Disclaimer 1: This is fanfic. That means I do not own any of it. I just borrow it to play with for a little while and let people see the pathetic results if they really want to.

Disclaimer 2: I'm not making any money from it. It's just for fun.

Disclaimer 3: What isn't borrowed is all made up. None of this is real or most likely at all realistic. Please don't trust any of the information in here. Most likely you know more about whatever I'm writing about than I do.

Disclaimer 4: Attitudes, views and opinions expressed by the characters or in the story are not necessarily those of the author. Even when writing Science Fiction or Fantasy I do not tend to attempt to create perfect/better worlds in which everybody gets a happy end ... or whatever is best for them. Please accept that some characters will have a bad ending or be unhappy.

Disclaimer 5: I intend no insult to anyone. If I offend anyone I'm very sorry. Please understand that it was an accident as I tend to be very clumsy in these things.

Notes: Hm ... Neville wasn't raised by his grandmother, so he isn't insecure enough to fall off his broom. Hence ...

Harry No. 5 and the Philosopher's Stone

Chapter 9: The Midnight Duel

They didn't see much of Draco, Gregory and Vincent except during Potions lessons, which made it easier for Ron not to think about his former best friends too much. One morning Neville brought news that would change that, however.

"We have Flying lessons today!" he announced at breakfast.

"Flying?" Harry asked. "But people can't fly ... can they?"

He had seen some things happen in the wizarding world that his Muggle teachers had told him were impossible, after all.

"Of course they can," Ron said. "Haven't you ever ridden a broom?"

He could hardly believe it when Harry told him he hadn't, even though Hermione, Neville and several others that had come from Muggle institutes confirmed that Muggles did not ride brooms.

"That was different anyway," Seamus said. "We rode toy brooms for children at the primary institute. They don't fly very high or fast. Now we're big and can ride real brooms."

So that afternoon they went out to a place called the Quidditch pitch and found ... the Slytherins waiting next to a long row of very old fashioned looking brooms of the sort Harry had only ever seen in picture books.

At first it seemed very strange to Harry, but once they finally took off and were allowed to fly a bit he was delighted and didn't want to come down again at all. Flying was great!

"Wheee!" Draco shot past him much faster than Professor Hooch had said they were allowed to go. "Catch me if you can!"

And Harry couldn't resist. He shot off after Draco even though he could vaguely hear Madam Hooch protesting and threatening below them. Soon the increased distance and the rushing of the wind in his ears swallowed the sound of the teacher's voice, though, and as he and Draco twisted, turned, swooped and dodged he forgot that she even existed. Never in his life had he felt this free and happy!

It wasn't until they finally landed after an exhilarating fast and low dive that he realised how much trouble they were in. Not only Professor Hooch was down here now, but Professor McGonagall was standing beside her with her mouth hanging open.

"I'm sorry," Harry said meekly, but Professor McGonagall didn't stop to listen. She took him by the ear and marched him off to the castle where she borrowed a much older student called Oliver number 3 from Professor Flittwick and led them into her office.

"Fire your seeker, Oliver, I've found you a better one."

And with those words Harry found himself signed up to play a game he'd never even heard of before.

At dinner Draco came over to their table.

"I know a secret," he announced.

"What secret?" Ron asked eagerly.

"A secret about Harry," Draco said. "I didn't think it was true, but now that I've seen him fly I've changed my mind."

"So what's that secret?" Harry asked.

If it was about him, he had a right to know, right?

"Oh no," Draco shook his head. "It's too easy, if I just tell you. You have to come to the library at midnight tonight. Then I'll tell you."

And so they snuck out of their dormitory that night: Harry and Ron who had insisted on coming along since it concerned his best friend. Harry wasn't sure whether he meant him or Draco by that and suddenly found himself wishing Malcolm were there with him instead.

"You're not really going!" Apparently Hermione had been waiting for them in the common room.

"Yes, I'm going," Harry stated. "Draco knows a secret about me."

"He probably won't even come," Hermione said. "He's a Slytherin. They're our enemies. He even told us that himself, Harry! Most likely he's told Filch and you'll be caught and then ..."

They never learned what would happen then, because that was the moment that Hermione realised that the secret door to Gryffindor tower had fallen shut behind them and the Fat Lady wasn't in her portrait to open it to let her back in.

"Now we all have to go." She complained all the way up to the library which was usually her favourite place in the whole institute. "And it's forbidden and ..."

Draco was there just as he'd promised he'd be. He beamed at them proudly when they entered.

"Come on!" and he led them to a shelf in the back which held an apparently endless collection of old yearbooks. "You know how Professor Snape always calls you James? Well, look at this!" he said triumphantly and threw open one of the yearbooks at a marked page.

Harry stared down at the book in amazement. That was him in that picture. It had to be. But he was sure he'd never worn such a strange red robe and where was his scar?

"It's the Gryffindor Quiddich team about 30 years ago," Draco explained. "Just when Professor Snape was a student himself. And this boy looks exactly like you and it says down here that he's James number 7."

Harry stared and stared at the picture.

"My father," he said finally. "That is my father."

"You can't know that," Hermione told him reasonably. "He looks a lot like you, but that can be a complete coincidence. You don't even know what institute your father went to and most of the time children don't look exactly like their parents. And even if he is related to you, he might just as well be an uncle or cousin or ..."

"No," Harry insisted. "He is my father. I know. The headmaster told me my parents went to Hogwarts institute and Voldemort killed them and ... and I told the hat to put me in the same house my parents were in. So my father was a Gryffindor. And here is a Gryffindor that looks just like me. That's my father. ... My father's name was James!"

"I wish I had thought to ask the hat about my parents," said Draco.

"Meow!" another voice intruded into their conversation.

"Run!" Hermione yelled and they pelted out of the library and down the corridor, but from the next corner they could hear Filch's voice calling out to his cat.

"This way!" Draco hissed at them and they ran up a staircase Harry didn't recognise, down another corridor, Filch's voice still coming after them.

"It's a dead end!" Ron gasped when the corridor suddenly ended at a closed door.

Draco pulled on the handle, but it didn't open. "It's locked!"

"Alohomora!" Hermione said and suddenly the door opened easily.

They pulled it shut again behind them just in time.

"Where did they go?" they heard Filch ask Mrs. Norris. "They can't have taken this corridor or they'd be here. That door is locked."

"He's leaving!" Harry announced excitedly. "We're safe."

But the others didn't reply.

He turned around and stared at a pair of fangs almost as high as his own head.

"Fluffy!"

Humming and sing-songing "good doggie, nice doggie" they retreated from the room and threw the door closed again. Then they ran all the way back to their common room.

Harry did not care a bit when Hermione told them Fluffy had been standing on a trapdoor. He went straight to bed.