Matou Shinji and the Philosopher's Stone
A Harry Potter / Fate Stay Night Story
Disclaimer: Though I wish it were otherwise, I do not own or in any way, shape or form hold a legal or moral claim to elements of either the Nasuverse, the Potterverse, or other works I may reference in the course of this story.
Summary: Ladies of Eternity, magi of the past hiding in the present, with ancient, nigh unfathomable crafts at their command. That is the destiny of a Witch in the Moonlit world, with the female child of a witch bearing the destiny of inheriting the blood and history of their line without any exceptions, upon which the mother will expire, her task done. But this is a story of a Witch's son – a boy tossed aside by destiny – a boy determined to become someone special, with blood, sweat, and wand. This is the story of Shinji Matou, and his newfound path in the Wizarding World.
Chapter 14. Rumors and Tongues
For Harry Potter, being able to help defeat the troll which threatened his schoolmates, instead of just waiting like a damsel in distress or running away while others fought in his place had felt good. True, the others had all done more than he – the Weasley Twins and Hillard using their more advanced knowledge of charms and transfiguration, and his friend Shinji unleashing an overwhelming barrage of power that even the upperclassmen had been surprised at with arts that the Ravenclaw had only begun to show him.
Now that he understood a little of how they worked, thanks to Shinji giving him a few ofuda to base his own on, he had even more respect for his friend and how hard he worked. While many others – especially in Slytherin – were under the impression that the boy from the East could simply use non-verbal, wandless magic as a first year—and were quite intimidated (and curious, given that Pansy had asked about him a few times), the truth was somewhat different.
In learning how to make ofuda of his own, he'd learned that the process was like storing a spell, tying together power and purpose for later use – and that displays such as Shinji had used against the troll were only possible with hours – no – days or weeks – of preparation. He alone knew his friend's secret, and if anything, it had only bolstered his respect for the other boy, since it meant he didn't actually have overwhelming power (and couldn't just blow past everything with ease). Shinji Matou worked just as hard as he did every day – perhaps even harder – because his Craft demanded it, and with hard work came reward.
Harry had not been used to that, because working too hard in school while he was at the Dursleys – and God forbid, showing up Dudley – would have resulted in mutterings about "freaks", "freakishness", and unnatural advantages, often leading to him going to bed without anything to eat. He'd learned not to fail, either, since having a progress note sent home with him would lead to him being punished for being a burden and embarrassment to the family that had so kindly taken him in – usually resulting in him having an extra set of chores to do – and again, no food.
For years he'd had to avoid the Scylla and Charybdis of failure and excellence alike, and had learned the art of mediocrity.
But that had all changed one night – the night out on the island when he'd learned what really happened to his parents, when he had learned that he was the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World; that as the Boy-Who-Lived, he had somehow defeated Voldemort, a wizard so terrible and feared that people flinched at his name, calling him "You-Know-Who."
He'd seen it then – that look in Hagrid's eye. The look in Quirrell's eye, in the eyes of all the people at the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. Even Snape questioning him – grilling him on the first day of class with what he later learned were advanced potions.
The expectations had changed. People didn't really see Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-In-A-Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs; they saw Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and expected only the best.
He had beaten a Dark Wizard as a child, they'd said, so how could he be anything less than a legend.
Being sorted into Slytherin House – seeing the utter silence of nearly the entire Great Hall, when there'd been at least polite clapping for everyone else, had underscored that. The person they wanted wasn't Harry – it was the Boy-Who-Lived, and as he later learned, his Sorting had stunned them, as Slytherin House had apparently been where Volde—You-Know-Who had been, and they wondered why the person who had ended his reign of terror had gone to his very house.
And the House of Snakes had lived up to its slippery, slithery name – Slytherin – Slithering, as he sometimes thought of it.
There was the pale faced boy he'd met in Diagon Alley, Draco Malfoy, the one who had spoken briefly of the Houses and how he had hoped not to be in Hufflepuff. There were the mean, heavyset boys who followed him. There was a boy named Zabini who didn't associate with anyone. And there were the girls, some of which had helped orient him to what was expected of a Slytherin in return for his—the Boy-Who-Lived's—company, and those who aligned themselves with Malfoy, whose father was apparently a very important man in the Wizarding World.
The upper years mostly ignored them, not pranking them, but not helping them either – in the Snake Pit, the upper years cared not for those beneath them; they were nobody – might as well not even exist - until they made themselves somebody. Somebody to be feared, somebody to be respected, through power, wit, and skill.
Slowly, Harry had grown used to the idea that Hogwarts wasn't some world of fantasy, that going there hadn't really let him escape the problems of the real world. After all, it was just a school, albeit a school where people could use magic, with its rivalries, pettiness, rumors, and more.
…and where, as the Boy-Who-Lived, as the Wizarding World's Saviour, he was expected to know things, and his opinion mattered.
…that was something he found most unsettling, with the support of his friend in Ravenclaw – the only person who had clapped for him when he'd been Sorted, who had said he was fine with whatever path Harry took, what he found reassurance in.
So when his friend had started showing him bits of the Eastern Arts, Harry had poured his effort into learning them with everything he had. These scraps of knowledge, things that would help him be set apart from the other Slytherins – to keep their respect – were like water placed before a man in a desert. It was difficult – it was unfamiliar – it wasn't natural to him, unlike how flying had seemed – but he learned it, nonetheless, even as it hurt him every time his friend was pranked – probably because of him.
…even as the nightmares came, more often now, of the night when he'd lost his parents, of them begging for him to be spared – and then that horrible green light.
He wondered sometimes if it might be the green and silver theme of Slytherin House that made him dream about this, but he couldn't do anything about that – so he'd worked himself into exhaustion in a vain attempt to not have to dream at all.
…all of which had led to him playing a part in defeating a troll in his first year, with the five who fought that day now part of an organization (the Stone Cutter Society) ostensibly led by the Boy-Who-Lived himself. Harry knew better, though, knew that in power and skill, he was perhaps the least of them, even if his name had more weight than all the others put together.
But he didn't care, as he was one of them, having earned his place among them through what he'd done (fighting beside them) – not what he was said to have done (defeating Voldemort). To them, he was Harry, a brave and skilled first year – but still a first year, even if to the outside world, he was the Boy-Who-Lived, the one from who everyone expected great and terrible things.
Even now, as he walked through the corridors to the Great Hall – as Professor Flitwick had mentioned in the wake of the Troll Incident, the Dueling Club, which had been disbanded several years ago, was going to be reinstated, with a meeting that evening for all interested students—he could hear others murmuring, whispering quietly that the Boy-Who-Lived probably didn't need instruction in dueling.
After all, had he – and his band of followers – not killed a troll? Not just defeated it – but utterly destroyed it?
Rumors were flying already about what the five must be capable of, what secrets they held, what powers they commanded. For through action, they had distinguished themselves as heroes…even if, aside from the Boy-Who-Lived and maybe the Prefect, who had done his duty, it was agreed they were about the unlikeliest people imaginable.
Coming to the Great Hall itself, Harry could see that it looked quite different from its usual appearance. The long dining tables - one for each house and one for the teachers – were gone, with a great golden stage against one long wall of the room, illuminated by thousands of candles floating overhead.
The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.
"Do you think it will be Flitwick who'll be teaching us?" Daphne Greengrass asked from beside him – she was usually there, if not Pansy – as they edged into the chattering crowd. "He did used to be a dueling champion when he was young."
"Could be," Harry said in a non-committal manner. "But it could also be Quirrell, since he does teach Defense against the Dark Arts."
"Not that you have much to learn after beating a troll, right, Potter?" the blonde asked, curious to see that the 'hero' would have to say. "Then again, after beating a Dark Lord as a baby, facing down a troll must have been a walk in the park."
Harry forced himself to chuckle. He hadn't thought it was a doddle to battle a troll, but then he knew that in Slytherin, his reputation was the most potent weapon he had against being pranked or teased.
"There's always something to learn, Greengrass," he replied with practiced ease. "After all, there's always someone better."
"Hm," Daphne murmured, not agreeing or disagreeing. "So you say, Potter. But there are plenty worse."
And that Harry certainly couldn't deny, so he'd only grunted, a sound that made the girl beside him laugh quietly. He had to admit that it wasn't an unpleasant sound, and so he didn't really mind not knowing if she was laughing at – or with – him.
What little laughter there had been at the Dursley household had been at his expense. Hogwarts, if a more dangerous place in some respects, was also something of a happier one.
Their questions as to who would be leading this session were put to rest a few minutes later, as at exactly eight o'clock, Professors Flitwick and Quirrell arrived, one on either side of the Great Hall. Slowly, with the crowd parting to let them pass, they made their way to the stage, walking up onto the stage from opposite ends.
Quirrell, of course, wore his usual robes of black and plum (the better to match his turban), while the diminutive Charms Professor was clad in an outfit reminiscent of a Muggle coat and vest.
Both bowed to each other, and then to the students, before Flitwick addressed the assembled crowd.
"Greetings. Greetings, everyone!" the head of Ravenclaw House – and former Dueling Champion exclaimed, his hands spread to welcome the masses of students. "In the wake of the dreadful affair with the troll, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to reinstate the dueling club."
A ragged cheer went up from the students, and the part-goblin had to smile at the sight of so many people – almost all of the first through fourth years, with a scattering of some of the older students.
"It is my hope – and that of Professor Quirrell, our Defense against the Dark Arts professor, that through this club, you can learn skills to help you defend yourself, should you ever find yourself in an unfortunate situation such as the one faced by Misters Potter, Matou, Weasleys, and Hillard," the Professor squeaked, nodding to each of them in turn. "Those five certainly demonstrated remarkable creativity, a sound sense of strategy – and not a little luck – in bringing down a full-grown troll, but we feel that with training, you too can overcome what Professor Quirrell calls the greatest enemy a wizard can face – fear."
"Indeed, Professor Flitwick," Quirrell chimed in, eyes pausing on each of the Stone Cutters in turn, with Harry feeling a slightly uncomfortable burning sensation as the Defense Professor regarded him with an unreadable expression. "But remember this – no matter how much training you do, there is no wizard who does not tremble in the face of death." He paused then, to let his voice sink in. "The best trained wizards, however, are the ones who do not freeze, who are not paralyzed by what could happen, and so can only watch as the end comes. They are the ones who dare, who fight, who…live."
The Great Hall was silent in the wake of his words. This wasn't the first time they'd heard the man express such sentiments, but it was one of his most vehement deliveries to date – and it struck a chord, in the wake of the incident with the troll.
"…thank you, Professor Quirrell," Flitwick said, nodding. "Now, before we begin, we thought it would be instructive to have a short demonstration of one can learn. Quirinus here once studied dueling under me, and since we can't simply find a troll on short notice, he has agreed to help me with a small demonstration."
It took a moment, but the students seemed to come to life at that announcement. Two professors dueling? The man who had made the study of charms his career – no, his life, and the man who had delved into the intricacies of defending against the Dark Arts.
This would be quite a show.
"Well then, given the circumstances, I suppose this would be a good a time as any to give my long promised…demonstration," the Defense Professor noted quietly, with some wondering what he was talking about – and then the buzzing redoubling as they remembered what he'd talked about on the first day of class.
Blocking spells – even the unforgivable – not with shields or conjured objects, but with other spells.
With that, Flitwick and Quirrell turned to face each other and bowed slightly, before raising their wands in front of them, their stances quite different. One had a stance that spoke of agility, being light on his feet, ready to move at a moment's notice; the other's stance spoke of strength and solidity, of power, of confidence.
"Students, if you would count to three for us, please?" Flitwick squeaked out, with the gathered crowd beginning the count.
One.
"So we meet again at last, Professor - the circle is now complete," the man who had once been a Ravenclaw said to the one who had been his Head of House. "When we last met wand to wand - I was but a learner; now I am a master."
Two.
"A master you say? A bold claim, Quirinus," the former Dueling Champion noted with a half-smile, feeling the long-forgotten thrill of the stage flow through him once again. It had been a very long time since he'd had a good challenge, and he wondered if his former student would grant him what he sought.
Three.
On the count of three, neither said anything further.
Both moved, with furious streams of spells shooting towards each other.
Flitwick – true to his stance – dodged most of the ones meant for him, mingled bolts of blue, red, and purple streaking for the defense professor.
But Quirrell had merely smiled, a rapid-fire volley of what looked like Flipendos – the Knockback Jinx – most basic of all offensive moves, darting from his wand to intercept each of the colored bolts coming for him, with miniature explosions erupting in midair as spell met spell.
"Merlin!" someone whispered in audience.
Taking advantage of the Defense Professor's shift in focus, Flitwick followed up with what looked like the bright red bolt of an Expelliarmus, only for the spell to be batted away by the silvery distortion of a Shield Charm, flying back towards the Charms Professor, who hastily raised his own Shield to counter.
That one spell was deflected back and forth for a few exchanges before Quirrell changed the angle of his shield, causing the bolt to hit the ground and fizzle out.
This momentary break in the action gave Flitwick the opportunity to conjure a small flock of pure white birds, which he sent at Quirrell like a hail of silver bullets, only for them to be transfigured into fresh cut roses, which fell, scattered, at his feet.
Whizzes, bangs, BOOMs! Echoed in the Great Hall as the two wizards battled, in a display of light, colors, and sounds that dazzled the audience. Flitwick, moving all about the stage, continually casting a nigh-ceaseless barrage of spell. Quirrell, who stood as if a mountain, not having moved from his spot since the beginning of the match, countering spell chains by intercepting some of the spells with other, simple spells.
He rarely used a shield, preferring a more aggressive form of defense that caused his opponent's spells to explode in mid-air.
But then, in a flash, the match ended – two sets of blue-white shields going up nearly at once – one around the stage, and one around Quirrell, as an errant spell-ray the Defense Professor had dismissed, as it would come nowhere close to hitting him, impacted one of the flowers at his feet, with it – then the next – then the next – erupting into a violent, orange-red explosion that deafened the room.
When the dust and smoke faded, Quirrell could be seen with his shields holding – and Flitwick's wand pointed right at him, ready for another powerful spell.
"It's over, Quirinus," the Charms Master said gruffly. "I have the high ground, so to speak. You're on the defensive."
"You underestimate my power, Filius," the Defense Professor retorted, though after a moment more, the shield flickered out, and he bowed to the part-goblin. "But you are indeed correct. You have me at…a disadvantage."
Flitwick followed suit, as the shield separating the stage from the students fell.
"Well fought, Quirinus," he said, with tones of praise and respect. "Such a defense as you employed is quite rare indeed, given the speed at which one would have to react." He was half talking to his fellow professor, and half to the gathered students, in case they tried it and hurt themselves.
"Indeed, which is why most rely on shields – or moving out of the way," Quirrell acknowledged. "But then sometimes the simple methods work best."
"Hm. You were always brilliant when it came to the theory, and quite adept at non-verbal spells, but the year of practical experience has done marvels for you in learning how to use your talent. Still, you never did learn to mind your surroundings."
"I will make a note of it, Filius."
With that, the two had saluted again, and went out into the crowds, pairing people off and quickly demonstrating how to do a proper disarming spell.
…Harry was somewhat dubious about how useful such a spell would be against a troll, given the sheer size of one meant its very body was a weapon – and the last time he'd seen it used, the club had almost smashed him anyway, but he supposed one had to start somewhere.
Looking around, the Boy-Who-Lived saw his friend Shinji paired with a bushy-haired girl – Granger he thought the name was – Malfoy paired with Ron Weasley (to their mutual disgust), Pansy paired with Tracey, and Crabbe and Goyle with each other. The Weasley Twins had been asked to help, apparently, as had Hillard, as they were helping to explain to others how to perform the spell – and people listened, based on their fame.
"Well, it looks as if I'm at your tender mercies, Potter," Daphne noted, almost coyly as she turned to face him. "Don't let it get to your head, Stone Cutter."
"You shouldn't just presume like that, Greengrass," Harry replied, half-smiling at his maybe-friend. In Slytherin, one never really knew exactly how much friendship was feigned and how much was genuine – at least until push came to shove. "But don't worry, I cut trolls – not pretty girls."
Daphne blushed prettily at that, but got into the ready position, with Harry mirroring her a moment later.
"Wands at the ready!" squeaked Flitwick. "When I count to three, cast to disarm your opponents - only to disarm them, I say!"
They looked at each other, wands outstretched.
One.
Two.
Three. They cast…and Harry's wand went flying – into his partner's hand.
"Potter…are you going easy on me?" Daphne asked as she handed him his wand.
"…no," Harry grumbled, taking the wand gingerly. "Maybe you're just faster than me,"
"Well…that would be something. Let's try that again then," she said, with narrowed eyes.
One.
Two.
Three.
This time, it was Daphne's wand that went flying, with the girl stumbling back several steps – but mostly because Harry had already been moving on the count of three.
"…how very Slytherin of you," Daphne commented as Harry handed her back her wand. "But not very gentlemanly. How exactly did you beat the troll again?"
"…trolls don't cast spells?" the Boy-Who-Lived asked weakly.
The two shared a look and chuckled.
"Well, you have power," the other Slytherin admitted, "I'll grant you that. One more time then? And try not to be such a Slytherin this time."
One.
Two.
Three.
This time, both of them ended up disarmed, save for each other's wands.
"Hmm, and a fast learner too," Daphne commented, as the two traded wands. "You obviously didn't use this spell during the fight with the troll though. Makes me curious as to what you did."
That, unfortunately, was something of a secret – he'd promised Shinji that he wouldn't tell others about ofuda without permission, just as Shinji kept his secrets. He'd done so twice, in fact, the first time just between them, the second, as part of the formation of the Stone Cutter Society.
"That…is a secret," Potter replied – really the only thing he could say for now, though it made Daphne look at him in a somewhat more…calculating fashion.
"Careful, Potter, you're starting to sound like a Dark Wizard," she said coolly, wanting to see how he reacted – an almost flinch, before brushing his scar. "But I guess the Boy-Who-Lived must have a few secrets."
Around them, the room had exploded into chaos, with Malfoy and Ron looking like they were rather worse for wear – one belching slugs and laughing on the floor uncontrollably, while the other had large black bats crawling out of his nostrils and flying in a cloud about in, and was dancing uncontrollably. Granger, on top of losing her wand, had nearly fallen over – and it was only the apparent quick thinking of her partner that kept her from hitting her head – though in their current position, it seemed as if the two had been doing some particularly intimate dance, with Shinji just having lowered her for a dip.
Crabbe and Goyle were unconscious after their spells had exploded, as were Longbottom and some Hufflepuff he didn't recognize.
"Finite Incantatem!" Flitwick spoke with authority, as all the strange effects vanished – the bats vanishing and slugs vanishing from Malfoy and Weasley, with the two regaining control of themselves. Granger, however, still seemed frozen in Shinji's arms, going beet red as she regained her feet and almost leapt backwards.
"It looks as if we will need someone to demonstrate how a Disarming charm should be performed," Professor Quirrell spoke up, his gaze flickering to survey every one of the students. "Otherwise, we might see more of these…accidents."
His tone was scathing, and several students paled.
"An excellent idea, Quirinus," Flitwick agreed, nodding.
"I thought you might agree, Filius," the Defense Professor said. He looked around, meeting Harry's eyes. "Mr. Potter, I noticed you and your partner displayed good technique with the Disarming Charm. Would you be willing to help us demonstrate its use?"
"Yes, Professor," he'd replied, which was about the only thing he could do, as he stepped forward.
"Now, who else would—"
"I would," a rather insufferable voice spoke up, with Draco Malfoy stepping forward, looking at Potter with visible disdain. "I volunteer, Professor."
"Well then, just remember that we are here to demonstrate the disarming curse, yes?"
Draco nodded, but the thin smile on his face made Harry think he was up to something.
"In that case, please take the stage," Flitwick squeaked, directing both of the boys towards the great, somewhat charred platform.
They did so, each watching the other as if thinking the other was about to pull some kind of underhanded trick.
"Face your partner and bow," Flitwick commanded, though Harry and Draco barely inclined their heads, not taking their eyes off of each other. "Wands at the ready. And—"
"Serpensortia!" Malfoy bellowed, as his wand seemed to explode, a long black snake – a King Cobra of all things, shooting out of it, falling heavily onto the floor between them as it raised itself, ready to strike.
It happened in an instant.
Enraged and hissing furiously at having been so unceremoniously conjured, it slithered straight towards Harry, its fangs exposed, poised to strike.
And Harry, out of reflex, shouted out: "Don't hurt me, please. Malfoy did it, not me!"
And miraculously - inexplicably – the snake seemed to slam to a halt as it looked at him.
'As you wisssh, Sssspeaker,' it said, dropping to the floor – and springing for the one who had summoned it as—
Malfoy screamed in agony, collapsing to his hands and knees as the snake's needle-like fangs sank deep into his arm. He scrabbled away from Harry, looking at the Boy-Who-Lived with utter terror in his eyes – the terror of those who know they are about to die – that they have angered something they could not hope to match.
Quirrell stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. He glanced at Harry briefly in an unexpected way – with a knowing smile, the sight of which chilled Harry to the bone.
"Filius, I'll get Malfoy to the Hospital Wing," the Defense Professor barked out, his expression concerned and shocked to all appearances as he quickly cast a stunning spell on the blond and proceeded to levitate the body. "You handle the others."
No small task, as most of the Hall was now looking at Harry in fear – and some, especially the Slytherins, with a sort of reverence. For his part, he didn't know what had just happened, only that—
"Mr. Potter, stay behind a moment, please," Professor Flitwick said quietly, though Harry noticed that he was holding his wand in the ready position. "The rest of you may go – I believe that is enough excitement for one evening."
Hearing they were dismissed, many began to stream out of the Great Hall – Ron Weasley throwing him a particularly hateful look, and Parkinson and Daphne both giving him supporting ones, except for four others.
"Stone Cutters, assemble!" the voice of Robert Hillard barked out, the crowd freezing in place as the Weasley twins and the boy from the east made their way over to Harry, drawing away from them as if they were frightened of catching something. They walked up to Harry and Filtwick and then turned to the crowd, serving as a human bulwark to keep their comrade from prying eyes as the Hall emptied.
"Now, Mr. Potter, would you mind explaining to me what just happened?" the part-goblin asked, not unkindly, as he lowered his wand. "Don't worry – you're not in trouble. I just want to get to the bottom of this."
"Malfoy conjured a snake," Harry said, the fear of the moment still fresh. "I…I asked it not to attack me."
Flitwick looked piercingly at Harry then, as if his eyes could see right through the Boy-Who-Lived.
"Did you say anything else?"
"Professor?" Harry asked, confused. "Weren't you right there? You heard what I said, right?"
"Mr. Potter," Flitwick began, his gaze softening. "I heard you, but I could not understand a word you said. You see, you were speaking in Parseltongue, the language of snakes."
Harry gaped.
"I spoke a different language? But - I didn't realize - how can I speak a language without knowing I can speak it? I mean, I've only spoken to a snake once before, when I accidentally set a boa constrictor on my cousin Dudley at the zoo on…ce…"
He trailed off then, swallowing as he realized just what he said. Perhaps not the wisest thing he could have, given the circumstances.
"In the wizarding world," Flitwick said after a long moment, "being a Parselmouth – talking to snakes – is a rare gift. It is, in fact, what Salazar Slytherin was famous for – and is the very reason why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent. I am sorry to say this, but with a student hurt, this is out of my hands – the headmaster will want to see you, Mr. Potter. Now, if possible."
Harry nodded, though he did ask, "Can one of my friends come with me?"
"Well…under the circumstances," Flitwick murmured, looking at the Stone Cutters, "one will be acceptable. Prefect Hillard, if you don't mind?"
"Not at all, Professor. Harry, is that alright with you?"
Harry nodded, and with that, he and Hillard were escorted to the Headmaster's Office.
Dumbledore had already been less than pleased to hear about the involvement of the Boy-Who-Lived in the defeat of the troll, much less the creation of the so-called Stone Cutter Society, especially as Harry Potter had somehow become the head of it, as opposed to one of the older students. While the headmaster would normally have been reassured by the presence of the Weasley Twins, who though mischievous were never truly cruel, he wondered at the involvement of two members of Ravenclaw House in this new organization – including one he was already suspicious of, as it was unusual for older students to defer to someone younger.
The charter of the organization, which mentioned that only those vetted and approved by the group of five could join, and that applicants needed to have something to contribute, further concerned him, given the gifts of those already part of it.
The troll's - the late troll's – condition had been proof enough of their talent, as this motley group of students had not only managed to subdue a troll, but had utterly defeated it in battle, leaving its body a smoking ruin, and its head – well, Dumbledore assumed it had been disintegrated, as it was simply gone.
The power it would take to do that to a troll – no student should not be capable of such firepower. No group of five students should be capable of such, not when two were first years, two were third years, and the oldest was a fifth year.
But defeat it they had, with Prefect Hillard of Ravenclaw House mentioning that Shinji Matou and Harry Potter, the two first years involved, had played a decisive part in defeating the troll. Given what he'd witnessed from the Weasleys Twins, he wagered that the transfiguration of stone to swamp that had stopped the troll in its tracks had been their doing, and he was aware of Hillard's record as part of the last iteration of the Dueling club…but what part had the others played?
As far as he could tell, the only other role this left the other two was supplying the raw power needed to get past the troll's resistance to magic – and kill it. Now, Dumbledore had seen in his time how strong emotion was capable of powering spells beyond their usual limits, but to the extent that a troll should have been decapitated by spells alone?
That…should not be possible.
And as much as he worried about the corrupting influence of the Matou boy, he didn't think the boy had such power – else he would have likely not fallen victim to a prank. Which left one suspect, really, Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, leader of the Stone Cutter Society, and now apparently…Parselmouth.
Indeed, Professor Flitwick was now explaining the incident that had occurred at the first meeting of the new Dueling Club, resulting in Draco Malfoy having been bitten by an extremely venomous snake that he had apparently conjured in an attempt to intimidate the Boy-Who-Lived. During the incident, Harry Potter had spoken to the snake in Parseltongue, resulting in the snake turning on its summonner before anyone thought to vanish it.
Malfoy was now resting in the infirmary, and was in stable condition after the administration of a bezoar.
"Thank you, Filius," Dumbledore said gravely. "I appreciate you bringing this to my attention so quickly."
…before Lucius Malfoy could make political hay out of the situation, as the man invariably would. But then, that was par for the course with Lucius, who fancied himself a counterweight to Dumbledore, and of all the former Death Eaters, held the most current influence.
At least this time, there was a chance to pre-empt the worst of it.
"Harry, my boy, it is good to see you – though I had hoped we would meet under better circumstances," the Headmaster greeted, aiming to seem pleasant and non-offensive. With the circumstances such that they were, the last thing he could afford was to alienate the Boy-Who-Lived or put him on the defensive.
Everything he was seeing, everything that had happened seemed to point to an unpleasant conclusion – that the Boy-Who-Lived was more like Tom Riddle than he had imagined. And yet, perhaps there was still a way to turn him from that path.
Potter had enough bad influences around him as it was. Clearly what he needed was a father figure, someone the poor boy could look towards for approval, instead of seeking all of it from his peers. Not that Dumbledore was great with children, but he liked to believe he made an effort.
…despite everyone warning him that things like hiding the Philosopher's Stone in Hogwarts were a bad idea. Clearly, if Voldemort truly had returned, then was it for the greater good that he be brought here, into the place where Dumbledore held power? And if a student died, well, better one death here, however terrible it was, then ten, a hundred, a thousand outside.
He'd accept those sins, would accept responsibility for their lives, would grieve if and when he needed, knowing it was still more than Riddle would do for the lives he took, knowing that in the end, he was doing what was right.
"Professor," Harry said politely. This was something like being called up to the principal's office, only worse – someone had actually gotten hurt this time, because he'd been careless.
Dumbledore looked into the boy's eyes, using legilimency to do a subtle probe of the boy's mind, but most importantly, checking to see if the boy had any training as an Occlumens. What he found was promising in that there were no obvious signs of Occlumency training, though the Headmaster was conceded that if the Boy-Who-Lived was an advanced Occlumens, like Severus Snape, then the use of that art would not be obvious.
Still, his mind seemed raw, troubled, messy – and for the moment, he was willing to accept his impression as truth. It would be nothing short of extraordinary – and extraordinarily disturbing – if a first year student had become a master occlumens, after all.
"Take heart, my boy – I trust Professor Flitwick has been accurate in his account and that you have nothing to fear," the Headmaster continued. "However, given the very public nature of this incident, and the fact that someone was hurt, we will need a statement taken under veritaserum."
"Veritaserum, sir?"
"What the muggles would call a truth serum, Harry," Dumbledore explained. "I fear Lucius Malfoy will wish to press a case against before the Wizengamot, our highest court. I seek to protect you from this, if you will agree to its use, Harry."
"I…" the Boy-Who-Lived hesitated. As much as he wanted to believe the Headmaster, Shinji had told him about how the old man had all but threatened him just for defending himself against a would-be killer, so he wasn't sure if he should trust the man. Still… "Professor Flitwick, what do you suggest?"
The Charms Master had always been fair, in Harry's opinion, and had listened before he judged on the night of the Troll Incident. So he was willing to trust Flitwick's judgment, as opposed to someone didn't know well, and might not have his best interests at heart.
"…while I would normally be opposed to the use of Veritaserum on students, in this case, it may be a good idea," the part-goblin conceded. He wanted to make sure he was doing every he could to protect his students, after all, and on the chance Harry was lying about what he had said in Parseltongue, he wanted to be sure.
Harry looked at Hillard, who just nodded.
"…if you say so, Professor," Harry said, acquiescing to the man's request. "What do I have to do?"
It turned out that all he had to do was sit down, take a drink of pumpkin juice – into which three drops of a clear, tasteless potion had been added, and answer some questions about the duel. What had happened leading up to it, the match itself, what he had felt and what he had said: "Don't hurt me, please. Malfoy did it, not me!"
"And you didn't have any intention to set the snake on Mr. Malfoy?"
"No, sir. I just wanted it not to hurt me."
"No further questions then," Dumbledore said, his expression unreadable. "I think we have enough – I will supply the memory of this incident myself, as well as the written transcript. Filius, you will be witness to this."
"Yes, Albus."
"In that case, you may go, Harry. Prefect Hillard, please escort him back to his dormitory."
But it wasn't to the Slytherin Dungeons that Robert and Harry went, but to the Kitchens, where the rest of the Stone Cutter Society waited, along with – another Ravenclaw. Sokaris, he thought the name was – the purple-haired girl who sometimes worked with Daphne or Shinji in Herbology. He hadn't known she had access to the kitchens.
"We didn't tell her—"
"—she was here when we came in, mate," the twins spoke in answer to his unasked question.
"In fact, this was how she turned our food into worms—"
"—wasn't it?"
"It would have been unwise to not to seize the tactical advantage," Sokaris conceded, the corners of her lips curling up ever so slightly. "I do not enjoy being pranked, but I am capable of holding my own." Then she turned to Harry and Robert. "Greetings, Prefect Hillard, and Descendant of Slytherin, Harry Potter."
Harry's eyes widened at the term.
"What do you mean 'Descendant of Slytherin'?" he asked.
"The ability to speak Parseltongue is both uncommon and usually hereditary, with most speakers descended from the line of Salazar Slytherin," the purple-haired girl answered, her eyes seeming to weigh him and find him acceptable. "Given that you were sorted into Slytherin and can speak Parseltongue, the logical conclusion is that you are his Descendant."
"That's—"
"—wicked—"
"—in a good way, Harry," the twins reassured him.
Was that why the Slytherins had looked at him so…reverently? As if it wasn't enough being the Boy-Who-Lived, now he was going to be looked at as a direct descendant of the Founder as well? But then why had everyone feared…well, aside from Malfoy being bitten by his own serpent?
"Unfortunately, speaking Parseltongue has sometimes been associated with being a Dark Wizard," Hillard said, sighing as he sat down at one of the tables, with a plate of what seemed like a waffle – but what Shinji called okonomiyaki – appearing before him, a savory dish made of a mix of pork scraps and cornmeal, topped with charred cabbage, pickled apples and maple bacon & kewpie mayonnaise. "But then, most people aren't Ravenclaws, and thus don't think logically. After all, no Dark Wizard I know would have risked his neck to help us against a troll."
"He knew," Harry interjected, frowning despite Hillard's reassurance. "After what happened…the way Quirrell looked at me – it's as if he already knew I was a Parselmouth, somehow."
"Do you think he set you up for this?" Shinji asked, not at all happy with the implications of that. If the Defense Professor was actively working against them, then… "After all, Sokaris did see him let the troll into the castle."
Jaws gaped. Eyes bulged. And heads swiveled to look at the purple-haired girl, who was picking away at her own late meal.
"Quirrell did what—?!"
"And when were—"
"—you going to tell us this, wee little Matou?"
"Why would he…?" Harry asked, only for Hillard to provide the explanation.
"…the Forbidden Corridor," the prefect said grimly, looking over at Sokaris. "It was a distraction, wasn't it?"
"Indeed, although I do not know what is hidden there," Sokaris replied. "I followed him there, but there is a limit to what I can find without help."
"…and that's why you're here, isn't it? As opposed to not being here when we have been."
"Naturally," the dusky-skinned Ravenclaw acknowledged readily.
"Sokaris, if you don't mind my asking, what's your interest in this?" Hillard asked, curious as to why she had gone after the Professor on her own.
"I do not like those who would take what does not belong to them," she said simply. "And while I dislike…pranks, they are nowhere near the threat a trained practitioner of the Dark Arts could cause."
"But…" Harry felt he had to say. "He's the Defense Professor, not a Dark Wizard."
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster," Sokaris recited, quoting an old philosopher who had once said God was dead. "And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you. Simply put, those who learn how best to fight the Dark Arts are often the ones tempted most by the Dark Arts' power."
"The muggle Nietzsche, was it?"
"Indeed."
"Well," Hillard noted. "I doubt we'll be welcome at future Dueling Club meetings, if the club is allowed to continue after what happened. We'll just have to practice ourselves. Potter, I'll walk you back to the Dungeons, if you want to talk. Matou, head back without me, please."
When Shinji finally reappeared in Ravenclaw Tower that night via house-elf apparition, Hermione was about ready to go off on them for their obvious support of a Parselmouth. Already, she was aghast at each of the mischief makers – the "Stone Cutter Society", to use their new and lofty name - getting 20 points apiece for their Houses, for it sent entirely the wrong message to all involved to reward those that had caused so much inconvenience for everyone.
Even if the Boy-Who-Lived was part of the group, he should not get such…such…favoritism! And now she had seen one of his hidden powers – that he was a Parselmouth – and had seen him command a snake to attack Malfoy.
…to crush his one rival in Slytherin House and cement his power. True, she had heard only the hissing of Parseltongue, and could not understand what he had said, but from the way the snake had stopped mid-lunge, only to spring for Malfoy, it seemed obvious what Potter had said.
Already rumors were spreading that Potter was You-Know-Who come back to life – or worse – that the reason You-Know-Who had gone after him was that he knew the Boy-Who-Lived would become a threat to his life one day, a practitioner of darkness whose power would eclipse his own.
It…it just wouldn't do for good Ravenclaws to hang around someone like that. They could lose points, be thought of as Dark in their own right, be expelled for any misadventures.
…though given what Matou had done to Filch and her fellow Ravenclaw's open disdain for Malfoy, she wasn't sure which was worse.
"Where have you—" she began, only to stop, as Sokaris appeared next to the boy from the east.
Hermione swallowed, not having expected that her sometimes friend, sometimes rival would be there as well.
"Good evening, Hermione Granger," the purple-haired girl greeted solemnly.
"Sokaris," the brown-haired girl managed. "What are you doing with…him?"
"Conversing with the Boy-Who-Lived," the other replied, causing her to fix a baleful stare at Matou.
"You! You're corrupting her!" she accused, only for the Boy from the East to smile crookedly. "And after all your pranking drove her out of Ravenclaw Tower, made her feel unwelcome, you had to do this too?!"
To be fair, she wasn't entirely rational about the point – in a very real sense, Sokaris was one of the first people besides her parents who had ever approved of her, had been someone she thought she could call a friend. And the thought that now she was turning away, toward someone else…
It made her more than a bit jealous, though she didn't want to admit it.
"I can't speak for feeling welcome or not, since she doesn't sleep in the dorms, but she's no innocent," Shinji said, glancing over at Sokaris. "She was the one who pranked the Weasley Twins' food, after all."
Hermione froze.
She had done…what?!
"Sokaris…is…is this true?!" Hermione all but demanded, hoping it was a lie. But the other met her gaze, and simply nodded.
"It is."
It was true she had wondered what the other girl was doing, during that time, but Hermione had just assumed Sokaris was serious and studious as always. Even in the best of times, she was usually reclusive, and didn't tend to stay in the girls' dorm, something Hermione had thought to be a cultural issue. Still, the purple-haired girl had usually made herself available for help if necessary – and had proven to be a font of knowledge in potions, pointing out the faults in several recipes, based on inconsistency with the underlying theories.
Frankly, that intimidated her – though Hermione admitted she felt some guilty pleasure at outperforming both the foreign students – who clearly had some previous magical background – in Transfiguration. In that class, she was often the first one to master a spell or transformation, with the others lagging behind.
There may or may not also have been a bit of misplaced amusement when her attempt to put out a burning Shinji had led to that…rather tasteless song getting sung, but she was getting sidetracked.
With the events of the Prank War, Sokaris had been available less and less, until she had come back to the Tower on the day of the Troll Incident. Since there had been no pranks afterwards, Hermione had thought that it would all be over, that Sokaris would spend more time with her again, but…
…how had it come to this?
"Why? Why did you do it?" the brunette asked, almost desperate. She could feel what she thought was friendship slipping away. "Why did you spend time with…them?"
"I held my peace after the first incident," Sokaris answered evenly. "However, the occurrence of a second suggested that continued inaction would be seen as weakness."
"…but the rules."
"The rules are one thing, Hermione Granger," the purple-haired girl acknowledged, her expression unreadable. "But dignity is another."
"And what about Potter? How can you seek out him and his friends after what he did in the Great Hall?" Hermione almost snarled. She didn't like to fight, but she felt…betrayed.
"Unlike you, I did not attend the Dueling Club meeting," Sokaris replied, as if what had happened didn't really matter to her. "Thus I was unaware of his alleged crime until members of the Stone Cutter Society accosted me in the kitchens."
"I…I…why?"
But Sokaris did not answer, instead grunting as if in pain, her breathing going erratic for a moment, as she staggered over to the wall where the study room corridor was hidden, tapped the pattern, and disappeared.
"Good night, Hermione Granger," was all she said, leaving a very upset Hermione alone with Shinji.
"You!" the bushy brunette cried out as she almost hurled herself at the boy from the east, grabbing a fistful of his robes. "Why?" she asked, as she shook him, looking him in the eye. "Tell me!"
If Shinji had no experience with comforting people in general, he was pretty sure he'd never had to comfort a crying girl. His sister might technically have been female, but she showed almost no emotion – in many respects, she was a doll that had replaced him.
Still…he thought he might recognize the feelings going through Granger now, as they mirrored those that had gone through him when he found that that…girl had been adopted not for pity, but as his replacement.
In a rare moment of insight he realized that that was this girl's fear – to be tossed aside, to be replaced. Sokaris might have been – probably was – the closest person to her, and she was afraid.
"Granger," he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder, only for her to slap it away. "Granger, please," he said again.
"Why?!"she demanded, as she punched his chest with her now free hand. "Why did she choose you?!"
Another punch, another, another.
Soon, both her fists were beating against his chest as the rules-loving brunette broke down in front of the very last person she wanted to see. The person who confused her so much – who was so arrogant sometimes – but so gentle – who bothered her.
Shinji said nothing though, knowing the worst was to come.
And indeed, soon came the first indrawn sob as she slumped, the fierce rhythm of her fists slowing as she began to weep.
It was all Shinji could do to gingerly wrap an arm around her to keep her from falling, maneuvering them to one of the couches as she cried into his chest, beating weakly at him, asking "Why?! Why? Why?"
Through it all, Shinji held her silently, feeling how frail she was in his arms, how she shook and trembled as a storm of emotions seethed within her. When he'd first met Granger, he hadn't expected he'd have to do this – but then he hadn't expected her to become so upset – and hadn't thought she was so dependent on Sokaris.
'Replaced, huh?'
He'd never thought he and Granger were anything alike – an idea that sat strange with him, as she cried out her rage, her frustration, her grief, until she fell asleep, whereupon Shinji wrestled her body up onto the couch, with her head resting on his lap.
To his credit, when Hillard finally came back to Ravenclaw Tower that night and found the two, he said nothing, simply bringing down a blanket to cover them up, before leaving in silence. There would be a time and a place to talk, but that time was not now.