(Should have been part of previous installment. —Ed.)
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The Background To History (Part Deux).
The Slytherin dungeon had a password-protected secret hidden door, which meant that in order to gain entrance you had to trail late returnees from dinner and leap through the door after them before it closed.
"Hello! Am I late?" said the Potter, rolling to his feet and looking around curiously. Green lamps, green couches, green rugs, green fire too, bit monochromatic, still very handsome though — very high ceilings or maybe very low floors, good, it'd be all Edgar Allan Premature Burial otherwise. Is that a fish tank? no, the room's a people tank, note the giant squid outside, that's a window to the lake, better not make any silly cracks—
"A late Gryffindor?" said a tall dark stranger before him, staring him in the neck. Face unknown, voice familiar. "Could be..."
Gryffindor? — oops, school tie still showing red and gold.
"Not so much a gryphon, more of a chimera," said the Potter, whipping off the tie to reveal its green and silver flip side. "Head of a lion, tail of a snake — not sure where the goat's got to, probably off making bezoars, it'll be along soon enough." He retied the tie and looked up. "How's that? Have I introduced myself, no, hello! I'm Snooky Young — Snooky Young? Harry Brown. Potter. And—" fast rewind to Hogwarts Express, argument overheard through open cabin door re prospects of Puddlemere United, 'I don't care if' — "you are Quidditch Captain Flint!" He stared up at the Captain with intense interest. "I think this school unreasonably subordinates quidditch to academics, what say you?"
Flint's head bucked slightly as his brain did an abrupt 180. "You've got that right!"
Locate commentary on current team standings in latest issue of Quidditch Now* (*incorporating Quidditch!) while performing final cinch of knot in tie. "How do you rate the prospects of United v. Falcons now that Rusty's out?"
"What, with Tarquin? I wouldn't put a knut on 'em."
"Should have gone with Ben David, eh?"
"Exactly!" said the fully-animated Flint. "I keep saying that, but nobody listens to me. Now there's a half-blood I'd play with...I hope Rough Hill appreciates him."
"Potter! Over here," called another familiar voice.
No, Potter over here, surely — didn't I just tell you no silly cracks? No, that was me, actually. Oh, sorry. "Ah — prefectural diversion, must dash," said the Potter, "but remember, there is another side of the pond in play, so consider what might happen with a certain free agent from Fitchburg!"
He leaped away from the odds-recalculating Flint and vaulted an empty chair toward the prefect called Beaconsfield, who was lounging on a couch before the fireplace, what a magnificent mantelpiece, and was equipped with a box of biscuits and a handful of...minions? No, too intelligent looking. Sycophants? No, too independent looking. The Potter rounded another couch, this one occupied by a girl, who's she, saw her sorted, Pansy Parkinson, and she had a small black cat on her lap rumbling under an indulgent hand.
Pets, that's what the Beaconsfield had. There were worse things to have. He even had a couple of friends, which was a good sign. Also a puzzle magazine.
"What do you make of this one, Potter?" said the Beaconsfield, adjusting his glasses. "A mangled waiter, upon reflection. Seven letters."
"Assizer," said the Potter unthinkingly, "but whoever did that one should be ashamed. —Excuse me a moment, I'm strangely compelled by your mantelpiece." He went over and leaned against it.
Oh yes, this feels like Old Home Week...fits the shoulder properly, this mantelpiece. Well, almost. Okay, doesn't fit, not at all, really, very wrong, this mantelpiece. Someone's been misusing the power of this mantelpiece, I can tell, someone's been leaning here watching this room, looking for the right wrong people...
The Beaconsfield frowned at his puzzle page. "Oh, good grief. Spelled with a eight, mirrored mangled pun, A - S - I - Z - A — you're right, that's rubbish." He pitchwhirled the magazine into the fire, wherein which it exploded in a brief rainbow-coloured sparkstorm.
"That was mine!" exclaimed a small Slytherin.
"Here's a sickle, get a better one," advised the sickle-tossing Beaconsfield, and raised his voice one decibel. "Will someone who wants to be on my good side kindly fetch the tea service? And someone else fetch Malfoy?" He picked up a book — Plunkitt Of Tammany Hall — from the lampèd table next to him and opened it to a bookmark. "Nice to see you sneak in, Potter. The password's swordfish until the 14th, by the way."
"Really?" said the Potter, lifting his glasses to look across the room. "They change quite frequently upstairs."
"Yes, but we're obnoxious and disliked. Nobody ever even tries to break in, a shame, we're quite cute really. Well, their loss..."
"Is that a snake tank over there, Mr Beaconsfield?" said the Potter.
"Of course. That's our mascot, Salazar Junior."
The Potter bounded across the room and looked down upon the resident of the tank, who was shiny red and green and eight feet long. "Aren't you a beauty!" he said.
~(Oh, no, not milking time again.)~
"No, just came to say hello. Hello, Salazar! Are you terribly poisonous?"
~(Of course: I'm a jester cobra. But my name's not Salazar.)~
The Beaconsfield's pocket watch chimed the quarter-hour, and in response he picked a small silver bell up from the table and rang it. Various people scattered across the room got up and started moving furniture about, deploying chess boards.
The Potter bounded back across the room. "She says her name is Louise." Cobra, colubra...
"Oh, are you a parselmouth, then?" said the Beaconsfield, turning a page. "That's good, we've been looking for the heir of Slytherin for ages."
A disgruntled Malfoy, clutching a finger-placemarked copy of Magical Draughts and Potions, emerged from a stairwell, prodded upward by, presumably, someone who wanted to be on the Beaconsfield's good side. The Malfoy shot the Beaconsfield a surly glare.
"Oh, buck up, Malfoy," said the Beaconsfield, still focused on his book. "I won't even be here next year. Your opponent's arrived."
The glare shifted target to the Potter — the Potter mouthed Sorry — and reformulated itself into a more vague sour look.
"Let the games begin!" said the Beaconsfield. "Audience members please bear in mind, this is not a gambling hall. —Anyone wishing to place wagers, kindly see me."
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Plap plap plap.
There was a problem with being eleven, and it was that you couldn't stomp properly. You did your best, you put your heart into it, and it just came out plap, because when you weighed 39 kg it didn't matter what your heart was in, it mattered what your foot was in, and what your foot was in was a trainer. Rubber sole.
Up to the portrait of Mme. du Mont went the Potter, plap plap plap.
"Grumble grumble dirxy rexabrats oh hello, 'mentis aciem' isn't it? thank you, grumble grumble..."
"Where have you been?" said the Granger as he climbed through the portal. "It's past nine. And what's wrong?"
"Slytherin common room," he said, heading for the Granger and the Weasley and the Longbottom, "and I'm sulking because I just lost fifteen packets of Chocolate Frogs to Draco Malfoy at wizard chess. And please don't interrupt, I like a good sulk." They'd saved him a chair, which he threw himself into with enthusiasm. Oh, the Weasley's playing wizard chess with the Longbottom, that's good.
"Fifteen packets?" said the Weasley.
"I've only lost two!" said the Longbottom.
"Yes — not quite sure how I managed that, the last bet was double or nothing..." The Potter folded his arms and beetled his brow. Where am I going to get fifteen packets of Chocolate Frogs in school? Hospital wing gift shop? Not at those prices, half a galleon for a sugar quill? Outrageous!
"You don't sacrifice knights for pawns!" said the Malfoy.
"I don't?" Of course I do, it's what they're for.
Good player, Malfoy, very good player, didn't enjoy his first win at all. Even the second he greeted with a strange paranoia. Well, third time's the charm, which is good cos I'd hate to have to lose four times.
"And then I lost at ping-pong! Fortunately I never play ping-pong for candy." He looked around the room. "Incidentally, has anyone got a tent I can borrow? I can't sulk properly without a tent."
No one did. Godric Gryffindor, not one of you brought a tent? That's like Ravenclaw forgetting their pencils. Major Grubbly-Plank would be very disappointed in you.
"No? All right then, I'll just pout," he said, and started to undo his tie."—How about grey-market Chocolate Frogs, any suggestions on that?"
"Fred and George," said half a dozen people, pointing at the stairs that led to the third-year dormitory.
"Thank you so much," said the Potter, and bounced out of his chair. "One more thing, is anyone making book on quidditch? I want to put a sickle on Puddlemere United."
"Are you insane?" said a-57%-probability-of-being-Quidditch-Captain-Wood. "They don't stand a chance against the Falcons with Rusty out."
"It'll be a sad day I don't bet on lost causes," said the Potter, rubbing his hands together. "Anyone want to take me up?"
"I would," said 58% probability, "but I'd never take advantage of a fellow Gryffindor."
The Potter waggled his half-green-and-silver tie.
"Oh," said 59% briskly, "well, that's all right, then. One'll get you twelve, but it won't, and let that be a lesson to you."
"Done!" said the Potter, pulling off the tie and heading for the third-year staircase. "And by the way, you should take note of who's parted company with the Fitchburg Finches."
He began his ascent just as 60% said "Wait, what?"
Climb climb pout climb climb pout — ("Hey, come back here!") — hello, what's this?
"Do I hear music, young Fred?" said the Potter, emerging into the dormitory.
"Young?" said Fred, looking up from a partially disassembled carved wooden box on a table. The box seemed to be singing something about a cauldron of burning love. "Compared to who?"
"It's your baby face," said George, and pinched his own cheek.
"Ow!"
"I'll explain later," said the Potter. "Is that a radio?"
"Wizard wireless," said Fred. "Lee found a broken one in a skip yesterday and we just got it working."
"Only gets one station," said George.
"But then there's only one station to get."
"So it all works out in the end."
"Hmm," said the Potter. That's right, Fred and George do their research...
"Don't rush off, Potter," said the Beaconsfield. "A rout so spectacular merits special notice."
"Hmm what?"
"Well, first things first, I'm told you're the go-to for candies that fell off the back of a broom..."
"Certainly not!" said Fred, scandalized.
"We provide no such things!" said George, shocked, shocked!
"Until after this weekend."
"What do you need?"
"Chocolate Frogs," said the Potter, reaching into his pocket, "but if you're as handy as the singing sorceress would indicate—"
"You lost today* (*for a given value of lose)," proclaimed the Beaconsfield, "three out of three, and just to make sure you don't like it we have a special humili— er, award for that sort of thing..."
"Slytherin prefect gave me this," said the Potter, displaying a wad of deep green. "It's good, but it needs one little modification."
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Down the stairs went the Potter, bounce, bounce, bounce, retying his tie red and gold side out once more.
He returned to his chair, where, before sitting, he paused to beam upon the Granger and the Weasley and the Longbottom.
They looked up at him from across the table.
They continued to look up at him from across the table.
Said the Granger, "What in the name of Merlin's cotton Y-fronts have you got on your head?"
...whirl whirl whirl...
"What's it look like?" said the beatific Potter. "It's the Slytherin Beanie of Shame."
"It's got a propeller on it...!"
"I know!"
