"You're joking. Seeker?"

Harry nodded, his mouth full of pie. He hadn't meant to tell anyone—McGonagall had told him not to—but Weasley had a way of pestering at you until you told him things. Besides, it was something of an accomplishment. There hadn't been a first year on the Gryffindor team for a hundred years.

And McGonagall had said…

"But first years never—you must be the youngest house player for—wow!" Weasley managed.

"I know. I guess they're pretty desperate."

Ron was so amazed, so impressed, that he just sat and gaped at Harry.

"I start training next week," said Harry. "Only don't tell anyone."

Harry was torn. He wanted to be elated, on the one hand. For a few seconds on that broom, zipping toward the ground, letting his instincts take over, he'd felt somehow unstoppable. And it seemed so grand, to be made a Seeker (whatever a Seeker was) in his very first year. And of course it would just show that Coach Potter…

But on the other hand, wasn't Coach Potter…well, the coach? He didn't think he could stand even one session weekly with the man; regular Quidditch practices (how many times did boys in junior football used to practice? Three times a week? Four?) would be well-nigh unbearable.

And what if he fouled up royally? Weasley wasn't the only one who congratulated him that evening: the twins, Fred and George, came up and pumped his hand and told him how good they knew he'd be, and a couple of older girls grinned at him on the way past and said "Wotcher, kid, look forward to seeing you fly". The whole thing was bizarre.

They'd called him a "natural". He wasn't a natural: he'd just tried to save some poor chap's Remembrall and then everyone seemed to look to him to save the Honour of the House of Gryffindor, with capitals.

But then…what if he could do it?

"He can't do that!"

McGonagall, seated in a squashy staffroom chair, gave Coach a very severe look over the tops of her glasses. "I suppose you want to see Gryffindor flattened by Slytherin again this year, Potter?"

"No, of course not," said Potter, casting a quick glance at the Head of Slytherin House, who was dozing in the corner. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. "But it's against the rules. You can't put a first year on the team!"

"I wonder if you would have been quite so adamant about the rules if Ludo Bagman had let you try out in your first year," said McGonagall, picking up a book.

"Snape's nothing like as good as I was," snapped Potter. "He spends all his time in his head and none of his time really flying! He's exactly like his father, arrogant and sarcastic and insolent without one scrap of natural talent. Did you see the way he was handling that broom? He flies like an old woman! And he directly disobeyed my instructions! Now you want to reward him by breaking all the rules for him and putting him on the team and swelling his head even more?"

"Professor Dumbledore said it would be all right as long as we made sure he didn't get hurt," said McGonagall. "You have to take it up with him. I just want to make sure Gryffindor has a fighting chance and right now that fighting chance rests entirely in young Harry Snape. Besides," and here she smiled a little distantly, "Quidditch is in his blood."

Even Malfoy, flanked as usual by Crabbe and Goyle, stopped by the table, but not to congratulate Harry. He started in mocking him instead, about the way he handled a broom and how Coach had been talking about simply cutting the worst flyers. Harry ignored him, but Weasley, who seemed to find Malfoy unbearably irritating, exploded.

"Leave him alone, Malfoy. You're only talking cause you feel all smart with your little friends around you."

"Like I couldn't take on either or both of you on my own," sneered Malfoy.

"Hah!"

"Tonight, if you want, Weasley. Wizards duel. Wands only; no contact."

Before Harry had quite worked out what was happening, Weasley had volunteered Harry as his "second", Malfoy and Weasley had shaken hands, and Malfoy had lounged away.

Harry blinked at Weasley. "Er—what did I just agree to do? What's a wizard's duel? And what do you mean, I'm going to be your second?"

"A second's there to take over in case you…die," said Weasley, suddenly a little pale. "I mean…not like he would actually…on account of, he doesn't know any magic yet. Shooting sparks at each other is probably…I mean, nothing's going to happen, you practically just have to stand there."

"Do you think this is such a great idea?"

"Well, I don't," said another voice. Harry and Ron looked up and saw Hermione Granger leaning over. "Think of all the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be," she went on. "It's really very selfish of you."

"It's really none of your business," said Harry. "I mean, it's not like it's dangerous."

"We're gonna die," gasped Ron, backing into the door.

Harry was sure he'd walked into a nightmare—this was too much, on top of everything that had happened so far. He was sure one person couldn't be so phenomenally unlucky all in one evening without having a special talent for it.

First of all, Hermione Granger had been sitting up when they'd snuck out for the duel and had followed them out of the room, getting locked out in the process, so they had to put up with her griping and complaining all the way down. Then they'd run into Longbottom, who'd also been locked out. They had eventually made it to the designated duelling spot without picking up any more strays, and found no Malfoy. After waiting for ages, they'd almost been caught by Filch thanks to Longbottom knocking over a suit of armour, and had to run like lightning to get away; next Weasley had upset Peeves and they'd been ratted out at the top of the poltergeist's very loud voice; they'd run away again and gotten horrifically lost, and had just barely piled into this room in time to hear Mrs Norris slither past. Now…

They weren't in a room, as Harry had supposed. They were in a corridor. The forbidden corridor on the third floor. And now they knew why it was forbidden.

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor.

It had three heads.

Three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It was standing quite still, all six eyes staring at them, and Harry knew that the only reason they weren't already dead was that their sudden appearance had taken it by surprise, but it was quickly getting over that; there was no mistaking what those thunderous growls meant.

Harry groped for the doorknob—between Filch and death, he'd take Filch.

By the time they made it back to Gryffindor Tower, Longbottom looked as though he'd never speak again, Weasley was demanding to know what a thing like that was doing at school, and Hermione's bad temper had gotten the better of her terror.

"It was standing on a trapdoor," she snapped in response to Weasley's demands. "It's obviously guarding something." She stood up, glaring at them. "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could have all been killed—or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

A trapdoor, guarded by an enormous dog…

"No, we don't mind," said Weasley, staring after her with his mouth open. "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"

But Harry wasn't worried about some girl's bad temper. She'd given him something to think about.

Something he'd been wondering about since the first day he ever heard of Hogwarts.