? Because I think the one who doesn't fight is going to get clobbered and it won't matter if everyone says they were a good person if they're dead. Lots of people – like my parents, as you yourself told me - fought Voldemort they because it was the right thing to do and you're the one who derided them, Professor McGonagall – very publically – when you said that they shouldn't fight for what's right because fighting is bad. You're supposed to be the courageous one, but you're teaching people to grovel to tyranny, not to fight it. If me saying that to someone in my House offends you, then that's tough – it's a free country and I can say what I think if I want to."
Professor McGonagall's eyes had widened as she heard what looked like an eleven year old boy turn her own accusation back upon her, using simplisitic but remorseless logic. Her gaze was still cold but behind the mask of her face, she saw the image of James Potter she had overlaid upon Hal Potter shatter. The elder Potter could never have employed such a tactic – for the most part because he had, at some level, recognised that he was guilty of wrongdoing when he was punihsed, even if that knowledge hadn't stopped him.
Hal… Hal didn't seem to care. With a sudden insight she realised that neither loss of points nor fear of detention had swayed him. Only her interpretation of his actions had stung him. And Minerva McGonagall had to wonder what had shaped him to be so much older than his years, not realising that behind those green eyes was a mind somewhat older and far more seasoned than that of Harold James Potter.
"As for the authority of the teaching staff, I would be very interested in hearing how I have undermined it? I do not recall disputing at any point whatsoever your right to give orders, assign punishment or carry out any other function as a teacher. I may have discussed whether or not a Professor acted correctly in any of those roles, but that is entirely different from suggesting that they are not authorised to do so. And if you mean to say that I undermined the respect that Professors are entitled to, you have the right to command obedience in some matters. Respect on the other hand, is for you to earn. Or lose." Michael folded his arms across his chest and glared. "If you don't like having your integrity questioned, perhaps you should answer some of the questions that I asked you in the Great Hall. Why didn't your House approach you about Neville's Rememberall being nicked? Because if your students don't believe that you care, then that's a pretty serious problem. And if you don't like having your failings made public, well I don't like having my family discussed in public. Do as you would be done by, Professor. Do as you would be done by."
It had been a very very long time since Minerva McGonagall had seen red. Fortunately, decades of self-control kept her from saying anything. Because it was very nearly that long since she had felt so humiliated. No first year student should ever take that tone with a Professor. And they should never, under any circumstances, be right to do so.
"I see," she said flatly and for a long moment there was silence between them, the words hanging in the air.
"Your arguments have merit, Mr. Potter," she said finally. "The points loss will stand – as is appropriate for the unacceptable tone of your language towards a professor at dinner. However, I shall not detain you further. Return to your common room."
Michael considered that for a moment and then decided not to press his luck. He bowed his head and departed, the door closing and locking behind him although the Head of Gryffindor House had not left her seat.
As a result, he did not see Minerva McGonagall open her desk drawer to remove a small bottle of firewhiskey and a bowl. She poured a dram into the bowl and a moment later a cat was sat on the desk, lapping delicately at the bowl's contents.
.oOo.
The common room was a buzz when Michael opened the door and slipped inside. No one was looking in his direction so he stepped quietly to one side. One of the tables was covered with a length of parchment that had been divided into sections. In each section was a list of names and a small stack of knuts and sickles.
The boy scratched his chin for a moment and then moved further around the edge of the room to pull a small volume out from one of the bookshelves, carefully keeping his face turned away from the rest of the room. Ah yes, he thought he'd remembered there being a spell for this situation. With a grin he tapped his spectacles once, twice and then a third time, mumbling a phrase that he was only half-sure he pronounced correctly. The bookshelf in front of him immediately leapt into gargantuan scale and he had to push the glasses down his nose to be sure that he was no closer than he had been a moment before.
Turning, he cast a sidelong look at the table and stiffled a chuckle. Each of the sections was scribbled with some terrible fate that might befall him in his detention. Some of them were quite creative and just about every member of the house had put a few coins down to judge by the number of bets on the table. There was one section that hadn't been wagered upon however. The part marked 'escapes unscathed' was innocent of any coins or names.
The part labelled 'expulsion' was a hot favourite however.
With a slight grin, Michael cancelled the spell and edged over towards the stairs up to the dormitories. However, before he reached them he spotted Lisa Turpin sat in the alcove around one of the fireplaces. Oddly, she hadn't made any bet that he'd seen. Changing his plan to something rather more rewarding, he slipped into the alcove raising one finger to his lips before the girl could say anything.
"Not getting in on the action?" he asked softly.
Lisa shrugged, masking embarassment with unconcern. "My parents are muggles, remember?" she whispered. "I don't have any wizarding money to bet with."
Michael nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a knut. "Well, maybe we can do something about that. I'll lend you a knut," he offered. "For a half share of anything you win by betting on 'excaped unscathed'."
Lisa's eyes lit up and she grabbed the coin, dashing out of the alcove. "I want to make a bet," she half-shouted, pushing through the crowd around the table.
"It needs to be wizarding money, Lisa," Michael heard Morag tell the girl.
"I borrowed a knut," Lisa said indignantly. "And I want to bet it here!" She slapped the knut down on the table.
There was a brief pause and then a ripple of chuckles. "Haven't you had a Transfiguration class yet?" asked Roger Davies. "There's no chance he'll get away lightly after what he said to Professor McGonagall."
There was a brief pause and then, just when Michael was beginning to worry, Lisa replied. "I've had lots more classes with Hal and I think he's too clever to get into any of the trouble you've all bet on."
"It's your money," Roger replied. "Well, I suppose it isn't yours actually – good luck repaying it by the way."
Michael made a mental note that Roger was a creep and stepped casually out of the fireplace alcove. "Repay what?" he asked innocently.
"Hal!" shouted Terry from the far side of the table. "When did you get back?"
"Just now," Michael lied. "What's all the fuss about."
"Oh, just a little game," Terry replied. "How did your detention go?" he asked with studied casualness.
Michael's eyes glittered. "Oh, no big. We had a little chat and then she told me she'd decided what I said didn't merit a detention after all. Very civilised." He paused. "Why do you ask?"
A chorus of groans went up along the table and Penelope Clearwater began to roll up the parchment, sliding the coins along it to join the solitary knut at the end. "Well guessed, Lisa," she said. Quite cheerfully, as she'd only bet a single knut herself.
The rest of Ravenclaw were less cheerful about the outcome but couldn't exactly make an issue about it with Michael right there with them. "Oh, just wondering," Terry mumbled.
.oOo.
September turned into October, as it has a habit of doing, and October made it's way towards November. It hadn't quite ended, however, when Halloween rolled around. Michael had never had much time for Halloween – he much preferred Guy Fawkes where there would be a bonfire and fireworks rather than trick or treaters. Oddly enough, there didn't seem to be much actually magical about Halloween at Hogwarts although there was to be a small measure of celebration – decorations in the Great Hall and a special Halloween feast.
Given that Halloween was the night before All Hallows and was reputedly a very 'witchy' night, Michael was a trifle disappointed. However, there was still schoolwork to do, and he still had a good selection of books to read, so he just got on with it. Maybe if he got the chance over Christmas he could pick up some Legos. It would be a mite expensive but he rather missed the collection that he'd built up over the years back at home.
Michael was late to get to dinner that night. He'd seen the Halloween decorations already, and he'd had a good lunch so when the other first year boys left the dormitory, he remained curled up on his bed, one of his paperbacks out and entirely engrossed.
As a result, it wasn't until he reached the end of the chapter that he realised that it was very quiet. Usually Terry, Michael (Corner) and Anthony were chattering away in the room as they got ready for dinner. Tonight however… He looked around and realised he was alone and the clock on the wall was pointing to dinnertime.
"Oi!" he squeaked indignantly and then recalled that Terry had said something, but he'd not really been paying attention… "Oh."
With a sigh, Michael put a bookmark in his book and put it back in his bag before jumping off his bed and scurrying for the door. With a bit of luck he'd be able to get to the feast before it was over and at least he'd have something to eat then, even if the others did tease him a bit for being late.
He'd got about halfway when heard voices from ahead and realised that the other students must already be on their way back. "Oh blast," he muttered and looked around for a moment, then headed for a different staircase. Perhaps there would still be food on the tables he could take, or he could try to get into the kitchens. He had just turned a corner when he heard footsteps from behind him.
Turning, Michael spotted Snape coming down the corridor. Fortunately, the Potions professor was looking over his shoulder at that moment and Michael ducked into an alcove and wrapped his cloak around him. For Snape to find him on his own would undoubtedly lead to another confrontation, which Michael wasn't in the mood for. He remained in the alcove and Snape walked right past him, striding purposefully along, his black robes billowing dramatically around him.
After a moment Michael stuck his head out of the alcove and saw that Snape had taken another turning and vanished down it. With a sigh, he continued on his way but he had onlyu gone a short distance when his nose wrinkled and he paused. "What the hell is that?" he muttered as a disgusting stench wafted along the corridor. It was fouler than anything he'd smelt in his life.
The smell was followed by the sound of someone – or something – grunting, and then heavy, shambling footsteps. At the end of the corridor he could see the shadows move as something huge passed between the windows and the wall. Michael gulped and looked for another alcove. He couldn't find one that was handy, but there was a door right next to him and he quickly threw it open, ducked inside and then closed as quickly but quietly as he could manage.
"Wha- what are you doing here?" protested a loud and unwelcome voice.
Michael groaned as he realised that he'd just picked the girl's bathroom as a hiding place. And worse – it was occupied by none other than Hermione Granger. "Shush!" he whispered, holding his finger to his lips.
"Don't you shush me, Hal Potter," she replied loudly, her bossy tone at odds with the red around her eyes. She'd been crying, Michael realised, but he had no time to consider that for a tremendous force pushed against the door behind him and he was slowly being driven back as the door opened inexorably.
Giving it up as a lost cause, he leapt forwards, letting the door slam open behind him and brought out his wand, whirling as he reached Hermione, who cringed at his approach and then blanched as she saw the troll.
It was a horrible sight, three times as tall as either of them and at least ten times as massive, a great lumpy body on short, stumpy legs and covered with grey skin like an elephants. It was evidently the source of the smell, which didn't seem to trouble it at all as it waggled it's long ears while it examined the two of them with beady little eyes. It was almost superfluous that the troll carried a troll – it would hardly need it to crush either one of the two first years – its fists alone were almost as large as them.
Hermione made an odd little whining noise and began to back slowly towards the far wall. The troll fixed it's gaze upon her and then began to follow, it's shuffling pace matching the girl's speed exactly. Michael gulped as the troll's club, all but forgotten in it's hand, brushed against one of the sinks and shattered the porcelin basin. "Stop…?" he said weakly. The troll, unsurprisingly, didn't obey.
"I didn't think so," he sighed and reached into his robes again, pulling out the potion that he'd been working on in the storeroom fof the Ravenclaw common room that had been set up as a basic potions laboratory years and years ago for students wanting to practise their skills. He'd not had time to test it yet but he'd put a vial in his pocket earlier in the day – he'd been thinking of testing it on one of the chickens that were kept at Hogwarts to provide fresh eggs – and never taken it out when the opportunity arose.
Now it seemed that this was the opportunity, but he'd never expected to test it on himself. Still he was fairly sure he'd got it right. With a fair approximation of brash confidence he took two steps back, uncapped the vial and drained it entirely.
It tasted rather like liquid fire would, he decided as his limbs began to spasm and he fell to the floor, clutching at his throat. Blood thundered in his ears and he thought he could hear Hermione shout his name ('Hal' rather than his real name, of course). He choked out a cough and blinked as the breath scorched the stones beneath him.
"Hal!" Hermione shrieked again. "Get back!"
Rolling aside, Michael felt the stone floor actually shake as the Troll's foot crashed down right where his head had been a moment before. The troll stared down at him and Michael stared back. Then the heavy club descended upon him.
Hermione screamed and covered her eyes.
"Bad troll," Michael said in a rather shaky voice. He had instinctively held up his hands to ward off the blow and rather to his surprise had managed to stop the club without any great effort. "Bad troll," he repeated and then, rather inanely he felt in retrospect, added: "No biscuit."
The troll lifted the club to try again and Michael, not having released his grip, was hoisted into the air, dangling helplessly from it as he realised that superhuman strength was of remarkably little use when he didn't have any leverage to work with.
"AAAAHHH!" he screamed as the club descended and let go, landing heavily and scrambling back from the impact of the club (which cracked the stone floor in places).
With Michael apparently neutralised, the Troll roared, the sound shaking the windows of the bathroom, and started towards Hermione, who huddled underneath a sink and hid her face in her hands.
Michael gathered his wits and pulled out his wand as the Troll raised its club in preparation for smashing through the sink and reducing Hermione to a bloody pulp. He didn't know any spells that could stop the club itself, he realised, so instead he aimed the wand at the troll's beady eyes and sent sparks darting at them.
The troll screamed in pain and raised it's hands to protect it's face from the torrent of gold and blue sparks that were shooting at it. Forgetting entirely about Hermione, the beast dropped its club, which crashed down just short of the sink, missing Hermione by only a couple of inches.
"Crap," Michael muttered – it was entirely too dangerous to keep fighting in these confined quarters, he or Hermione could be hurt entirely by accident with the troll flailing around as it was.
With that in mind, he charged forwards, hoping that the troll would keep it's hands up for a moment longer, and kicked it firmly in the ankle. With a distressed look on it's face, the Torll began to howl in a discordant voice, hopping as it stopped clutching it's face in favour of shielding it's abused ankle from more attacks by wrapping it's stubby fingers around the joint. Michael took advantage of this reaction by shoulder-barging the beast as firmly as he could, sending it staggering to land in a sitting posture on the floor.
The troll, by this time rather annoyed, rolled over onto all fours and began to the heave itself up to it's feet. With a great war cry, Michael charged, putting one foot on the troll's already injured ankle and leapt up onto the Troll's back, clambering to reach the neck. Howling with pain, the Troll reached back to it's ankle, giving Michael the moment he needed to climb it's back, and then reared up to its feet. Michael, in danger of being flung off, wrapped his arms around the troll's neck and hung on for dear life.
The troll staggered, huge hands clutching at it's throat, unable to secure a hold on something as small as Michael's forearms when they were pressed so closely into the flesh of the beast's neck. For his part Michael was almost choking with revulsion at pressing his face into the troll, but it was the only way he could get close enough to lock his arms around it's neck. Grimly, he tightened his grip, feeling cartilage giving way under the steady pressure.
With a grunt that Hermione rather thought was intended to be a scream, the troll gathered itself and threw itself violently backwards. Evidently, it was trying to crush Michael against the wall, but as it was unable to see behind itself, by pure chance the two of them crashed into the wooden door to the corridor, which shattered under the impact of the two bodies.
There was a horrid crunch and Hermione screamed, imagining Michael smashed to bits against the wall opposite.
As it happened, she had the location correct – Michael lost hold of the Troll as it fell to the floor in the corridor and fell backwards onto the floor, rolling to wind up sat with his back against the wall. With a groan he shook his head and then winced, reaching back to touch the back of his head where he'd bumped it painfully against the hard stone of the castle wall.
Looking up he saw the troll sprawled on the floor, laid on one side with it's eyes closed. It didn't seem inclined to move, which was good news because right at the moment Michael wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to move, at least until the castle stopped spinning.
Loud footsteps came crashing down the corridor and he looked up cautiously to see three Professors round the corner. They paused when the saw the troll and one of them clutched at his chest and leant heavily against the wall. Doing so brought his turban into sight, revealing him to be Professor Quirell. The other two hurried up, passing through the light from a window that let Michael identify them as Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall.
Snape ignored Michael, kneeling beside the troll to examine it, but McGonagall stood over the boy. The look on her face as she looked down at him was one Michael recognised from their earlier confrontation. "What on earth were you thinking of?" she demanded between pinched white lips. "You're lucky you weren't killed. Why aren't you in the Ravenclaw dormitory?"
Michael blinked up at her from his seated position. "I… wasn't aware I should be," he said mildly. "I'll grant you I'd probably have safer if I had been but how could I know there was a troll wandering around?" Then he looked down at the troll and saw Snape look up at him with a piercing glance. "And it's a good job I was here, or you'd be missing a Gryffindor," he added, gesturing to Hermione, who was peeking nervously out of the door of the girl's toilets.
"Miss Granger!" exclaimed McGonagall.
"I don't believe that Hermione knew anything about the Troll either," Michael said quietly. "Perhaps you could tell me why you believe we should have known?"
"Were either of you at dinner?" the Deputy-Headmistress asked. Both children shook their heads and she sighed. "Well – in that case, no, you couldn't have known. Now – are either of you hurt at all?"
They shook their heads.
"That is extremely fortunate," she said sternly. "I hope you understand that even thinking of tackling a mountain troll on your own was a very foolish thing to do Mr. Potter."
"It was something of a last resort," Michael said, rising to his feet. "I was only in the toilets at all because it was the nearest room to hide in."
"Well," she said, rather more graciously, "You were still lucky, but not many first years could take on -"
"Kill," Snape said flatly.
"Kill?" McGonagall said in surprise.
"It's dead," Snape said silkily. "Mr Potter seems to have broken it's neck. Very forceful of him."
Michael looked at him steadily. "I wasn't particularly trying to do that," he said quietly. "But I won't shed any tears either. It wouldn't have spared either of us."
"Nonetheless, you have won Ravenclaw five points, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sternly, "And I shall advise Professor Dumbledore of this. You should go to your dormitories now, the rest of the feast has been taken to them so you should be able to have your dinners there."
Michael nodded and turned towards the stairs. As he took the first few steps, Hermione fell in beside him. She flushed angrily at his quizzical look. "The Gryffindor tower is in this direction," she snapped. "Don't worry, I won't bother you."
"Eh?" Michael said puzzled. "What do you mean, bother?"
The look of anger on Hermione's face shifted into one of embarassment. "Sorry," she said. "It's just… well, no one seems to want me around."
"Not got many friends myself," Michael replied amicably. "I'm just not the sort of person who does."
"I don't have any," Hermione said and sniffed.
Michael gave her a puzzled look. "Well, surely at home…?"
Hermione shook her head and said nothing.
Scratching his forehead, Michal looked at her for a moment and tried to think of something to do or say. "Er… would you rather be happy, or right?" he asked, after a moment.
"What?" Hermione asked, confused by the change of topic.
"Would you rather be happy," Michael repeated. "Or right? Someone wrote that somewhere and I was thinking, Malfoy wants to be right about that pureblood stuff so much that he does things that make him unhappy because they get him into trouble. And my -" He caught himself before he said Mum, reminding himself that Harry Potter's Mum wasn't the same person. "- well, someone I know, always wants to do things her way and have everyone else do them her way too and she's always arguing, and pushing people, 'cause being right matters to her. But not everyone's like that – I'm not, I don't really care about being right as long as I can get along, so I'd rather be happy than right."
Hermione thought about that for a moment. Before they parted ways, she asked: "Do you mean I should be more like you?"
Michael shrugged. "No, just remember that some people are. And we don't like getting poked when we're happy."
He grinned and then left her at the turning, still thinking about what he had said to her.
.oOo.
The next morning, at breakfast, Michael greeted Hermione by raising his mug in salute and grinning across the Hall at her. She flushed and raised her own cup in reply and smiled shyly.
.oOo.
Michael wasn't surprised to discover that Hogwarts got very chilly as November rolled around. He realled it being moderately nippy down in the borders between Scotland and England, which he'd visisted on holidays around this time of year, and Hogwarts was a great deal further north, he suspected. The countryside outside Hogwarts was all grey, with the leafs off many of the trees and the lake reflecting a sky that was solid clouds. Even this early in the year, the ground was frosty and cold.
Naturally this meant that the sporting season had begun. After all, why race around in the pleaseant weather when you can do so in the freezing cold? Almost any moment that there wasn't a class, one of another of the House teams would be out on the pitch training. The sessions were almost always restricted entirely to members of the respective Houses, but there was often a strong array of hangers on and spectators.
Ravenclaw took advantage of this by organising (or perhaps the word was drafting) scratch teams of students to pit against the House team, to get as much practise as possible. It wasn't until after Michael spent a couple of rather wearying evenings trying to keep the Quaffle out of the goals that he noticed that the team had gone out of their way to make sure that all the first years had some time on the pitch, even though they would be less likely to put up any serious opposition. From there he quickly deduced that the team were discreetly scouting the first year for potential players over the next couple of years.
Once that was clear he simply declined all ploys to get him onto the pitch by declaring his complete, total and adamant disinterest in the sport and was able to stay inside where it was still quite cosy and much quieter with so many of the other students outside chasing balls on household cleaning implements.
The day before the first Quidditch match took place, Michael was sitting with Hermione in the courtyard, cold as it was, waiting for Ron to get back from watching the Gryffindor team practise. Hermione and Ron weren't terribly friendly, but they were at least on better terms than they had been – Michael had had some firm words with Ron when he found out why Hermione had spent most of a day crying in the girl's toilets. And since they were both friends with Michael and both in the same House they had, by default, found themselves interacting more and more.
Today Hermione was buried in Quidditch Through the Ages and would occasionally regale Micheal with little known facts such as that there were seven hundred possible fouls and that there had actually been a match five hundred years ago where every last one of the had been committed. Michael thought that that was overachieving. Although given that tomorrow's match would pit Gryffindor against Slytherin in what was apparently something of a grudgematch, it might be applicable.
He himself was reading through a battered copy of Swallows and Amazons that he'd picked up in the summer, missing his dad's complete collection of the books. He was just getting to one of the good bits when Snape limped into the courtyard. He paused when he saw Michael and Hermione and then turned to approach them, apparently looking for a reason to tell them off.
"What's that you've got there, Potter?"
Michael held hup his book so that Snape could see the cover. It was an old hardback binding, not so different from any other book in the school – not obviously muggle which he supposed would have automatcially set Snape off.
"Library books are not to be taken outside the school," said Snape. "Give it to me. Five points from Ravenclaw."
"It's not the library's book," Michael replied. "It's mine."
"And I suppose that your book is not Hogwarts property?" Snape asked Hermione archly. Naturally, he did not retract the points-taking. "Hand it over."
"And I suppose that you can show us that rule in the writing?" Michael intervened as Hermione seemed unwilling to confront a Professor over a supposed rules violation. She'd loosened up a little but was still rather more concientious about them than Michael.
Snape glared down at him. "Angling for expulsion?" he asked silkily.
"I'd love to hear you explain that to the Headmaster," Michael shot back. "Or the Governors. Expelled for breaking a rule that exists only in your head? Rather a weak argument, even by your standards."
Snape glared and then limped away angrily.
"I wonder what he did to his leg," Hermione said.