Chapter 43: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Rejects
March 3rd, 1996
Coming back from the hospital didn't mean that everyone was done convalescing. That took another day or so. But after a slow, quiet Saturday, Hermione was surprised to see Dean so fired up at breakfast the next morning.
"Please tell me you've seen Gargoyles," he pleaded. "Or Power Rangers."
Hermione shook her head, and Dean's eyes widened.
"That's it, next break I'm taking you to my house and we're marathoning everything. I hope you didn't have other plans, because they're now cancelled."
Hermione smiled, taking a few bites of her strawberries. For Dean, television was serious business, and she was surprised and a little pleased how much he wanted to include her. It felt strange, too, since people didn't usually go out of their way to include her in things.
"Watching the telly for all of Spring Break?" she asked, with an impish smile. "What about going outside?"
"Forget that!" said Dean. "You haven't been keeping up with your Muggle studies." He nudged her arm. "Don't worry, I can fix that."
Hermione blushed, and tried to focus on eating breakfast. In spite of herself, she found her eyes straying to the Ravenclaw table. Harry was still suspiciously absent. It worried her, and she resented the fact she was worrying so much, because obviously he didn't care. He'd messaged her once to ask if she was okay, and that was the end of their communication.
She bit her lip, lost in thought and picking at her food. Where was he? Students didn't just disappear into thin air, even the airy Ravenclaws showed up to meals. It wasn't normal. Was he avoiding her, holed up in his lab, or-
Seamus ran over to them, nearly crashing into the table.
"Oi, mind the pancakes!" said Dean, throwing up a protective arm barrier. "It's been three days! Where have you been?"
Seamus dumped pancakes, eggs and bacon onto a plate, drizzling syrup over the entire thing. With a wide, smug grin he declared, "You're looking at the Gryffindor who found the final clue!"
"What final clue…" Dean trailed off. "Wait, you don't mean…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "The Weasley's Secret Stash?"
Seamus just chuckled, taking a victorious bite of bacon pancakes.
Hermione blinked. "Secret stash? What's that?"
Instead of replying, Dean leaped to his feet. "You found the stash and you're eating, Seamus? Someone else might get there first! Come on, let's go!"
All that Gryffindor house had talked about in the last few weeks was the quest for the mythological Weasley's Secret Stash of Magical Items. It was destined for their true successors in Gryffindor, for someone truly worthy to take up their mantle. The twins left clues all around the castle to draw in the contestants, but only the most curious and mischievous would unlock the final secret.
Dean, Seamus and Hermione dashed to the doorway where the final clue waited to be cracked. When they turned the dial on the door, Dean held his breath, heart pounding. He expected to see treasure, fireworks, and a display of magic so mysterious and astonishing that only the Weasleys could pull it off.
Instead, the three of them opened the door to a bare office, the walls and floor containing a simple desk and two chairs, with a banner strung above that said, "Congratulations! You did it!"
"This can't be right," said Seamus, rushing to the desk, opening all the drawers. Dean and Hermione checked for cracks and openings in the walls.
"I found something!" cried Dean, holding up a piece of paper. They rushed over to examine it, Seamus nearly snatching it from Dean's hand, but he jerked it away.
Hermione looked over Dean's shoulder to read the letter, and he adjusted himself so she could see it better.
Dear Contestants,
Congratulations for solving the final riddle! You are truly worthy of the Weasley's Secret Stash. Unfortunately, we had need of the supplies, so we took the stash away to a secure location. As a consolation prize, you may look through our pile of items in progress! Perhaps you can succeed where we couldn't? Happy pranking!
"This is total bollocks!" cried Seamus, kicking a chair.
Dean couldn't help feeling a little betrayed as well, but it did make some kind of karmic sense that this would be their last prank.
They found the "box of items in progress" in a secret compartment in the desk. The boys pulled out the items and examined them.
"Lizard cream, squelch surprise, burping balloons…these aren't items in progress!" cried Seamus, throwing the box into Dean's arms. "They're rejects! They just gave us their failures!"
Dean grimaced, remembering the time the Weasleys had left a "squelch surprise" in the Gryffindor common room. He gave it a wide berth when examining the other objects.
Hermione frowned. "Err…why is that balloon expanding?"
"Seamus, stop cursing in Gaelic, you're setting off the balloons!"
"I cannot believe," Seamus cried. "That I saved up all my Christmas money for their trading card collection!" He stormed out of the room. "I'm going to burn it all, those wankers!"
Dean set down the box with a sigh. He debated going after Seamus, but noticed Hermione searching the walls in confusion. "Something wrong?" he asked.
"This place," said Hermione. "It feels…familiar? Like I've been here before. Or somewhere like it, anyway."
"Huh. Well, it's possible, if you ever snuck into Gryffindor tower," said Dean.
Hermione shrugged and started rummaging through the reject items. "Gaelic makes the balloons expand?" she asked, stretching one of them.
"Anything does, mostly. It was supposed to be that if you puffed once into a balloon, it would fill up with air. But when they tried them at Ginny's birthday party, the balloons blew up with the slightest provocation, and eventually burst."
"Not very useful, then," said Hermione, setting the balloon aside and rummaging through the box. "What are these black shoes for?"
Dean smiled. "They're supposed to make you a better dancer for the Yule Ball. But the results were…inconsistent. You could always give them to Harry so he doesn't step…" He saw her tense at his name, and he stopped. "Sorry." There was an awkward pause. "Is he feeling better? I haven't seen him."
She shrugged. "Neither have I, but I think he's fine. As for your other comment, he would probably rather stand in a pit of scorpions than go dancing."
"Well, he's missing out," said Dean. "The planning committee is putting a lot of effort into this event, and I think it's actually going to be a pretty fun party."
"Hmm. You'll have to tell me all about it."
"You're not going?"
She shrugged and rubbed her neck, and Dean wondered at how Harry could keep this friend of his around and not…like…buy her a necklace, or something? How could he be so blind?
As she kept rummaging through the box, Dean thought hard about what to do next.
"So, umm, dancing is fun," said Dean. "Also, did you know they have food at the dance?"
"Yes, I figured they would."
"So, umm…you and me…we could go get some free food and dance together, you know?"
"Huh?" said Hermione.
Dean took a deep breath. "I mean, would you like to go to the dance with me?"
There was silence for a few heartrending moments.
…as a friend! His mind screamed to add, and it took all his strength of will to hold back. He didn't want to go as friends, and he couldn't bear to lie, though he imagined if she rejected him he would probably die anyway.
Hermione blushed. She smiled, the way he'd always hoped a girl would smile at him. "Yes, let's go together."
Neville walked in trepidation towards his doom.
He'd been holding off, coming up with excuses. Telling himself it wasn't time yet, that he just needed a few more days to work on his pitch.
But now there really was no more time. Everyone knew that Dean and Hermione were going to the dance together, and now Neville had to step it up. Let his inner Gryffindor come out.
Raising his hand, Neville knocked on the door to the Ravenclaw dorms. To the 4th year that answered, Neville stuttered, "Can I speak to Luna, please?"
"Oh, hello Neville," she said, blinking owlishly from her reading spot on the sofa. "What are you doing here?"
Sweating through his robes, Neville eyed the four other girls, reading by the windows. They would know of his failure. They would mock him forever.
No, have courage! If Dean can do it, then so can you!
Luna tilted her head, then stood up. "Are you okay? Do you need Madam Pomfrey?"
"No!" cried Neville. "Umm…Luna…doyouwantogotothedancewithme?"
It came out in such a rush, he was sure she wouldn't understand…and he couldn't tell if that was better or worse.
She frowned. "Oh Neville, I'm so sorry."
His world came crashing down.
"You see, I'm betrothed."
"Huh?"
"Well, I will be. One day, I will marry someone from another star. He hasn't been born yet, though...in the sense that he does not exist in this world, anyway. So, I suppose I could go with you, but just as a friend."
Neville nodded. "Right, just as a friend. Sure…I mean…" He ran a hand over his forehead. "What is even happening?"
Her expression was so gentle. Pitying. "I think you're a great person, Neville. If I didn't know of his existence, it would be different. But since I do know, I have to be true to my intended."
She's mocking me. I don't believe it.
Two of the girls looked over, whispering to each other. One of them covered a laugh with her hand.
Neville turned and fled the room.
Neville passed through the hallways of Hogwarts, not to any place in particular. He was dead.
Several humans passed by him, laughing and ribbing each other. They did not notice his anguish, probably on account of his being a spectre now. Mournfully, Neville looked out the window at the life that blossomed on the school grounds. It was all grey to him, tainted by his anguished eyes.
He wanted to talk to someone, but no one could understand his pain. No one else knew what it was like to have all your hopes and dreams cruelly shattered before your very eyes. (Somewhere in his mind, Neville knew he was being overdramatic, but at the moment he didn't quite care.)
Passing him in the hallway, Neville spotted one of his own kind, also dead. The person was carrying a plate of food, as if trying to stay alive, but didn't seem concerned that most of his spaghetti had smooshed into his robes.
Neville recognized it as the Ghost of Harry. They stopped, observing each other.
"Hi," said Neville. "Umm…your robes."
Harry blinked, glanced down, grimaced. In an instant, he'd vanished the plate of food and the red stains on his robes.
"Neville," said Harry, a determined look in his eyes. "Do you have any plans for the evening?"
"No," said Neville.
"Great," said Harry. "Let's go get plastered."
Getting drunk had always been on Harry's list of Important Life Experiences. It was right up there with learning to drive and discovering his first subatomic particle. But he'd never found it a priority to cross that off his list until now.
"Cheers," said Harry, clinking glasses with Neville, then tipping back the butterbeer. The Three Broomsticks had plenty of tables, but they'd taken their seats at the bar, so as to be closest to the alcoholic beverages. The Weird Sisters played a little too loudly in the background, and the place buzzed with activity as it grew darker outside.
"Want to get some food?" suggested Neville, opening up the menu. "I hear they have great burgers here."
"Food helps metabolize alcohol," said Harry. "Which defeats the purpose of this excursion." Harry glanced at the menu. "But the chips do look good."
After ordering their snack, a familiar voice said, "Oy, 'arry! Never thought I'd see you here."
Harry turned around to see Fred—or maybe George—leaning against the bar with his usual grin, wearing bright purple robes and a top hat like Willy Wonka. "Hi," said Harry. "Err…what's up with the suit?"
"I'm a store proprietor now," said the twin, beaming, hands on his lapels. "Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. George and I've got a shop down the street." Fred tilted his head in that direction. "Business is booming, and I'm here to meet potential investors. We're working on our most ambitious plan yet, but it's for a very secretive high profile client. Mum's the word." He stuck a finger to his lips and grinned. "What are you here for?"
"Oh, Neville and I are just getting wasted," said Harry.
"On butterbeer? You'll be here a while," said Fred, raising two fingers to the bartender. "Oy, buddy. Bring my friends here some of the good stuff."
A few seconds later, two bubbling red drinks appeared before the boys. "What is it?" asked Harry nervously, examining the drink list for anything that could corrode metal. His eyes widened at the names of the shots.
His common sense dictated that anything that looked like it could corrode metal ought not to go in his stomach.
"That," declared Fred. "Is a Witch's Itchy Red Rash. If she doesn't get you drunk, then nothing will."
As the drinking progressed, it became clear that Harry's drunk self was just like his normal self, only louder. A few Ravenclaws had joined them in the meantime, ordering rounds of shots. Several of them, as it turned out, had a passing interest in Muggle Studies. This meant that inevitably a discussion about pointless topics started, specifically about favorite characters, at which point Harry declared passionately, "The best character ever is Han Solo, hands down. Let me tell you why."
Then followed a long rambling rant in which Harry made sure everyone understood that Han Solo was a) utilitarian and yet morally good b) best friends with Big-foot and c) the one who shot first, thank you. His reasoning got a bit muddy at the end, but no one was sober enough to care about the finer points of eloquency.
While Harry droned on and on, Roger Davis sat on his barstool, tapping his foot. While he wasn't a Muggle, he had perused a substantial amount of Muggle literature and media, and he had formed his own opinions on the subject. He listened with great patience, waiting for Harry to take a breath so he could interject his own opinion, but Neville beat him to it.
"I don't get it," said Neville, "You've got all these opinions on Star Wars, but what about Star Trek? I thought you would like Spock the best, since you basically are him."
"I am not Spock," declared Harry indignantly. Everyone stared at him for a few moments, and Harry muttered, "Okay, well, maybe there aresomesimilarities, but I absolutely despise Star Trek." Harry downed another shot, bringing the glass banging on the counter. "I mean, the show would be decent if Spock were the captain, but no, they had to put James Tum-tum Kirk in charge of the Enterprise, who ought to own a plaque that says, 'Most likely to procreate with a troll.' Every time Spock gives him logical advice to not do a thing, Kirk goes and does it anyway, coincidentally endangering the lives of his entire crew in the process."
Roger opened his mouth to speak, but Harry banged the glass again. "Furthermore, why do all the commanding officers on that ship leave at the same time? If the captain, the first mate, the communication specialist and the doctor all get blown up on the surface, who's left to command the crew? Engineer Scotty?" Harry scoffed and shook his head. "And don't even get me started on the special effects. I could forgive it in the original series, but Star Wars came out in the 1970s, and the music and costumes are better than all the Star Trek series combined."
"Excuse me," cut in Roger curtly. "But could you please stop disrespecting the best television series of all time? I'll have you know that Star Wars is inferior in every way."
"Oh ho ho, really?" said Harry, swiveling back and forth on his bar stool. "Back that up with some evidence, sir."
"I have one word for you: phasers." Roger folded his arms. "Light sabers make no sense as a weapon when guns of any form exist."
"Well, actually," said Harry, who hadn't paused his chair swiveling. "Force sensitivity means that guns in the Star Wars universe don't work as effectively as light sabers. Case in point, all of the storm troopers could fire their guns at one jedi and miss. And while we're on the subject, why doesn't anyone at Starfleet with half a brain realize they can use teleporters as weapons?"
"Jedi are a socially backwards construct," countered Roger. "It's literally emotion that turns people to the dark side, you have to be constantly calm if you don't want to turn evil. What's next, George Lucas, Jedi being forbidden to get married or have friends, because they might make you feel things?"
"Well, on the subject of relationships, let's talk about Captain Kirk," countered Harry, visibly agitated. "Vulcans, the smartest beings in the galaxy, only procreate once every seven years, which would explain why there's only one available to work on the Enterprise. Meanwhile, Captain Underpants probably has a lovechild on every planet they dock on. Also, tribbles? Seriously?"
Snorting with smugness, Roger unleashed the deadliest comeback, "Ewoks?"
Everyone watched their squabbling debate for several minutes, growing uncomfortable as it became more heated. They'd expected a rousing discussion on play characters, not an angry diatribe about Muggle television. At this rate, they could go on for hours.
Neville racked his brain for a way to solve the problem, until finally he hit on something. "You know, you both have good points, but I think there's an easy way to settle this dilemma. Why don't they just create a movie where both sets of characters battle it out—"
"A crossover?" Roger and Harry both whirled on him, mouths agape. "Are you out of your ever-loving mind?!"
Several pints later, Neville and Harry had become a lot more introspective.
"Neville," said Harry, finger painting the bar with the condensation from his glass. "I just figured it out. My love life is like Hoth. It's cold and arid and nothing grows there, except those nasty Yeti wampas."
"Well, my love life is like Tatooine," sighed Neville. "Not a drop of water in sight, and those glowy eye scavengers—"
"The Jawa?"
"Uhh, yeah. They steal everything good in my heart and leave behind an empty husk."
Roger, who had a steady girlfriend, sipped his butterbeer and said nothing.
"It's like…" Harry hiccupped and listed a little, clumsily righting himself. "I'm Han Solo, frozen in carbonite, betrayed and alone."
"Sooo…" said Roger. "Romance troubles, huh? If you need help getting a date, Marguerite can-"
"Listen," explained Neville. "Please stop talking."
Harry continued finger painting, his voice soft. "He must have known how precious she was to me. I thought I could trust her to him, just for a few days. And then…" Harry's hands clenched into fists, thumping on the counter. "Lando stole her from me. He betrayed me, he…"
His hands unclenched and he sighed. "No, that's not it. I may want to make Dean the villain of this story, but I've got to be honest with myself, if to no one else." His smile was bitter. "I always thought I would be a hero like Han Solo, or at least Luke Skywalker." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "But what if this whole time, I've really been Darth Vader? Or worse, some wanna be Sith Edge Lord? Maybe I should just embrace my true nature, learn to do some force choke holds. I could always go see if the Evil Emperor is still accepting applicants for an apprentice."
"Harry, I know you're joking," said Neville, shaking his head. "But even if you used the Darth Vader's theme as your team's marching song in first year, and even if you're a bit scary when you're angry, that doesn't make you a dark lord."
Harry grimaced, taking a painful swallow of his drink. "Well, Neville, guess what? The Sorting Hat disagrees with you, along with quite a few other vocal sources. According to all the predictive powers that be, you're looking at Harry Potter, the Next Dark Lord and Destroyer of Worlds."
A few moments later, Harry raised his glass. "Barkeep!" he barked. "More meade, posthaste!"
The bartender shook his head and walked away.
"Well, fine," muttered Harry, raising his hand and clenching his fingers. "Perhaps he needs a lesson in my true powers."
"Uhh," said Neville, swatting his arm down. "How about we umm, don't do that."
A few drinks later, Roger had gone home and left the two boys to their wallowing.
Neville sighed, staring into his blue martini, thinking of Luna's blue eyes. "I'm so pathetic."
"You're not," said Harry, who'd given up on sitting upright. "You're great. I'm the one who sucks at being a human. Neville, did you know…the Sorting Hat offered me Hufflepuff?"
Neville raised his eyebrows. "It did?"
"Yes. And I rejected it. I said, 'Hufflepuff has nothing to offer me.' But you know what? That was a tremendous mistake, the first in a long litany of errors that I've committed, and continue to commit." His eyes were red, as he sniffled. "Hufflepuff is the best house. It's full of hardworking, intelligent people who actually care about humanity, and don't just say they care. They would have noticed I was antisocial and tried to befriend me, showed me how to be warm instead of cold. I could have reached my true potential as a scientist, and achieved everything I ever wanted there, because they helped me, not in spite of it."
Neville was tearing up. "Hufflepuffs might not be the smartest or the bravest, but we do have some pretty amazing people. Oh, and also the best snacks. Like Christmas time sugar cookies a la mode, and tea time biscuits and buttered crumpets, and fresh baked muffins every Tuesday morning."
"You get muffins?" asked Harry.
Neville nodded. "And double chocolate fudge on Wednesday game nights, milk shakes for Saturday musical theater night, and made to order crepes every Sunday-"
"Holy Asimov!" Harry gaped. "What kind of scam is this? The House Elves don't even make me toast when I ask for it."
Neville shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe you could try saying please?"
Neville was debating if he should go back to Hogwarts when he could see straight, but Harry was still sipping and mumbling something about "experimental procedure."
Harry finished his drink, and a few seconds later, started beating his head with his fists.
"Arrgh!" he cried. "What's wrong with you? I can't even have five seconds of peace when you're flooded with neurological depressants!"
"Harry?" asked Neville, who had to blink to focus. "You okay, mate?"
"I can't stop thinking," Harry groaned. "Even when I'm sad, I just keep thinking about why I'm sad, as if somehow fully understanding the pain will cure it. But that's just the insight fallacy I fall into constantly, of course understanding a problem won't suddenly fix it, you have to take actionable steps to fix what's wrong. But how am I supposed to do that when I can't stop thinking about how bad I feel long enough to do anything?"
Harry paused, gulped down another shot, and said bitterly, "I just have to face the facts. Hermione's destined to marry a man who's worthy of her, and I'll be an incompetent failure of a scientist who is alone, miserable and derives all my pleasure from choking idiots."
"That's not going to happen, Harry!" cried Neville, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "No matter what happens, I'll be with you. Just like, umm, just like Chewbacca and Han Solo."
Harry blinked. "That…actually is an idea. We can be best friends. My R2D2 to your C3PO."
"Exactly," added Neville. "We don't need girls to make us happy, as long as we have each other."
"Yeah, we could just…" He trailed off as they gazed into each other's eyes. As the force of gravity and alcohol combined, they leaned in slowly. Their foreheads bumped, and they scrambled away from each other. "What in the what?"
"This alcohol is stupid devil fire," stuttered Neville, hands fluttering. "My gram always says so."
They grabbed their coats and stumbled out of the bar, knocking into two patrons and a wall on the way out. As they trudged home, Harry muttered fiercely, "This Important Life Experience is stupid, and this experiment was an abject failure. Let us never speak of this again."
Author's Note:
I started writing this chapter after drinking some alcoholic beverages. Then my writing was like, "Drunk charactr turns to other drunk character and says, "Why are you drunk?" "Other Harry says "I don't know why." So I decided to write them while sober.
