Whence, Pythagoras, this deep reverence for beans?
–Diogenes Laertius

#

All Hallows Eve.

Harry Potter went upstairs on his own two feet.

"Whatever happened to less moping, more mopping?" he said to his lodger under his breath.

I think I'm tired of terrible things happening. Very tired. Extremely tired.

"I'm Harry Potter! terrible things happen to me! Haven't you noticed? At least some brilliant things are happening too."

Yes, and they throw the terrible things into sharp relief. Come to that, being struck by lightning counts as terrible and brilliant simultaneously so it cancels itself. Everything cancels in the end...

{ Well, if you won't be you, I'll just have to pretend to be you, } said Harry.

They reached the top floor. The trip had been without incident except when a plump-looking Mrs Norris had raced past on her way downstairs, but now there was a novelty: a Ravenclaw firstie, sitting on a footstool under a tapestry that – according to Hogwarts: A Historical Supplement – probably depicted the wedding of Albion and Columbia, even if they did seem to be arm-wrestling.

"Hello!" said Harry Potter, walking up to the boy. "I'm Tommy Dorsey. No, just fooling. I'm Harry. Apparently I like walking up to people I don't know and saying strange things to them. I'll probably stop at some point. What's your name?"

"Um," said the boy, from underneath a pile of black hair that seemed to have started out ambitiously and then fallen asleep, "I'm Clive. Daris. Can you help me? I don't know where I am."

"Where do you want to be? Ravenclaw tower? Follow me. Are you new? I don't recognise you, but that doesn't mean much."

"I transferred in yesterday. I was at Peaces - that's somewhere near nowhere - but I managed to escape with a surprise arithmancy scholarship."

"You were going to Peaces, eh?" said Harry. { How am I doing so far, Rupert?! }

"It does sound stupid, doesn't it?" said Clive. "I'm well out of it, but this place is so much bigger."

"Well, just keep an eye on the ceilings so you don't get lost in the future. Care for a jelly bean?" { How am I doing, Rupert, huh? Huh? } "-Blimey, don't take all of them..."

In short order they arrived at the Ravenclaw door.

"Do you know how to get in?" asked Harry.

"Well, yes and no," said Clive. He knocked on the door using the eagle-shaped knocker.

The eagle opened its beak and said, "In the city of Almansa the barber shaves all and only those who do not shave themselves. Who shaves the barber?"

"See what I mean?" said Clive. "I know about sets, that's an empty set."

"Okay," said Harry, "Why is it so?" { Was that a kick I felt, Rupert? }

"You can't shave and not shave at the same time," said Clive.

"So nobody shaves the barber? Try that then."

Clive shrugged. "Nobody shaves the barber," he told the door.

The door stayed closed. "Didn't think so," said Clive. "Empty set, maybe silence is the answer." He put his hand over his mouth.

"Maybe it'll give me a different question," said Harry, and knocked.

"Where is the center of a sphere of infinite circumference?" said the knocker.

"Everywhere," said Clive. The door stayed shut. "I guess you have to answer your own question," said Clive.

"Well," said Harry, "let's try the maintenance approach." He kicked the door. "Open up! I've got a pocketful of screwdrivers and I know how to use them, broadly speaking."

That's vandalism! said the Rupert. You'll get in trouble! All right, all right, the correct answer is, the –

"Listen up, you door," said the Boy Who Lived. "Professor McGonagall told us at the beginning of the year that our house is our home. Home is where they have to let you in. This is his House. This is his home. Let him in."

...click.

"Please enjoy your trip through this door," said the eagle in a strange voice, and the door opened.

Huh. A deft little syllogism but I didn't think it'd work.

"I wasn't actually expecting that," said Harry. "–Oh, hello, Myrtle!"

...Okay, Harry, having a friend on the inside, that works too.

#

"You're out after curfew," said Myrtle, drifting alongside him (them) as they headed toward Gryffindor, Clive having been taken care of.

"I've got permission from the Headmaster," said Harry. "What about you? Won't you get in trouble?"

"I look forward to finding out," said Myrtle, with a hint of intrigue.

"So are you doing well over there in Ravenclaw?"

"Do you know, I haven't felt really sad since I started classes again," said Myrtle.

"Well of course," said the Rupert. "Learning things is the best cure for being sad."

"But what about the nights?" added Harry.

"It's a big castle; there's a lot more to it than the plumbing. Although it took me fifty years to find that out."

"So you wander the halls like the other ghosts?" said Harry.

She floated on ahead of him and turned around, revealing an impish expression. "Halls? No, halls are boring. I wanted to see the rest of the castle. I think I may have seen more of it than I should, at this point..."

"Oh!" The Rupert stopped in the middle of the corridor and locked eyes with her. "Please don't tell you've been keeping company with the three-headed dog," he said. "I really hate it when people tell me they've been keeping company with the three-headed dog."

"All right," she said. "I won't."

"Oh, she's been keeping company with the three-headed dog!" He turned to the nearest wall and gently applied forehead to nice cool stone. "Okay, okay, fine, he can't bite you, still, not a happy me.

"So!" he said, spinning around. "Did you see the Philosopher's Stone while you were in there?"

#

Problem: you're in Gryffindor common room. You propose to have a private conversation with Hermione Granger. Public space, can't take her off into the closet without people looking at you funny, Longbottom's upstairs doing his prosody exercises, how to solve insoluble problem? Easy.

"Granger!" he said, bending over the couch she was sitting on. She jumped. "Want to have a private convo. Where can we go?"

#

First-year girls dormitory:

"Wasn't expecting this," he said, spinning around.

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know, posters of purple alicorns." What's missing from this room? There's nothing on the beds but bedclothes and pillows, nothing on the desks but lamps and papers...

"This is Hogwarts, we have actual alicorns."

"Not even in the Forbidden Forest."

Where are the plushies?

"Five person dorm, four of them in the common room playing exploding snap, they'll run out of cards eventually, what do you want to say?"

"I want to enlist you in a secret project, Hermione Granger."

"You are up to something! I knew it! –You're going to get us all in trouble!"

"What? No! Perfectly innocent, just secret. I need to find out who Iphitus Malfoy was."

"...what?"

{ What? }

"Iphitus Malfoy. There's a portrait of him down the hall. Only you can help me."

"Why me?"

"Because the library likes you."

"What?"

"You know I'm clever, you know I'm pretending not to be, you're a bit worried about that because in your heart you're afraid I might burn rubber at the end of the year to show you up on final exams, even though I seem too nice to do that, and you think I've got secrets.

"Well, I'm secretly very interested in finding out who Iphitus Malfoy was. But I'm getting nowhere with the library."

"But you read so fast..."

"But you're Hermione. You're Library Girl. When was the last time you realised you wanted a certain book and turned around and there it just was?"

"Yesterday."

"See? You're a witch. Magic girl, magic library, you have a rapport. You know how to make friends with libraries – not so good with people, I notice you never get any letters from home but from your parents, you came to Hogwarts and never looked back. So. Am I wrong?" He waited for the flinch; it came. "You feel bad about that, you feel worse because I invited you into my cabin on the Hogwarts Express and then let you hang, I feel bad about that, scatterbrain me, if I pursued all my interests I'd fly apart, I need help, use a problem to solve a problem, let's collaborate."

"Why are you interested in this...Iphitus Malfoy?"

"Well, the reason for that is included in the secret, but I think you can work it out in the end and I'll confirm or deny your hypotheses truthfully."

"Is it to do with all those chocolate frogs you lose?" she said.

He raised his pinky.

"Keep my secrets, Hermione?" Cross your heart and hope to fail, spend your life in Reading Gaol? Nnno, good line, sounds cold.

After a while she smiled, and raised hers.

#

{ Okay, what was all that about? } said Harry Potter, after they had (all) returned to the common room. { I thought you were going to get her to help with –}

The great big mazey-wazey puzzle-box obstacle-course thing being constructed under the trap door Fluffy's sitting on. No, I think I'll leave that to Dumbledore. I want Hermione well out of that business. So, I give her a different puzzle to solve and at the same time fix my previous mistake in not keeping up with her on your behalf. Have you noticed how nice she is?

{ ...kind of... }

I'm rubbish at keeping up with my friends...I can't even remember them.

{ But...you're not secretly interested in Iphitus Malfoy. }

I'm not? Who have I told other than her? Apparently even you don't know. Sounds secret to me.

{ O...kay... But if Trevor Doom is after the Philosopher's Stone, isn't it relevant to me? – I mean, if that's what it even is, you didn't actually explain that bit. }

Bits and bobs, Harry, bits and bobs, all swirling around in the whole sort of general mishegoss that is my consciousness, and unconsciousness for that matter. You should know what I know – that library in my head, have you been making use of it? It should have been filling up again all this time.

{ I've been reading your complete run of The Beano. }

Oh, yeah? The Dandy's good too. Is Viz in there?

{ It's in the red-shelf area... }

Woo, I'm Mr Propriety. Look for Your Sinclair, that should be in the open section, it's a scream. Don't read the ones from after this year...

{ But Dudley's got an Amstrad. }

Doesn't matter! Read things that don't apply to you, it's good for your brain. Anyway! Precis of current situation prepared for H. J. Potter: Trevor Doom floating around, looking for a hedge-stone to say hello to, Dumbledore on top of it very nearly literally. Great danger, no worries, get a good night's rest, take a long weekend, world-saving begins October the first. Normally October the first would be too late but that's what calendar reform is for.

He scanned the common room for perfect prefects. Target acquired, quantity one.

"Hey, Percy! why's there no school store?"

"It's only September," said Percy, who was coloring in the animals on his prefect badge. "It'll open in October, in that little room opposite the Great Hall. They don't stock it until after first exams, they think what you've brought should last until then."

#

Saturday brought a cold snap that had several muggleborn first-years complaining about the lack of central heating ("Historical preservationists," explained Percy), but by Monday it was warm enough that students who had no morning classes could be found transfiguring post-breakfast eggshells into small boats and sending them scudding across the lake.

#

He left the common room Tuesday morning to find that all the portraits on the floor were gone except for Mme. du Mont.

"Good heavens!" he said. "What happened here?"

"Spring-cleaning," she said.

"But it's the fall!" he said, backing away down the hallway.

"Things happen when they happen, young man, not when they're supposed to happen."

Well, I hope they're careful, he thought, turning around,parents have been lost in spring-cleanings, takes ages to find them again...so! Here we are, October. Here's hoping the eighth month goes better than the seventh.

{ What? }

October, octo, eight. September, septem, seven. That was on the original Roman calendar, of course, back when Romans liked to start the year with a brisk march.

...which is interesting, because the prophecy re the Doom of Doom we saw in the pensieve didn't specify a calendar. It just said one with the power et cetera would be born in the seventh month. Prophecies! – very very mythical, and you humans have a horrendous lack of quality control and cultural coordination in the mythology department.

I mean, look at this cove here!

They had come to the secret entrance to the kitchen tunnel with its gift-of-a-lyre statue.

Mercury, right? Son of Jupiter.

Mercury to the Gauls: Teutan.

Teutan to the Dutch: Hercules.

Hercules to Eratosthenes: same as Mars.

Meanwhile, Jupiter equals Odin, but to Tacitus Odin is – Mercury!

Add it all up and Mercury, Mars, Jupiter and Hercules are a self-begetting one-man barbershop quartet. Well, it saves on birthday presents. I think. Unless the whole self-begetting thing leads to recursion, in which case infinite birthday presents, could be quite expensive. Then again, what do you get the man who has everything? Ah well, it's the thought that counts.

Now to save the world! What do I need? I need an organiser. I need stationery. Oh, and a balanced breakfast with a lot of unbalanced people.

#

He was not satisfied by the store.

It had all the staples (including actual staples, magic, no stapler required) and a wire rack of informative free pamphlets (featuring titles like Wand Safety, Proper Broom Care, Dangerous Side Effects of Popular Charms, Curse Cautions; there was also a Wednesday-Saturday newsletter called It's YOUR Ministry of Magic!) but it was missing something.

It wasn't missing Peeves, who knocked over the rack of pamphlets every other day, but it was missing a certain school spirit.

Or better yet, four of them.

#

"Researchers in Putney claim clinching proof that beans are evil," read George from his half of the Quibbler. "Must have run across Ron after his chilli."

"Don't remind me, I still wake up screaming," said Fred, and turned a page of the half-Quibbler in his in his own hands. "After abduction by Sidhe, boy wizard from Cardiff gets doctorate in philosophy. I just have a stonking knack for phenomenology, says Jonah B. Doolittle, age 19-"

"Weasleys!" said the Rupert, emerging from the staircase to the third-year dormitory rubbing his hands. "I cannot help but have noticed that you are up to no good."

The twins, who were sprawled on beds on opposing sides of the room, looked at him. George raised his left eyebrow at Fred. Fred raised his right eyebrow and said, "Oh, we'll solemnly swear to that."

"That's us, lying here in this low-grade miasma of evil."

"Available for rental, five knuts per hour."

The Rupert climbed up on top of the cold stove in the center of the room. "Well, no one's born bad, no one looked in the eyes of Trevor Doom and saw eeeeevil and said right, it's off to boarding school for you, matey, you have to get your start somewhere. I'm guessing you met some kindred spirit when you arrived here that helped lead you into this life of shamefully useful delightful corruption."

"Mayyyybe," said George, lowering his left eyebrow into a half-frown.

"Whyyyy do you ask?" said Fred, lowering his right, ditto.

"Well! Apparently I'm famous."

"Really?"

"What for?"

"I can't imagine. Anyway, I like my privacy. Or is it privacy? I don't like people prying into the privy. In short I'm looking for a discreet re-mailing service. It's a crime to open other people's owl post, but I want to write some letters without anyone knowing to whom I'm sending them and receive replies without anyone knowing who they're really from."

Fred looked to George. George said, "There may be a person, but what are you up to?"

"Well, it's confidential. It's not immoral, it's probably not illegal, but it would cause undesirable interest."

"Hmm," said Fred.

"Mhh," saod George.

"If there were such a service it would be somewhat expensive," said Fred.

"Even the royalties on those gobstone quills wouldn't count for much," said George.

"Which reminds me," said the Rupert, hopping off the pot-bellied. "of the other action item I want to take up with you."

#

The petition to ban dungbombs had petered out, but next morning at breakfast the Rupert (and Harry) was (were) was presented with an entirely new petition for a new and better Potions textbook. It had a lot of neatly ruled empty lines and one signature on it, which was that of the person presenting it, which was Neville Longbottom.

"Okay," said the Rupert. Harry, sign this, would you? No, not at the top, down at the bottom, in very large letters. "In fact, when it's done here, let me take it to Slytherin for you."

While he was waiting for the clipboard to come back, Harry flipped the pages of Quidditch Spirit, arriving at the Rupert-marked page with the full-colour plate showing the new horseradish-clutching sparrow-hawk mascot of the Tewkesbury Mustardballs.

{ Now? } said Harry Potter.

Now, said the Rupert.

"Oi! Percy!" said Harry. "What's the name of the Gryffindor lion?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Our mascot. What's his name? It's not Godric, I know that."

"-He doesn't have one."

"Oh, well, I'm calling him Roary then," said The Boy Who Lived, and hid inside Quidditch Spirit.

"What? That lion is the ancient and noble symbol of Godric Gryffindor! You can't call him Roary–!"

But he was too late; it was done, and it spread.

By mid-lunchtime the Slytherin snake was Hissy.

The Ravenclaw eagle was still being argued at their table during the soup course at dinner, but the emergence of the Hufflepuff badger as Clive during pudding led to consensus on Polly, after the talking eagle atop Yggdrasil who knew many things. (The runners-up were Aias and Sam and neither of them really seemed suitable.)

The next morning the Weasleys introduced plushies to Hogwarts.

Mascots are good, thought the Rupert. Even people who hate sports can grow fond of the mascots. And what does mascot mean? Little sorceror.

#

"Quill," he said aloud, being alone in the dormitory, and set the quill down on the top of the trunk. "Ink black as night or truth. Semi-misappropriated Hogwarts letterhead stationery. Envelopes and stamps, at least some of which I may actually require. Owl in owlery.

"Magic is all about symbolic correspondence, but the conventional kind is good too. And when you superpose the two, who knows what results may come?"

He took the his chosen tools to Harry's bed-table, sat down, and began to write.

Director of Public Relations
Owl Post
Windy Yet
East Ayrshire KA3

To whom it may concern:
I find myself with a number of questions regarding your organisation, to wit and to whoo:

#

And the days went by, each one new.

#

"I wouldn't," said the Rupert over Q.C. Flint's shoulder one evening after practice.

"Why not?" said Q.C. Flint, who was filling out his Quidditch brackets for the upcoming season. "Tewkesbury's a great club."

"The Mustardballs will wash out by mid-season."

"But they spent all last season firming up their roster."

"Except for the captain."

"They replaced him, too."

"No, I mean the new one's unsound. Great record in the academic circuit, but plays to win all the time, turns the stands against the team, hurts turnout, hurts merchandising sales and they just redesigned their mascot and logos. He'll be gone, they'll be in disarray. It's not all strategy and tactics."

"Huh," said Q.C. Flint.

#

"If the formula calls for Tricholoma album, and you have none," said Snape in his usual smooth grey tone, "can you continue?"

Most of the class went uhhhhhh, and Snape ignored the other hands. "The answer is a qualified yes, as you can transfigure Tricholoma imbricatum, see chapter eleven as you should have done already.

"Why was your hand above your desk, Longbottom?"

"Um. Gas agaric?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean...if you add salt and cassia leaves, you can substitute. I...read something about that...somewhere..."

Grating pause.

"Technically correct, point to Gryffindor, needlessly complicated, point from Gryffindor. Now, to continue–"

#

And the days went by. Little tiny days, but how they accrue.

#

"Hermione Granger!" said the Rupert one fat lunchtime. "Did you steal Professor Vinovii's stolen book?"

"No, I borrowed it. I'm going to return it. It's frustratingly good, actually."

"Why frustrating?"

"I don't think I can afford it."

"Is it that expensive? It's colour, but not very big..."

"There's no price on the proof copy, but it's even longer than Hogwarts: A History!"

"What, is it skinny onion-paper, like that old foldable Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Something like that, I suppose – printed on special magical presses in Bombay."

#

"Harry!" said Neville one day in Herbology. "This is my friend Susan Bones."

"Oh, yeah?" said the Rupert. "Good for you, Neville! And a Hufflepuff, good for you Susan! Bones, Bones, rings a bell – any relation to Amelia? On the Wizengamot?"

Susan nodded. "She's my aunt."

"I thought I knew that name," Wizengamot, Proceedings Of The. "Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, that's the biscuit.

"Hermione's got her autograph, don't you Hermione? On a piece of paper says stop whatever it is you're doing."

"Harry..." growled Hermione.

"Amelia," said the Rupert. "That's a brilliant name."

"I almost got named after her," said Susan Bones.

"Susan's good, too. Susan's spiffing."

"That's what my grandfather says. I think it's boring."

"It's not boring," said Neville Longbottom. "In Persian it means Lily. And in Hebrew. And in Middle Egyptian it's Lotus Flower."

"Neville Longbottom," smiled the Rupert. "He knows his plants."

#

And the days went by.
Water flowed underground.
Rocks and stones were probably involved at some point.

#

"George?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Have you ever noticed that Fred is ginger? Eh? Eh?"

"Yeah, I gave him a pair of high heels for Christmas once. Have a napkin, Longbottom..."

#

At the top of Gryffindor tower, Harry Potter was quivering like jelly as the hand before him finished writing a letter.

Editor
Radio Times

Dear Sir,

I wish to complain in the strongest possible terms!

Yours faithfully,
C.H. Woodrot,
The Pines,
Beans-on-Toast, Sussex.

Gonna send it! Gonna send it I am! I am! Putting on the stamp, see!

{ N-nnnn-no your're n-n-nAAAAAHAHAHAAAAA! }

You are helpless before me, Harry James Potter! And blow your nose, that's disgusting!

#

Wake up, wake up, it's a lazy Sunday, a placido domingo, not to be confused with a placebo nocebo, performing under the direction of Gianandrea Noseda, in turn not to be confused with Noslenda Bivenda...

He woke in the middle of pulling on a fresh sock.

Oh, hello, Harry, morning already in progress I see! Green and purple socks, splendid choice, carry on.

{ Do the things you think before waking make any sense at all? }

Given a sufficiently holistic approach, everything makes sense in the end, Harry Potter. You just have to follow the ripples of association through the wide world's web. For example...what was I just thinking? No, no, I see it. Some of that's actually quite relevant.

{ It is? }

Placebo, I shall please; nocebo, I shall harm. Inert substances, devoid of balm or poison, that help or harm anyway, simply because they're expected to. Not to be found in your Potions book, but magic nonetheless. Which is one of the things that make me take this muggle-wizard hard-divide thing with a grain of alchemical salt.

For example, I can think of a case where a chap got very upset that his favourite old-school painter died by his own hand and wrote a film script designed to give him a better ending. Millions of people watched. Next thing you know, evidence turns up that he actually died accidentally. History unchanged, strictly, but he didn't give in to despair after all, and that counts for something. All those people suddenly caring about someone they never even met...oh, the things you do matter when you don't even know you're doing them.

And Gianandrea Noseda will be appointed Principal Conductor of the BBC Philharmonic in just under ten years. Keep an ear out for his Beethoven cycle on Radio 3. No, wait. you'll miss it if you've got nothing to listen to but the wizard wireless! Must fix that. Up and at 'em, Harry, worlds to rectify.

#

On the 24th, Halloween decorations started going up; upon coming down in the morning Percy Weasley found, in the middle of the largest table of the common room, the largest pumpkin said table could hold, carved in his own magnificent likeness.

"I do not appreciate this," declared the perfect prefect in a firm clear voice when he saw it.

"But it does your cheekbones such justice," said the Rupert. "It's rather spiffing, really. And think of the effort they put into it."

"Hmm," said Percy, studying the big fat pumpkin-head and finger-probing his physiognomy in an experimental fashion. "There is that."

#

On the morning of Monday the 28th, Hedwig delivered the letter the Rupert had been hoping for; getting the system to produce it had taken one additional inquiry, because bureaucrats know best.

The wizarding world had called the child by a diminutive, but to the British Census of 1931, the boy in Wool's Orphanage was Riddle, ThomasMarvolo.

Gotcha.

#

"For extra credit," said Professor Sinistra, "Identify the constellation of Battus."

The Weasley groaned. "Too hard for me," he said. "And how can it be a constellation when it's got only one star?"

#

On Halloween the Rupert woke up first.

Right, you lot, said he to his internal monologuists and narrators, I want a nice quiet day today, right? Today's Sir Nick's Deathday Party. Let's leave it at that.

At breakfast that morning the Great Hall smelled like Hercules had cleaned it out with Willy Wonka's chocolate river.

"Bit of a disaster at the Ravenclaw table," explained Percy. "They were working on a vaporator for Smith and it got away from them."

"That's the kind of disaster I can get behind. Or technically within. I'd call it a euaster but that's a kind of sponge. The hard spiky kind, not the scrubby-dubby kind."

Although, he added, taking deep breaths, any sponge lucky enough to be here now would be Joyeuse!

{ Someday I'm going to be able to understand you, } said Harry. { And then I shall be very, very worried. }

#

"You've changed your ruff, Sir Nicholas," said the Rupert on the morning of Halloween. "That's a nice one, bit more enthusiastic somehow."

"It's my deathday," said the ghost. "I like to dress up. Gives it a sense of occasion."

"That's interesting," said Harry Potter. "Are there ghost tailors? or do you just think it and it happens?"

"A little of both, really," said Nick. "I'm rubbish at ectoplasmic design and weaving myself. But if you wish I could introduce you to the gentle spirit who does her best work for me, she'll be at my party tonight. It's during the dinner hour. Do bring a guest!"

#

"A ghost party? That sounds interesting," said Hermione. "All right, I'll come."

#

. . .

#

"Hermione! Hermione!" called the Rupert, rushing into the started knocking on the doors."Hermione! Panic time, no danger yet, only really appropriate time to panic, i.e., before it's too late!"

"What are you doing in here?" said Hermione from inside a stall. "Get out! This is the ladies' loo!"

"I know! I tried three of them, blimey, why did you have to go so far? For that matter why did you leave? it was a great party."

"Oh, didn't you notice me turning greener than the guests? What am I doing in here - Get out, didn't you hear me the first time?"

He dropped down to the floor to talk to her shoes under the cubicle door. "Oh! Right, forgot - there's a troll in the dungeons, dinner's cancelled, deathday party continues unimpeded, students being evacuating to their dormitories. I came to ask you whether it makes sense to do that, I mean, two of the dormitories are in the dungeons, and if the troll's coming upstairs wouldn't it make more sense for everyone to run straight out the main doors and outside, rather than being trapped in the towers?

"Well, yeah. okay, the firsties are mostly good on wingardium leviosa now, everyone could jump out the windows like you suggested back in the first week of September, but-"

The stall door opened and Hermione rushed out. "Troll in the dungeons?" she said. She was clutching a copy of Better Broomsticking magazine (incorporating Twig Out!), which she stuffed back into her purse when she noticed him noticing it.

"Moles and trolls, what else would you find in the basement?" said the Rupert. "Well, obviously you would find Professor Quirrel in the basement, otherwise he wouldn't have known about it to warn everyone. Now why would that be?"

"Why," said Hermione quite reasonably, "is there a secret door into the ladies' loo?"

"Where? Oh, that one," he added, after following her pointing finger. "I'll explain later, but don't tell the Weasleys. Or anyone else, please."

Bang!

They spun around.

"Ooh! that was quick!" said the Rupert. "A little too quick, you ask me — should have been completely unexpected," he added, scratching behind Harry's right ear, "but trouble seems to follow me everywhere, I wonder why that is?"

{ Because I'm Harry Potter. }

Oh, it's all about you.

"There's a troll in the loo," said Hermione conversationally.

"Yes, nice isn't it?" he said, admiring the very large loincloth-clad troll that had just ducked under the lintel.

It rumbled into the room, advancing in an aromatic cloud (Dirty Socks And Wee #5), dragging a very large club behind it.

Drawing and casting in a single liquid motion, Hermione said "Wingardium leviosa!"

The club poiped out of the troll's sweaty grasp like a watermelon seed. The troll turned to look at it with mild alarm, and in stepping back koncked a sink off the wall.

"Nice reflexes, Granger!" said the Rupert, stepping in front of her. "You're good, you're very good. –That secret door, would you mind opening it all the way?

"Hello!" he said to the troll. "Excuse me!"

The troll turned again, fixed beady red eyes on him, started to step closer, brushed against another sink and broke that off the wall too.

"Oh, look at you, you're magnificent!" said the Potter, meeting its gaze firmly. It growled like granite blocks grinding together.

"Now now! no, no," said the Rupert. "You're not going to be like that. You're bipedal to free your hands. You're a dexterous tool user, and a tool-maker too, nice workmanship on that club! Plantigrade feet and I can see in the mirror you've got a near-human spinal curve, oh, your aching back.

"Mirror! Yes, mirror, see yourself in the mirror? Look in the mirror."

It might not have understood what he was saying, but it understood a pointing finger, and followed the direction to the shiny thing over the (remaining) sink.

"Gragh?" it said, looking at its mirror image.

It saw itself.

It stood there, puzzled, transfixed.

The Rupert caught the troll's eye in the reflection. "You recognize yourself. You know who you are, you know that's you. You're a tool-user with a sense of self and a sense of modesty. You're not a mere animal, you're not thoughtless, and that means you're not violent without a reason."

You're not a monster, you're just here because someone needed a monster and thought you'd do.

"You're not hunting. If you were hunting you'd want something the size of a cow. Or two cows. One large cow between two smaller cows. Cow sandwich. So why are you here?

I think someone's been messing you about.

"Mrrrr," said the troll, turning around and staring down at him.

The Rupert continued looking the increasingly doubtful troll in the eyes. Red eyes, yes, irritated red, and the folds of skin around them were wet. "Have you been...crying? Someone has been messing you about."

"Door still wide open, Harry..."

"Follow me," said the Rupert. "There's a whacking great forest near here just made for people like you." He backed up and moved to the side, showing the troll the opening in the wall. "Mean people behind you, naughty shooty wand people. Escape right ahead of you.

"Well, you have to take a left inside the door. And there's a locked grate, but you're a hunky fellow, muscles like yours will make light work of that."

The troll blinked slowly a few times and inhaled; the air coming in through the open door was straight from the greenhouses, woo, fertiliser! Do trolls like fertiliser? Maybe it's parfum.

"Oh, and don't forget your club," added the Rupert, pointing at the club, which was drifting slowly downwards like a deflating helium balloon.

The troll picked it out of the air, looked at it, looked at the Rupert, and then lunged into the hole in the wall. Once inside it paused, sniffed, turned, and thudded away down the tunnel.

Hermione leaned into view around the edge of the door, wearing a look of reasonable, moderated terror.

"Right!" said the Rupert, contemplating the broken sinks, which were freely spilling water across the dirty floor and into the central drain. "What are we going to do about this? Can I get a Reparo?"

"Reparo won't work for something that complicated," said Hermione, having finally found her voice again. "You'd need a specialist spell, like Reparo Finneo. I don't know that one."

From the hallway outside could be heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Oh, well, in that case we'd better go then, eh? Come along!"

He turned to go out the maintenance door only to find himself being shoved through it, and then turned again to find it closing in his face.

"Boys!" said Hermione, as the door shut between them.

#

"Well that was unexpected," said the Rupert in the dark. "Why would she do that? Oh, right, the trail of muddy bare feet..."

He pressed his ear to the door and heard her say something that was probably "Scourgify!", followed by some banging noises, and then the washroom door opening and some assorted yelling.

"Then again, just as well — if we ran fast enough, we might beat it to the grate, and I can try Neville's raskolnik on it!

"¡Agarrate, Harry, que vamos a galopar!"

#

When Hermione finally showed up in the common room that evening she had a bandage on her forehead and blood all over her robes.

{ What happened there?! } said Harry Potter. { She was fine! }

She still is! Wild guess, she deliberately cut herself with a bit of broken sink as a distraction. Scalp wounds look really nasty even when they're minor, so whoever came in probably rushed her straight off to the Hospital Wing as soon as it was obvious there was no troll in the room. Whatever story she comes up with, they'll have been very inclined to believe.

As might be expected, the collective common room crowded around to ask what had happened.

#

"It was nothing," said Hermione for the third time. "I just cast bluebottle flames — bluebell flames on it to make it go away. It came in, it made a mess, it went out, I slipped on the floor, that's all." She looked lemons at the Rupert.

Then she noticed Ron looking at her as though she were...

"What?" she said.

"Can I have your autograph?" said Ron.

...some form of warrior princess, yes, that was what he was looking at her like.

"What?" she said.

#

November first...

...the Rupert was the first out of the dormitory and the tower, intent on a healthful repast of eggs & b., only to be pounced by a lurking Granger.

She tapped her foot at him in a way that said I told a lie for you without using Morse Code.

He indicated the bandage on her head.

There was a silence.

He caved first. "Some passages are more secret than others," he said. "I sold the location of one to the Weasleys, I'm holding one back against future need. Isn't this building fantastic? Full of secrets. It's like going to school in Mrs Piggle-Wiggle's house."

Cuing off the mood, Harry Potter bounced on his toes.

Improv, I like it, good lad!

There was another, shorter, silence.

"Dirty footprints leading out the secret door," she said, "water all over the floor but no tracks leading into the outside hallway, I had to do something quick."

"You're a scary girl, Hermione Granger."

"Hello?" she said, and showed him her tie. "Gryffindor."

#

November first...

"Weasley, your stupid rat is making a bed in the stove," said Seamus Finnegan.

It was true, Scabbers was in the wastebasket tearing up yesterday's Daily Prophet.

You could just about make out some bits reading 10 YEARS and MOTHER OF PETTIGREW SPEAKS.

"What, does he want to burn?"

#

November first...

...Mrs Norris delivered a litter of four kittens.

#

November first...

...at eleven, when Harry Potter was drifting off to sleep he remembered what had happened in Hagrid's hut in September.

"Hagrid," said the Rupert, "who feeds the three-headed dog in the Forbidden Room?"

"What, Fluffy? The House Elves. They empty his box, too — how d'you know about Fluffy?"

"Wait a minute — this is a dragon egg!" said Ron.

There was a knock on the door. The Rupert answered it.

It was Draco Malfoy, and he stepped inside the hut as though it were servant's quarters. He was holding a telescope.

He flicked his gaze from Weasley to Granger to Hagrid before setting on the Rupert.

"Potter," said the white-faced blond boy, "I-oomp?"

The Rupert reached back into Hagrid's blue box of bikkies for another. "Have a cookie," he said, and crunched into his own. "Good, aren't they. Mind the crumbs, DM!"

"Mphm," said D. Malfoy, because it was far too good a biscuit to reject and his mother had raised him better anyway.

"Where are these made? They're nearly as good as Jammie Dodgers. Abergavenny! Wales, land of our fathers! Spiffing!

"Oh, this is Draco Malfoy, he's my best slithy cove from Slytherin. Draco, these are Weasley and Granger, Longbottom you've met, and this terrifying gentleman is Rubeus Hagrid! If you have any questions about dragons, he's the chap to ask, aren't you, Hagrid?"

"Potter, I can't accept this," said Malfoy, holding up the telescope.

"Oh, right, then," said the Potter, taking it back. "No worries, I think you got proper use out of it. Have another cookie. Hagrid, is that the tea?"

"Ur," said the giant man, turning to the tea-tray. "Yeah, I got enough cups."

Very warily, Draco Malfoy sat down like a polite human being.

#

November first...

...The Boy Who Lived slept.

In my world, Harry, home is where you let other people in.