Harry and the Pirates
Chapter 15
Trolls Doing Ballet
by Technomad
"Right," sighed Harry. "That's all we bloody don't need, isn't it?" If Hermione had been male, he'd have likely indulged in some of the riper language he'd learned in Roanapur. However, Aunt Petunia and Balalaika had both made it clear that around "nice" women, which included them and his female classmates, that sort of speech was taboo. One of the few times he'd ever seen Balalaika visibly angry was when he'd forgotten she was present and let loose with a stream of English, Thai and Russian invective when frustrated over something.
"There is no need for that sort of behavior, Harry," she had said, as Harry turned white at the thought that he'd offended Balalaika. "Calmness and rational thought will always see a soldier through. Revy Two-Hands is not a person I wish to see you emulating…in any way." The words had struck home, and Harry had taken them very much to heart.
"Look, the situation's not that bad," Hermione offered. "We aren't having to deal with it immediately. We can figure out what the best course of action is."
Harry brightened up. That was true. "Those things aren't exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer, are they? Would illusions fool them?" They had learned how to cast some simple illusions in Flitwick's class, and Harry and Dudley had studied hard; they had both seen instantly how useful such things could be in Roanapur.
Hermione smiled evilly. "That's a wonderful idea, Harry! And they're clumsy…clumsy as all-get-out. That gives me a wonderful idea…" As she explained just what she had in mind, Harry smiled more and more broadly.
The troll was surprised when the door burst open, and came out of a half-stupor, roaring and grabbing for its club. Before it could do more than jump to its feet, it was apparently surrounded by yelling attackers, capering just out of range of a club swing, gibbering and screaming. With a howl of rage, the troll charged forward…and fell flat on its face. It scrabbled for footing, its feet and hands unable to find purchase on the stone floor. It howled and struggled, as helpless as a hog on ice. Swiping at its tormentors, it paid no attention to the two figures running across the room in the background.
On the other side of the room, Harry and Hermione wasted no time, but hurried across; their spells didn't affect them, and every second counted. Harry grinned. "Hermione, you're a genius. An evil genius. Slicking things up…Balalaika would be pleased to have thought of that stunt!" He could see uses for that tactic, and made a mental note.
Hermione blushed nearly crimson. She wasn't really used to praise from other kids. "Thanks, Harry. A troll's perfectly harmless if it can't reach you, after all. And this way we don't hurt the poor thing. I felt rather bad for that one you had to kill down in the dungeons. I'm glad we know more magic and had more time to think of something."
"This way is less noisy, too," Harry remarked, as they got to the far side of the room. "In any case, I don't trust the ammunition we have any more; once we're back home, Dudley and I want to have a talk with the person who supplied it."
"I can not believe that Roanapur's such a rough place that the biggest arms merchant in the place doubles as a Catholic mission," Hermione declared. "My vicar at home would be utterly shocked."
"That's the sort of place Roanapur is," Harry answered. They opened the door, and slipped through, to find themselves confronted by a row of bottles. "What is this place-the Yellowflag?" Harry asked. Then the two friends found themselves surrounded by flames.
"Right," muttered Hermione. "This looks like another puzzle to solve." She picked up a roll of paper. "Oh-kay, this gives us the clues we need to solve it." She began muttering to herself, looking at the bottles, which varied greatly in height and color. Finally she pointed at two bottles. "This one will let the drinker go back, while this other one here will let its drinker go forward." She picked up the bottle with the second potion in it and peered at it. "Does this look like it's enough for both of us?"
Harry took it from her and looked. "Nope." Before Hermione could stop him, he popped the cork off and poured it down with a gesture unconsciously copied from all the times he'd seen Revy Two-Hands slamming back rum in the Yellowflag. He was glad he'd done it that way; the stuff tasted, in the very brief time he had it in his mouth, like sewage. He knew what that tasted like from an unexpected detour through the sewers one time, with several of Abrego's Colombians after him and Dudley for some items they were carrying for Balalaika.
Hermione stared, shocked, as ice seemed to flow through Harry's veins. "Harry James Potter! What do you think you're doing?" she whispered. "I thought I would go along with you! Aren't we friends?"
"We're friends, Hermione, but you weren't raised in Roanapur," Harry explained, nerving himself to pass through the fire. "If there's a fight ahead, I think I'm better able to handle it than you are. Please go on back and see how Ron's doing. I'm worried about him, and Dudley."
As Harry turned to go, Hermione said: "I wish I had been raised in Roanapur, too, Harry. The more I see of what you've become, the more I admire this 'Balalaika' person. I hope to see you this summer."
"I hope to see you in a little while, Hermione," Harry replied, leaping through the flames, which warmed his body back to its normal temperature. He stood there for a few minutes, relishing the feeling. Tropic-raised, he emphatically disapproved of cold, which made Scottish winters less pleasant for him than for many of his classmates.
Before him, a door loomed, and he put out his hand and cautiously turned the knob. It opened without any problems, and he stepped through, finding himself in a large, empty room. Before him stood a familiar object: the Mirror of Erised. He stepped forward to take another look in the Mirror; he had quite enjoyed what he had seen the other time he'd looked. The thought of being the undisputed boss of all Roanapur did have its appeal…
Just then, an oddly-familiar voice came from behind him, startling him. "Well, well, well. If it isn't the Boy who Lived. Turn around slowly, Potter, and don't try any funny tricks. I've got my wand out and pointed."
Harry carefully kept his hands in sight, just like he might at home if someone had the drop on him. He hadn't been able to place that voice, and gasped when he saw who it was. "Professor Quirrell?"
"Yes, me," Professor Quirrell said. The man looked the same as always, with his turban and purple robes, but the manner was completely different. Gone was the diffidence, the trembling hands, the stammer. This was a man who could confront the Dark Arts. Harry thought for a second that if he had been this way while teaching his class, he'd have commanded his pupils' respect effortlessly.
"What are you doing down here, sir?"
"I could ask you the same question, Mr. Potter. You're out awfully late. And to get here, you had to get past a great many things intended to keep nosy, meddling brats like yourself at bay."
"My friends and I know there's something hidden in the school, and that Professor Snape's looking for it. We thought that if we found it, the poor old fellow would appreciate us doing the heavy lifting. People his age shouldn't ought to be doing heavy work, anyway."
"Is that what you think?" Quirrell laughed mirthlessly. "Ah, Severus…always slinking around like an overgrown bat! Everybody pays so much attention to him, while p-p-poor s-s-stuttering P-p-professor Quirrel goes overlooked!" Quirrell raised his wand. "Enough talk, Potter! I'm trying to get the treasure out of that mirror, and I can't do it! Let's see what you can do!"
Staring into the Mirror, Harry saw himself, yet again, as undisputed boss of Roanapur…and then the Harry in the Mirror winked at him and pointed at his pocket. Harry felt an unfamiliar weight in the corresponding pocket in his clothes, and his eyes went wide. Somehow…he didn't know exactly how…he had retrieved whatever was in the Mirror!
"What do you see, Potter?"
Harry decided on partial truth. "Me, in the future. I'm boss of my home town, and everybody obeys me."
Quirrell whirled him around. "You're a Slytherin, boy. That's a very Slytherin thing to want." He scowled. "But that doesn't help me get the Stone!" Quirrell stared into the Mirror. "I see myself, giving the stone to my Master…but how to get it?"
Then, a high-pitched voice from nowhere: "He lies…Potter lies!"
"What? Master?"
"Take off the turban, servant. I wish to confront Potter myself!" Harry stared as Quirrell straightened up, obediently unwinding the length of cloth from around his head and turning around so that his back was to Harry. However, although Quirrell was facing away, there was another face on the back of his head, staring at Harry with unbridled malevolence.
"Do you recognise me, Harry?" asked the face. "It has been so long…so long since I saw you last, sitting there in your crib next to the body of your mother…"
