If I owned Harry Potter, I would actually be able to write Hagrid's accent.

Chapter Eight
The Fall

With some careful maneuvering, the Hogwarts Professors might have salvaged Hermione's admiration. Instead, Professor McGonagall decided to do something else.

It was the busiest part of breakfast, and the Great Hall was louder than usual, buzzing with rumors about the troll, rumors that were even more outlandish than usual. The strangest and most persistent of all were that the Boy-Who-Lived and another girl had stumbled into the Gryffindor Common Room an hour after the evacuation, covered in blood. Though nearly all of the Gryffindors insisted they'd seen it themselves, the other Houses remained skeptical—a pair of first years, taking on a troll?

This was when Professor McGonagall rose to her feet and clinked a spoon against her goblet. "Mr. Potter," she said once the hubbub died down, "please approach the head table."

Hermione shot him a worried look, but he touched her shoulder and walked the length of the Hall to stand in front of McGonagall.

McGonagall regarded him sternly for a long moment before she spoke. "Last night, you disobeyed a direct order from the Headmaster, an order made for your own safety. You were caught with not one, not even two, but five very dangerous, prohibited weapons. You behaved insubordinately to professors and left in the middle of a conversation when you knew you were likely to be punished. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Harry glanced towards Dumbledore's golden throne; the aged wizard regarded him gravely. He turned back to McGonagall. "I know I broke a lot of school rules, but I believe every single thing I did last night was the right thing to do."

"I see," McGonagall said, lips thinning. "Mr. Potter, as punishment for the aforementioned actions, fifty points will be docked from Gryffindor." The Gryffindor table gasped. "You will sit detentions each night from seven to nine until Christmas break, save those nights when you have other school obligations during those times. If a teacher finds you with dangerous contraband again, expect to be suspended or expelled. Do you understand?"

Harry gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione spoke first. "You're going to punish him for saving my life?" she shouted.

"Sit down, Miss Granger," McGonagall snapped. Hermione started to reply, but Harry caught her eye and shook his head minutely. She slowly sunk back into her seat.

"I understand, Professor," Harry said.

"Your trunk and dormitory will be searched this morning; if we find any other weapons, I may increase this punishment. You will not return to Gryffindor Tower before lunch. You are dismissed."

Harry returned to his now-cold eggs. The other students took much longer to return to their gossip.

But the juiciest rumor in Hogwarts since Professor Blake had been found in a broom cupboard with three fifth-year boys had just been confirmed.

And as for Hermione...

"I cannot believe that...that...that parochial, pedantic, sophistic, draconian harridan!" she told Harry, staring mutinously at McGonagall.

During the next few weeks, the teachers noticed a marked decrease in Hermione's class participation, but they assumed it was a temporary result of her traumatic experience. Gradually, it became the new normal.

They never realized what they'd lost.

—

"Did you notice Snape was limping?" Neville asked as they came up the stairs after Potions that day.

"Yes," Hermione said. "He looked like he was moving stiffly last night, didn't he?" Hermione said.

"Snape wasn't with the other teachers," Harry said. "They went down into the dungeons to find the troll, I think, but he went up the stairs alone."

Neville frowned. "Why would he do that?"

"I overheard Dumbledore ordering him to guard a 'stone'," Harry said as they sat in the middle of the Gryffindor table.

"Stone? What stone?" Hermione asked.

"He didn't say," Harry said, reaching for a dish of potatoes, but he frowned when he missed the serving spoon.

He glanced over and the dish was empty. Must've not been paying attention, he decided, and reached for a plate of sandwiches.

"But it sounded like they both knew what he—" Once again, his hand met nothing but air. He looked up, and frowned as he noticed the plate was empty. It hadn't been like that before, had it?

This time, Harry watched as he reached for a steak and kidney pie, but the pie vanished a moment before he touched the plate.

"What…?" He glanced up and down the table, and spotted an older, bigger boy with a wand in his hand. Harry reached for a platter of steaks, keeping an eye on the boy; sure enough, the other boy flicked his wand, and the steaks vanished, reappearing on another platter further down the table.

Harry reached for his own wand and pointed it at one of the steaks, incating "Wingardium Leviosa." The steak lifted off the patter and floated down the table, landing on Harry's plate. The other boy glared; Harry gave him a cheeky grin and dug in.

After a lunch which was thankfully free of any more disappearing food, Harry, Hermione and Neville left the Great Hall. They turned at footsteps behind them to find Ron trying to catch up.

"Erm...hey," he said.

Hermione glared at him and Harry regarded him levelly, but Neville offered a polite "Hello."

"Hermione…" Ron scuffed his toe against the flagstones. "Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?"

"Alright," she said guardedly, and they headed off into a corridor for some privacy.

"What's that about?" Neville asked.

"Hermione was in the loo last night because Ron insulted her," Harry explained. "I...encouraged him to apologize."

"Right," Neville said skeptically.

It was about that time that Snape walked down the grand staircase. "Potter," he said, "a word."

Harry sighed. "Yes, Professor?"

"Your dormitory has been searched and no further...contraband has been found," Snape said. "I must admit, I was surprised. If you had so little sense that you'd carry five knives in your pockets, I thought you'd have more."

Harry usually tried to avoid lying directly, but he knew how to do it. The trick was to temporarily make yourself believe that the lie is the truth, and then to behave exactly as you would if you were being honest. So he quickly constructed the fiction in his mind, then met Snape's eyes, just as he would if he were telling the truth. "I have no need for any others, sir. I only carried that many because three of them were designed to be thrown; otherwise, two would have sufficed."

Snape regarded him with a raised eyebrow for a long moment; Harry held the idea that he had no other knives fixed in his mind. After a moment, Snape said, "Designed to be thrown?"

"Throwing knives is a sort of...not sport, exactly, but a recreational skill among Muggles. It's usually done for show, but it can be useful at times."

"Trust a Potter to grandstand even in combat," Snape snorted. "Suffice to say, Potter, I'm not going to take your word on this—you might have anticipated the search and removed them from your trunk. Turn out your pockets."

Harry did, but he wasn't carrying anything against the rules.

"And your mokeskin pouch?"

"No, sir," Harry said truthfully. "Just a family heirloom in there—nothing dangerous."

"I see," he said, and held out his hand. "Your bag."

Harry swung it off his shoulder and watched as Snape rifled through it. After a moment, he withdrew Harry's Potions kit and popped it open. His silver Potions knife was inside.

"Tut, tut, Potter," Snape said. "That will be another ten points. At this rate, Gryffindor might run out before dinner…"

Harry's jaw tightened. This had been the point all along, hadn't it? Snape wasn't looking for weapons; he was looking for excuses.

"Sir, a Potions knife is standard school equipment—"

"But given your…history with such objects, you should not be carrying one for a moment longer than necessary. You should have returned it to your dormitory immediately after class."

But I wasn't allowed to return to my dormitory, Harry didn't say. Snape would just take points for talking back. "I understand, sir," Harry ground out.

"Good," Snape said, and gave Harry's bag back. "That will be all." And he headed towards the dungeons, robes billowing behind him.

"Git," Harry said once he was out of earshot.

"Who's a git?" Ron asked as he and Hermione returned. Hermione looked somewhat mollified; Ron must have made a decent apology.

"Snape," Neville said. "He took points off Harry for carrying his Potions knife."

"Git," Hermione said, and Neville and Ron gave her shocked looks. Harry grinned at her.

"Come on," Harry said, "Snape said I'm cleared to enter the Tower again. I'm hip-deep in homework right now; I should get some of it out of the way."

Gryffindor Tower, though, was only marginally friendlier to Harry than Snape's classroom. The boy playing keep-away with the food at lunch was only the first incident of the day. All afternoon, Gryffindors glared at Harry, whispered when he was in sight, and bumped into him on purpose. Two different girls spilled ink on his homework; a sixth-year boy even tripped him as he was heading out the portrait hole to his detention. Honestly, by the time he left the Common Room, he was glad to be shot of the place.

And so after two hours spent scrubbing at his own bloody shoe prints under Flich's supervision, Harry found himself venting to Hermione instead of reading his Defense assignment. "They're all angry with me, but they don't even really know what happened—just what McGonagall said."

Hermione tapped the end of her quill on the desk they were sharing. "Well, what if we told them?" she suggested.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

She told him. Then they went to find a prefect. Percy wasn't amenable, but his female counterpart was willing to listen.

And so the next morning, after a grueling Quidditch practice, a shower in the locker room, and another search by Snape, Harry found Hermione waiting for him beside the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Everyone's inside, Harry. They're waiting for you."

He ran a hand through his hair. "I hope you're right about this," he said.

"Me too," Hermione admitted.

"After we're done, give me half an hour and come on up to my dormitory, all right? Knock on the door before you enter. Then we'll do our first training session."

"Okay," she said.

"Pig snout," Harry said to the Fat Lady, and they entered.

The Common Room was packed. Nearly every Gryffindor was there, in chairs and on couches, leaning against walls and standing up straight. Most of them looked none too friendly. They seemed to be facing the fireplace, so Harry and Hermione cut through the crowd to stand there.

"Thanks for coming, everyone," he said. "I'm afraid I dug a bit of a hole for us"—there was some mutinous muttering—"and I thought my House deserved to at least know why."

Everyone at least looked curious at this. It was a start, he supposed.

"It all started during dinner last night. Hermione wasn't there, and I'd heard that she was in one of the girl's loos. She didn't know the troll was loose. I couldn't get P—a prefect's attention, and I couldn't see any of the teachers, so I stayed behind in the Great Hall…"

And so Harry told the whole story, editing it only lightly to avoid mentioning the Invisibility Cloak. When he mentioned throwing a knife at the troll's back, Seamus broke in.

"Wait a minute, you had a knife?"

"I carry several different knives and daggers," Harry said. "Or at least I did until McGonagall took them."

"Why?"

"The, er, place I live…it isn't very safe," he said uncomfortably. "I have to carry knives to keep…people from hurting me. I've never really attacked anyone with one of my knives; just drawing it is usually enough. Knives need no demonstrations."

"There are places like that?" Seamus asked curiously.

"Yeah, my neighborhood's pretty rough, too," Dean said. "I'd carry a knife there if I could get my hands on one."

"Why did you keep carrying them when you were at Hogwarts, though?" Angelina Johnson, his Quidditch teammate, asked.

"I…" He looked down at the ground and adjusted his glasses on his nose, trying to decide how to approach this. "When Voldemort—really, people, it's just a word, not a curse—when he attacked my parents, they were unarmed. Defenseless. I don't ever want to make the same mistake."

Nobody knew how to respond to that, so after a moment, he continued the story. When he got to the part where he stabbed the troll's neck, the boy from lunch the previous day scoffed. "Jumped on a troll's back and slit its throat? Are we supposed to believe this tripe?"

Harry stared at the boy for a long moment. He was either a large second year or a small third year, though Katie Bell's presence behind the couch he was lounging on suggested the former. The silence was finally broken by the most unlikely person.

"W-where d'you think the blood came from, then?" Neville said. "We all saw it Thursday night."

"He messed around with some knives, and cut himself, and McGonagall caught him, and he mouthed off," the boy said. "And he's lying to the whole House now to cover his arse."

Harry narrowed his eyes and was about to reply scathingly, but George cut across him from the back of the common room. "He can't have, McLaggen."

"We all showered after practice this morning," Fred said.

"He didn't have a cut on him, 'cept the obvious head wound," George continued.

"So he went to Pomfrey and she fixed him up," this McLaggen said.

"But she didn't clean up the blood?" Hermione said. "I was there—I saw the whole thing. It went as Harry said."

"Yeah, you would say that," McLaggen said.

"What?"

"I've heard about you, you know. Following Potter around like an eager puppy. His little pet Muggle."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Harry got there first. "You'll want to be careful there, McLaggen," he said coldly. "Last time something had a go at Hermione, it ended up bleeding out in a girls' loo."

McLaggen's eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?"

Harry made an educated guess about McLaggen. "I'm just saying, some people are just talk, and some people aren't. The first type ought to be careful of the second."

McLaggen lunged for Harry, reaching for his wand, but Katie Bell grabbed his shoulders and forced him back down. "Sit down and shut up, you bloody berk."

McLaggen glowered, but stayed put.

"Cheers, Katie," Harry said. "Now, for the rest…" He glanced at Hermione uncertainly.

"Oh! Er...well, the teachers came a moment later," Hermione said. "McGonagall started scolding Harry for rescuing me, and…"

"She sort of implied that the Hogwarts rules were more important than Hermione's life."

Hermione was looking the floor. "I couldn't stand to be in that room any longer. I ran."

"And I followed her," Harry said, "ignoring McGonagall's instructions to stay."

Harry looked over the assembled Gryffindors. They were silent.

"I'm not sorry for what I did, but I am sorry that Gryffindor got hurt because of it. I'll try to pick up points where I can, but I doubt I'll make up the whole deficit, and I'm sorry about that." He paused and cracked a smile. "Besides, at the rate Hermione earns points, we'd be worse off if she were out for a month."

"Harry!" she said, and smacked his arm. But she had an oddly pleased smile on her face, too.

"I won't take up any more of your time. Thanks for listening." And with that, the crowd started to break up. Percy and a group of fifth years headed for the portrait hole; McLaggen started to lift himself off the couch; the Weasley twins headed for the boys' dormitory stairs. Harry made a beeline for the twins, but stopped when he heard Hermione speak.

"By the way, McLaggen?"

"Yeah?"

Hermione raised her wand. "Petrificus Totalus!"

McLaggen's entire body suddenly went stiff as a board, and he fell forward on his face. Several people laughed. It was an impressive bit of magic; Harry didn't know Hermione was that far ahead.

"You'd best remember that I'm a witch, not a Muggle."

Harry grinned at her, then headed up the stairs. He caught up to the Weasley twins a floor up. "George, George, I have a proposition for you two."

The twins looked at each other. "Didn't Mum tell us not to listen to propositions from boys?" one of them said.

"No, she told Ginny that," the other one said. "She never said it to us."

"Okay," the first twin shrugged. "Why not?"

The two of them followed Harry into his dormitory. "I have a magical object you'd probably be able to put to good use," Harry said. "The problem is, I don't really know how to use it properly without getting caught. I suspect there are some spells that could help. I'd be willing to let you borrow it occasionally if you'd figure it out and teach me what to do."

The twins looked at each other again for a long moment, seeming to have a silent conversation. Finally, the one on the left said, "We could probably do that, depending on what this 'object' is."

Harry reached into his mokeskin pouch, and they gasped as he drew out his Invisibility Cloak.

Once they'd finished bowing and scraping and retreated to their room with the Cloak for some heavy-duty plotting, Harry closed the door and opened his trunk's library compartment. He inverted Beedle the Bard and the shelves slid down, revealing an empty portrait.

"Grandmother? Grandfather?" Harry called.

Charlus peaked around the edge of the frame. "Harry, is that you?"

"Yeah."

"I heard voices yesterday. What was that about?"

"I got into a bit of trouble, and the teachers searched my trunk…" Harry quickly explained the events of the previous night.

"You're all right, though?" Dorea asked.

"Yes, Grandmother," Harry answered.

"And your friend is fine too?"

"Yes, Grandmother," Harry said again, with a hint of irritation.

"Good." She smacked Charlus's shoulder. "This is all your fault, you know. No Black ever did something so reckless, and the Evanses were such a gentle couple…"

"What about Sirius?" Charlus said.

"Only after spending years with a Potter," Dorea said, spitting out the name like a curse.

"You spent decades with me," Charlus pointed out.

"And I didn't faint dead away when I heard that my grandson jumped on a troll's back and slit its throat," Dorea retorted. "You Potters have obviously led me astray, too." She turned back to Harry. "Please, honey, please be careful. You're the last Potter. Don't end up being the last Potter."

"I understand, Grandmother," Harry said with a sad smile. "I need to get into the compartment—Hermione asked me to teach her how to fight."

Dorea shook her head ruefully. "Another perfectly sensible person swept up the family madness," she said as the portrait clicked and swung open.

The compartment contained only a few items: the nude photos, the illegal charms book, and the remainder of Harry's knife collection. He left his butterfly knife (and its blunt trainer) in the compartment—it was too difficult for him to throw accurately, too intricate for Hermione to learn quickly, and frankly too showy for a situation where they'd only be pulling the knives if they needed to use them. For Hermione, he chose a combat knife with a fixed black blade, laminated canvas handle and perfect balance for throwing. That left him using his very first knife—a black folding utility knife. The balance was too far forward and the blade was designed more for wood than flesh, but he knew it very well. It was also responsible for a wicked scar across Vernon's chest, which was a nice plus.

Harry heard a knock on the door. "Just a minute!" he said. He quickly extracted his selections, closed the portrait, bookcase, and trunk, and crossed to the door. Hermione was waiting when he opened it.

"Come in," he said, and he closed the door behind her.

She glanced at his hands, still holding the knives. "I should've known you'd have more," she said with a hint of amusement. "We're not going to do this here, are we?"

"No," Harry said, "I have another place for that. The problem is, Snape's been searching me every chance he gets." He looked into her eyes. "I'll need you to carry these."

Hermione bit her lip for a moment, but when she took the knives and said "Sure," it was with conviction.

The two of them headed down to the common room and through the portrait hole, and Hermione followed Harry to the abandoned corridor he'd found. He showed he around (she seemed particularly interested in the anatomical dummies), then they sat down in the classroom.

"Okay, this is the knife you'll be using. The blade and the handle should be obvious enough. The metal part that extends from the blade and runs through the handle is called the tang…"

"...and the point on the pommel is for breaking glass, sir," Hermione finished half an hour later.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"That...that is the pommel, right?"

"Yes. You got it all right." Did she not realize she said 'sir'? He mentally shrugged. "Now that we've covered all that, let's look at how you grip it…"

—

The talk with Gryffindor did a lot of good. Many Gryffindors' ire shifted from Harry to Professor McGonagall; nobody volunteered an answer in Harry's next Transfiguration class, and he didn't see a Gryffindor approach her at a meal or in the hallways for over a week. Not everyone was on Harry's side—Percy Weasley seemed to think the simple fact that he'd broken the rules damned him, and McLaggen didn't seem to forget Harry's insults—but it was a major improvement over being the pariah.

It helped that the first Quidditch game was growing nearer. Not only was Gryffindor's attention diverted to their rivalry with Slytherin, but Harry was their great hope to win the game. It was hard to hold a grudge against the boy you were counting on for a victory.

All this meant Harry's performance in the Quidditch game would be even more important. A win, he was sure, would bury the remaining animosity; a loss would reignite it. Wood ramped up the practices—Filch gritted his teeth, jowls quivering with indignation, when Harry told him that, for the fifth night in a row, he would not be coming to detention—and, despite the pressure, Harry woke up the morning of the game feeling like he had the Quidditch thing under control.

—

"—looks like Potter is completely out of control up there!" Lee Jordan's voice boomed through the stadium.

Harry would've sent a glare towards the commentator's box if he weren't clinging for his life to his broom, which had started zigzagging and rolling over all on its own. Then the broom jerked wildly and he was flying through the air. For a moment he flailed his arms, desperately reaching for the broom, and barely caught it by one hand.

Far, far below, in the Gryffindor stands, Hermione's end of the white bedsheet labeled Potter for President fluttered down.

"Harry! Grab my hand!" The Weasley twins had arrived. Harry reached for the one who'd spoken, but yelped as the broom jerked upwards.

They made several more attempts, with no more success. Finally, Harry said, "This isn't going to work. Fred, circle a hundred feet down. George, three hundred. Be ready to catch me."

The Weasley twins looked at him with wide eyes, but they nodded and dove.

The broom was now vibrating continuously. Harry swung a little, trying to get his other hand on it, but that only loosened his hold even more.

There was nothing for it. He looked down at the Weasley twins circling below him.

"GERONIMO!" he yelled, mostly to warn them.

Then Harry let go.

Diving on his broom was always an exhilarating experience. Free fall was different. Free fall was terrifying. The wind was tearing at his robes—his heart was in his throat—he heard Fred yell, but couldn't see him—Fred's broom whipped by only a couple seconds later, far too soon, and he flailed for it, but couldn't reach it—the air was rushing by too fast for him to breathe—Fred was diving, but Harry was falling faster—George was flying to intercept him—Harry reached for the broom—his fingers wrapped around it—YES!—but the broom suddenly, unnaturally lurched, and the handle was wrenched out of his hand—he was tumbling—the ground was getting larger—the only thing keeping him from vomiting was the knowledge that it'd just splatter all over his own face—Fred and George were both diving, outrunning the Beater's bats they'd dropped—the crowd was screaming—his Nimbus still hung in midair—there was some sort of commotion in the teachers' section—the ground was far too close—huh, that was the Snitch above him—in the unlikely event he survived this, he'd be looking up spells for surviving long falls the moment he could walk to the library again—Fred was right there, yelling something he couldn't hear—

Fred! he realized with a jolt. He'd caught up somehow! Harry seized Fred's wrist, and Fred grabbed Harry's, and he pulled up hard, and Harry flailed out with his other hand as he felt the one on Fred's wrist slip, and found purchase on the broomstick as his toes brushed the grass, and then they were in the air again, twenty, thirty, forty feet up, circling the pitch as the crowd burst into wild cheers.

"All right there, Harry?" Fred asked.

"Yeah," he said, breathing deeply, looking up at the sky above them. "We have a problem, though."

"What's that?" Fred asked.

"I've spotted the Snitch."

Fred grinned broadly. "Then what are you waiting for?"

Harry let go of Fred, gripping the broom handle with both hands, and jerked it up into a steep climb.

Harry tried to make it look like they were flying back to his Nimbus Two Thousand, but once he reached the proper altitude, he banked sharply to the right and poured on all the speed he could.

The Snitch was the first to notice their pursuit; it zigged left, then zagged down. Lee Jordan was next, twenty seconds later. "I don't believe it! Potter and Weasley are going for the Snitch!" The other Seeker, Higgs, quickly whirled around and started climbing, but he'd been caught on the other side of the pitch and a thousand feet too low.

Still, Harry couldn't quite reach the Snitch. "We're too slow!" he yelled over the howling wind.

"Well, I can't let you show me up anyway," Fred said. "Oi, George!" he yelled over his shoulder, then he threw his leg over the broom and slipped off the right side.

Even as Harry shouted wordlessly, though, George flew up about ten feet below him, and Fred landed on his brother's broom. He must've been following behind them the whole time, and Fred had known it. "Good hunting!" George yelled, and with a wave, the Weasley twins were gone.

"Right," Harry mumbled. He reversed his grip on Fred's broom and deftly pulled it into a roll that swung him up onto it, then accelerated as hard as he could.

Ten feet—five feet—the Snitch dodged, but he followed it—it accelerated, but though Fred's broom was slower than Harry's Nimbus, he still kept up—it dove, but that only made Harry faster—two feet—one—it jinked right—Harry lunged—it weaved down—he followed—it actually went up his robes—he reflexively closed his knee—and it got trapped between his calf and thigh!

Harry reached down and plucked the Snitch out of his robes, then held it up high.

—

"I don't understand, though," Harry said, looking into a very, very strong cup of Hagrid's tea. "Why did the Nimbus seize up?"

"It was Snape," Neville said.

"Rubbish," Hagrid said.

"We saw him!" Hermione insisted. "We scanned the crowd with binoculars. He had his wand on Harry and was muttering an incantation. He was jinxing Harry's broom. And then he jinxed George's broom too!"

"Maybe 'e were castin' a counter," Hagrid said. "If the one cursin' Harry was summat stronger, 'e wouldn' be able to stop 'im."

"But the jinxes stopped after I set Snape's robes on fire," Hermione said.

"After you—what?" Harry said.

"I snuck under the stands in the teachers' section and used my bluebell flame charm to set Snape's robes on fire," Hermione said sheepishly.

"Wow," Harry said. "I guess you saved my life too, then. Thanks."

Hermione blushed. "I'm only returning the favor."

"Dumbledore trusts Snape," Hagrid said.

But why should we? Harry didn't say.

Neville frowned. "I guess that's true. Remember Halloween? When he asked Snape to guard that stone?"

Hagrid dropped the teapot. "How did you hear about the Philosopher's Stone?"

Hermione gasped. "He was guarding a Philosopher's Stone?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

—

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