Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother: Yuletide Attack

DISCLAIMER: Harry Potter, its characters, its background, and its plot are the creation of JK Rowling and are the property of JK Rowling, Wizarding World, and Warner Brothers. I do not own them.

This story is written for my personal amusement and ego gratification and also because I dislike Harry Potter Dramione pairings. If you are enjoying this story, please write and post a review. I do claim Tristan Woodbine, his family, and other OCs, so please leave them alone.

Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother*Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother*Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother

The remainder of our Fall Term was worrisome, despite the fact that school gossip designated Harry Potter as the Heir-Apparent of Slytherin. Not that I believed that he was: my occasional encounters with The Boy Who Lived did not cause me to believe that he was likely to step into Voldemort's or Grindelwald's shoes. I didn't think that he had what it took to become a dark lord: while I suspected that there might be some well of leadership ability within him, most of the time he seemed to act much like a typical schoolboy, not like a master plotter gathering a core of dedicated followers and scheming to take over Magical Britain and the world beyond.

What was worrisome is that neither the headmaster nor any of the professors had been able to put an end to the attacks or find out who had caused them. I might have wished that Professor Dumbledore had brought down the villains responsible for the attacks, but I was under no illusion that he was either a dodderer or incompetent. It is a given that Slytherins wear many masks, constantly changing them to show friends, enemies, and acquaintances what we wish them to see and despite my callow youth, it had long since dawned on me that the fellow in the headmaster's chair was as every bit as skilled a player as anyone from our house. If he couldn't catch those responsible, things must be more dire than he let on.

My suspicions proved correct: less than a week after the duel between Potter and Malfoy, there was another attack. This time the victims were Sir Nicholas and Jimmy Peterson. You know of Sir Nicholas from Hogwarts, but Jimmy Peterson was a Muggleborn nobody from Hufflepuff. Potter came across the aftermath as he was talking with Finch-Fletchley, another Muggleborn Hufflepuff, but one whose parents had important connections in Muggle society.

I came upon the two second-years moments after the attack. Sir Nicholas was floating gray and motionless a foot above the flagstone floor while Peterson's body was lying rigid on top of it. Peterson's expression was one of shock.

"Bloody hell!" chorused Potter and Finch-Fletchley.

"Did you do it, Potter?" said Finch-Fletchley.

"No, I was in the library, then I was talking with you," Potter replied.

"Well I didn't do it," I said. "I've got better things to do, and besides I have some Muggles in my family tree so I wouldn't do it anyway."

Our sorting out who saw what and who might be to blame was interrupted by Argus Filch. "Caught you in the act, Potter! I'll have you expelled this time!"

"But I didn't!" exclaimed the Boy Who Lived.

"He didn't," said Finch-Fletchley.

"He didn't do it," I said. "Sir Nicholas and the lad on the ground were already down when Potter and this other guy rounded the corner. And for the record, I didn't do it either."

"So was it you?" said Finch-Fletchley.

"Not likely," I replied. "I'm not the bloody heir of Slytherin. I think my Mum and Dad might have clued me in if I were."

Our arguing had attracted a small crowd, mostly younger students, who gaped in horror at Sit Nicholas and young Peterson and started whispering among themselves. Despite the fact that I'd had some run-ins with prefects and one or two with Professors, I'd preferred not to attract their attention, but now I wished one of them would hove into view and keep me from getting mobbed.

I looked around for other details and noted that there was a large puddle of water on the floor and that there was a line of spiders forsaking the warmth and seclusion of the Castle for the danger and the freezing cold outside.

Nobody had pulled their wands yet. That didn't stop me from hoping for rescue. As it was, that was when Professor McGonagall made her appearance.

"Professor, I didn't," said Harry.

"He didn't," said Finch-Fletchley.

"Nor did I," I aid.

"It's out of my hands," said Professor McGonagall. "You three, follow me." We fell in line behind the formidable then-Deputy Headmistress to the great stone gargoyle at foot of the stairs leading to the Headmaster's Tower. I'd never been in so much trouble that I'd been to the Headmaster's Office and despite the fact that I was innocent, I began perspiring. The Professor bid us to stop, then waved her hands at the gargoyle and said "Lemon drop!". The staircase started revolving and we three took places on the stairs one after the other.

The staircase continued to revolve and ascend the shaft leading to the Headmaster's Office. None of us said anything. We paused at the door, wondering whether to knock or go inside. Potter and Finch-Fletchley looked at me expectantly, so to my irritation I was the one who first knocked on the door, then opened it.

The headmaster's office was a revelation: bookshelves, mysterious objects set on tables and cabinets, portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses. We are related to three of them, and I wondered how they'd react to my presence in these circumstances. Potter and Finch-Fletchley gawked shamelessly at Dumbledore's office; I'll have you know that I gawked too.

Potter's attention was drawn by the Sorting Hat, who looked at him, then said "Bee in your bonnet, Potter?".

Potter looked at the hat, then looked at me, then said "Um, yes. I was wondering. I wanted to ask you why you thought I'd be a good fit for Slytherin."

What?! We'd missed getting Harry Potter in Slytherin, I thought.

"You've been wondering whether I'd put you in the right house," the Hat replied. "Yes, you were particularly difficult to place. But I stand by what I said before. You would have done well in Slytherin."

I wondered why Potter didn't accept Slytherin, but only briefly. It must have had something to do with Malfoy and some of the other Pureblooded prats.

"You're wrong," said Potter.

I coughed loudly. "I like where you sorted me," I said, inserting myself into the conversation. Potter fell silent and blushed.

Meanwhile, Finch-Fletchley's attention had been drawn to a decrepit-looking bird sitting on a stand next to Professor Dumbledore's desk. He gave a loud yelp as the bird caught fire.

The door opened and Professor Dumbledore came in.

"I'm sorry, Sir," said Finch-Fletchley, "your bird caught fire. There was nothing I could do."

"About time, too," said Professor Dumbledore. "He's been looking dreadful for days."

The Headmaster chuckled at the expression on Finch-Fletchley's face. "Fawkes is a phoenix. Phoenixes burst into flame when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes."

He gestured to Potter and myself. Curious, we crowded in next to Finch-Fletchley. "Now watch," said Professor Dumbledore. Moments later, a tiny ash-colored chick emerged from the ashes covering the bird stand. "Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make extraordinarily faithful pets."

"So you three are here because of the attack this evening?" he said, changing the subject.

"Yes, sir," said Finch-Fletchley.

Dumbledore looked at the two second-years, then nodded. "I assume that neither of you two had anything to do with it," he said.

"No, sir," said Finch-Fletchley.

"I believe that you are correct," Professor Dumbledore replied.

"And you, Mister Woodbine?" he said. I'd heard that Dumbledore was a powerful Legilimens. I had things I'd rather that the Headmaster didn't know about, but I didn't want to be a suspect in an investigation facing Aurors from the DMLE. The Devil and the deep blue sea, I thought, and made sure that I looked into his eyes.

"No, sir,"

"Do you have any clues?" he said.

"Nothing but speculation with paltry evidence," I said.

"I believe you," Professor Dumbledore replied.

All three of us nodded in relief.

"Well, I believe that the evening is getting late," he said. "All three of you should go back to your dormitories. Mr. Woodbine, escort Mr. Finch-Fletchley back to Hufflepuff, then go to your common room. Mr. Potter, I expect you to go directly to Gryffindor Tower without any side-trips."

"Thank you, Sir," said Potter.

Finch-Fletchley said goodnight to the Headmaster, as did I, and all three turned around to leave. We thought to simply turn around to go when we discovered that Hagrid was blocking the way. He was holding a dead rooster and looked distraught.

Author's notes:

I wrote this chapter as a sort of "fix-it" for Chapter Eleven of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and because I thought that Harry's and Tristan's situation plays like a dark comedy scene for older readers. Also, my adult mind was unable to let go of the belief that the Finch-Fletchleys would meekly submit to the fact that their son had been paralyzed by a monster and accept Professor Dumbledore's reassurances that he'd be cured and spry again after a few months. Fanon and perhaps canon described them not only as well-to-do but also highly-connected in British society. I suspect they'd not only be very upset but also pulling strings not only in Muggle society but also in the Wizarding world to find out what happened to their kid and who was responsible for his condition. So as the sort of stinker I am, I arranged for OC Jimmy Peterson, a Muggle-born wizard from Britain's working classes, to be the fall guy. I admit that it's elitist and unfair, but I suspect that it's also how both British Muggle and British Magical society works.