Harry amidst the Vaults of Stone

Chapter 24 (~Intermission~)

Jan, it transpired, would love for Harry to speak to Fred and George Weasley, and although she was surprised to hear he wanted it to be in private, she would wangle a discrete introduction the next day.

"They'll be troublesome, mind. If you'd accosted 'em in the hall, they'd think nothing of chatting the day away, but this way they won't but be mysterious in response. They're funny like that."

Harry nodded to her. "Thank you anyway."

However restless his current feelings, Harry wasn't enjoying her company – a week ago he would never have dreamed he'd know a person more exasperating than Buvolok back home, but now there was not only Jan but also Hermione and Blaise vying for the position in their own particular ways. He only had so much patience.

So the Ravenclaw boy gratefully took his leave of the Gryffindor girl, to walk through half-deserted halls to the muttering retreats of the Ravenclaw common room. There, Thursday afternoon stretched out into evening like a patient etherised upon a table, and Harry read three chapters in his Potions textbook before ascending the stairs.

Terry was sitting on the dormitory floor, sketching, and talking to Kevin of something called a 'Michelangelo'. Harry shrugged, tired and feeling fuzzy in the head. He slipped by Terry, made a sudden leap into bed, and found it so soft that he instantly fell asleep.

He dreamed he was nothing but a pair of ragged claws, scuttling across the Black Lake's floor. He lingered there in the chambers of the merpeople, beneath a wind that blew the water white and black, until human voices woke him, and he drowned.

Raised voices underwater resolved themselves into the sound of Terry and Kevin engaged in a tedious argument about a lost sock. Kevin was wearing the bottoms of his trousers rolled, exposing his ankles. Neither boy had a clue where the sock was, but it was obviously an important enough matter that Harry's first lie-in in years be cut short.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and Kevin turned toward the window, saying: "That is not it at all. That is not what I meant, at all."

"Good morning. Do I dare disturb the universe?" Harry interjected wryly. "If you are that low on socks, I can lend you some."

Both boys looked at him, and Terry bit off the matter with a smile. "No, it's fine. Soon breakfast time anyway."

Breakfast time, thought Harry. Surface food. "Ah. Time to face the cups, the marmalade, the tea. Yes? Yes."

"In 1768," Professor Binns began without preamble, "A number of events occurred; mm, or indeed, it has been argued, from a certain – and perhaps more rigorous – perspective, it was occurrences that eventuated. I speak first, if not necessarily foremost, of the rise of broomstick magnate Archibald Huxley, who followed in his father's footsteps to..."

The overview of British wizarddom continued, extruded steadily in the form of a faint, constantly-checked yawn that was the professor's voice.

After a while, Harry tweaked at his morning coat, his collar mounting firmly to the chin, and tugged his (rich yet modest) school tie. That was better. Ten minutes into the day's classes and he had already been feeling stifled.

Binns' bleary, tortoise-like visage, faintly luminous in death, bobbed gently at the end of the room. The ghost continued to lecture, peering so closely at his notes that his ethereal nose almost grazed the parchment.

"- corroborate these claims. No, it was – as sources which, although not impeccable, were sufficiently numerous, reveal – the ideals of the younger Warlock which so dismayed the hermit Chadworth. We shall – time permitting, it would appear – return to this point later," the ghost breathed.

"Furthermore - the goblins, by all accounts, were unrelenting. Indeed, there followed in quick succession three skirmishes with goblin war parties from - what are generally understood to have been - originally Gallic fiefdoms, which were propagated..."

Harry had thought he knew only a little about the goblin-wizard conflicts at the cusp of the nineteenth century, but it seemed more than the Professor did. Or perhaps their textbook was to blame. He had read it almost in its entirety, and had encountered some of the same inaccuracies he was now hearing aired.

Predicting it would be the first of many times in this class, Harry raised his hand to dispute a point of fact.

"...infamy after being assassinated mid-way through his speech, which was cut short at the phrase 'S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse; a persona che mai tornasse al mondo'. To blame was Glung the Lucky, he who slew the dragon Falkor, commonly regarded as..."

At no point did Binns look up. After a while, Harry put his hand down again.

"This was merely the first incursion that was – I submit – not merely caused but in fact, mm, encouraged by Kondraki the Inconsiderate, the goblin heliographer whose notorious disregard for others' vassals, and feud-by-post with the so-called Witch-king of Zanzibar..."

The rest of the class, with the notable exception of Hermione Granger – and two Gryffindor boys scribbling on each others' books in the back row – had expressions that were completely glazed over. Some of them had sank down completely to rest their heads on their desks.

"...his son Krull the Circumspect, an eccentric of some renown in the goblin clans, who infamously – according to Augustus Clef Junior, a notable gentleman of the time – spent the larger part of his life travelling in wizarding boroughs, attempting to peddle 'unflattering opinions' for the price of two Knuts. The two met on the field of battle in February of that year, but Clef's advantage was lost through the underhanded use of a debilitating poison, with the result that..."

Harry couldn't let this one go. He put his hand up and waved it slightly, and then, as the flow of words continued unstemmed, went as far as to cough slightly.

The spectre's head lifted, and he blinked dimly. The dry monologue coming to a stuttering halt.

"- supposedly to, to... ah. Mr, er..."

"Potter," Harry supplied. When he spoke, several class members jerked into wakefulness and glanced around in bewilderment.

"I believe you are mistaken, sir," Harry continued. "The Manager Krull was a renowned figure in Gringotts. He oversaw the construction of an entire level of vaults. The 'selling unflattering opinions' incident you mention sounds like someone's attempt at a joke. Er, how would you say... satire."

Professor Binns just stared blankly at him, so Harry pressed his advantage. He recalled something from the Scroll of Grudges – although the Oath meant he couldn't reveal that context. "According to Krull's own journal, the wizard Clef failed to show up to the duel. Clef just put about the false rumour that he had to retire early after some pretended misconduct. The two apparently had a long history, which you didn't mention."

The ghost's wrinkled brow furrowed further, his lecture notes falling to the desk in front of him. Withered, spectral lips delivered a crisp response.

"Augustus Clef Junior was a prodigious writer and a Warlock of the Wizengamot, and clearly recorded that his breakfast had been compromised with a 'most foul and blatant toxin', Mr Palmer. The text, mm, is furthermore quite clear on the anecdote about Krull's – I might say – vagabondish meanderings."

"I am aware of a wealth of documents disputing each of these suggestions," Harry said levelly.

"Mr Parker, these are historical facts," the ghost wheezed in annoyance. "They are not up for dispute! I could write for you a quite comprehensive list of sources quoting Clef on this matter, and pointing to his indisputably elevated position in the peerage."

As he spoke, Binns floated closer to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. It fell through his fingers twice, but he managed to scoop it up and juggle it about on the third try.

"Yes, sir." Harry tried to rephrase. "I was raising the point that regardless of who he was, the wizard appears to be unreliable on several counts, yes?"

"That will do, Mr Harkness. Please do not presuppose to know more than Bagshot, Aegis-Pennyworth, Blackridge, and – and least of all me on this matter!"

Solid white blotches had appeared in Binns' cheeks, as if the teacher was becoming more corporeal in anger.

"Very well, sir. One more thing, though," Harry said brightly. "Just a small detail, but Krull was not the son of Kondraki. He was a cousin."

There was a brittle clatter as the chalk snapped in the ghost's fingers. "Piffle and, and – and enough from you! No more interruptions! Let us return to good, solid, factual history. By the book, I say!"

There was a long pause as the professor glowered, waiting for Harry to speak, and then a longer one as he found his place in his sheaf of yellowed notes.

Then Binns began to speak again as if no interruption had occurred. Bit by bit, most of the class stopped throwing curious glances at Harry and settled back into inattention.

Time went by, curdling into history.

"...submit two feet of parchment on notable historical conflicts in the period 1750 to 1850, with particular regard to their very real causes and consequences and the reputable scholars who have recorded them," the Professor concluded, gaze fixed firmly on his crumbling notes.

At this, Hermione waved her hand in the air and spoke excitedly. "When is it due, Professor?"

The ghost started slightly. "What was that, mm, Miss ...Gondor?"

"It's Granger, sir. I was asking when the essay is due."

The ghost appeared to look straight through her, then up at the ceiling, and finally down at his desk, apparently entertaining for the first time the radical notion of a deadline.

"The essay, Miss Ganges?" he said vaguely. "The essay. Mm... Thursday. Carry on." And with that, Binns drifted out.

"Did you get the homework topic?" Terry asked. "I tried to take notes, but I ended up with a list of three names, one date and a half-finished picture of Binns looking gobsmacked when you questioned him. I don't even remember when I fell asleep after that."

Harry shook his head, amused. "I have the topic."

Another voice spoke up from behind. "You shouldn't have given Professor Binns cheek, Harry! You were very lucky he didn't take points from Ravenclaw!"

"I would have told him I was in Hufflepuff, Hermione."

"What?"

"Oh, come now. Blind moles dig naught but the same old passages. You must have noticed he barely recognises his own name, yes? He probably doesn't even know how to, ah, 'take points'."

Seeing Hermione draw breath for a protracted response, Harry put on the pace up the stairs. Terry hurried after him.

When the Ravenclaws – many of them still yawning – reached the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, they found that neither Professor McGonagall nor the eyepatch'd Auror Carrington had made an appearance.

Instead, the lectern was occupied by a short, ancient wizard, slouched forward under the weight of his own bald head. He swayed slightly every time he breathed. It looked to Harry like Defence Against A Short Flight Of Stairs would be testing the limits of the man's capability.

"Good morning, and you must be first year Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, what? Do look lively, boys and girls. Please find your seats and settle down," the man added, catching Harry's eye through pince-nez spectacles and nodding towards an empty desk. "Now, are you quite sure we're all here? Good! I am Professor Tofty, and it is my good fortune to be teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts this year."

Harry was pleased to revise his impression of the new teacher upwards in the next hour and a half. The man introduced himself as a 'Ministry proctor', holding masteries in Astronomy and History of Magic, and in possession of the top marks in his year in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

That year, whichever one it was, was clearly long past. But the lined and quavery Tofty was at least enthusiastic about his subject, and soon proved himself rather more athletic than his shrivelled appearance would suggest. The professor's gnarled fingers handled a wand deftly, and his arms and legs moved a little shakily, but still with precision and economy of motion.

Tofty was teaching the basics of the offensive and defensive stances that many spells used, and it felt good to be able to move around during a lesson for once.

The Aurors stationed around the school would still be helping with the upper years, apparently, but Harry didn't feel like he was missing out. What did make him uneasy, at first, was the strange smell that now occupied the room.

It came as rather a surprise the first time Professor Tofty took out a little box of silver and horn, clicked it open, and excised a large pinch of some brownish powder. The whole class watched in fascination as this was taken in the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, delivered to a nostril, and snorted. When the teacher spoke again, the words were accompanied by a tiny plume of flakes, and the classroom's odour got stronger.

This behaviour was repeated intermittently. By the end of the period, the powder – snuff, somebody explained when they had formed ragged ranks to practise the basic shield stance – had settled across the floor like tunnel dust wherever Tofty had stepped. The strong-smelling stuff was making Harry's eyes water whenever the ancient wizard stood too close, and he was glad when Tofty dismissed them to lunch.

On the stairs, the students chattered about the class; all except Hermione, who took issue with Michael's disrespectful, if completely accurate, comparison of the improvement of Tofty over Binns. Harry marvelled at the way she had pitched her spear firmly on such unstable ground, and the other Ravenclaws argued fiercely until she left in what Terry described as 'a huff'.

"Huff, snuff," Harry rolled around in his mouth, pleased by the two new words.

Jan had followed Harry from Defence Against the Dark Arts to the Great Hall to eat, and once there, passed him a crumpled note that said only, 'Second floor, corridor B-17. First door after the statue of the Sphinx. Lunchtime.'

Harry ignored her angling for an invitation to the "jolly jaunt" – her words, of course – and set off. He knew only the basic ways around the bewildering castle. Fortunately, he had already explored parts of the second floor, and was stymied only briefly by a wrong turn. It led him to a long hallway that appeared to slope indefinitely downward, while in fact growing quickly steeper until it was almost vertical, and he was forced to turn back.

When Harry reached the strained-looking Sphinx statue, a stroke of mischief led him to pause and apply a glamour to his face. Tofty's visage was fresh in his mind as a model, but the goblin-charm was made for obscuring minor features or changing tones, not effecting massive differences. Still, it should do.

"Time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet," he muttered, cracking his knuckles during the mystic shape-signing and trying to remember which of his instructors had said that.

When he opened the door, the distinctively copper-haired twins twins were hunched over a parchment, and immediately turned and spoke his name before he'd so much as opened his mouth.

"Nice face," one added, looking at him curiously.

"Really, little Harry Potterrrr," said the other, rolling the R, "Sorted into Ravenclaw? How boring!"

"Our little sister will be so disappointed when she hears," the first agreed, sitting on a desk and suddenly flinging a charm at Harry. Before he could react, the dart of magic hit his school tie, making it start to flash rapidly between bright pink and iridescent purple.

Harry narrowed his eyes at this behaviour.

He quickly dispelled the glamour – he obviously need to work on the mask again if it was so easily penetrated by a couple of third-year human students – then used Magrakkus and several other goblin-charms to look at the spell on his tie.

"Hmmm."

Three threads of magic engendering colour; one of them knotted. Two more threads for binding, two nodes for modulation, and a mesh he didn't recognise. Then four layers of looped threads, which he guessed might cause the oscillation. Harry lifted the edge of the spell with his wand, unravelled it, and flung it back. The maimed charm sputtered out on the way, but the original red-haired perpetrator raised an eyebrow, impressed.

"Good one, little Harry. I'm George, by the way." He got up and engaged in a brief race against his brother to be the first to shake Harry's hand.

"I thought I was George today," the loser said.

"Afraid not, old bean."

"Perhaps my luck will change tomorrow. So, Harry, maybe that crazy friend of yours was right about you, eh?"

"By the by," the other twin added, "and not that it's not nice to meet you, of course, but we have a date with that Strobing Spell and Filch's duffel coat, so what did you want?"

Resisting the urge to ask what Jan had said, Harry answered, "I wanted to visit the Forbidden Forest."

"Impossible," said one twin promptly.

"Can't be done," said the other.

...Which was interesting. Not an exaggeratedly boisterous query about why 'little Harry Potterrrr' wanted to go into the woods, but a flat rejection?

The Weasleys' eyes glittered at him in disconcerting synchrony.

What would their key be? "Mischief, madcappery and miscellaneous mayhem," the Prefect Pip's voice floated back to him.

"I can point you to a charm I read about which conjures invisible frogs," Harry said. "en masse."

"What time do you want to leave?" one twin asked.

Author's notes:

→ My apologies, of course, to the late, great, T. S. Eliot. Specifically, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which I realise is something of an obscure reference to play with. It just expresses a sentiment I feel all too often at the moment.

→ Yes, another intermission chapter. My reasoning is that a smaller update every so often is better than a vast yawing gap between full chapters.

→ Anything at all to say? Leave a review! I love to hear from you people.