With the start of Spring came the return of Quidditch, and specifically, the Quidditch Finals. The finals were organised into a double elimination format, where the top two ranked teams, determined after the twelve regular season games, advanced directly to the upper bracket. The remaining two teams competed in an elimination match within the lower bracket. The losing team from the upper bracket match would then face off against the winner of the lower bracket, and the victor of that match would proceed to the Grand Final.
With Quidditch being the undisputedly most popular pastime in Magical Britain, and with over a thousand students and another fifty or so faculty members having little else other than studies to occupy their minds over the cold winter months, Harry was unsurprised to find that a sort of March madness had settled over the castle.
Students who would typically have minimal interaction with one another quickly formed strong bonds, akin to brothers and sisters in arms. Apprentices - many of whom were only recently out of Hogwarts themselves - took to bookmaking with aplomb; the happy go lucky punters chanced everything from hard-earned gold through to promises to cover a month's worth of first year classes.
Upper year students, highly suspicious of anyone who even glanced at their house table during breakfast, formed a guard of honour around their team's players; acting like so many unpunctual sheepdogs herding their charges from class to class, heedless of any house point deductions they racked up along the way.
Harry and the other Hufflepuffs were not immune to this either; if anything, their absolute demolishing loss at the Hands of Gryffindor in the first round of finals had whipped the members of the generally easy going house into a frenzy. Having conceded their upper bracket match to Slytherin, there were many a surprised Ravenclaw who suddenly found themselves the dubiously fortunate recipients of inter-house unity; their self appointed temporary cheer squads baying for red and gold blood.
Harry had managed to keep himself above the fray so far, which was more than some of his year mates could say - he knew for a fact that Professor Sprout had taken the entirety of the female first years aside for a lecture on hair pulling. And so it was as Justin Finch-Fletchley regaled them with the story of how a fourth year had jinxed him to hiccup lavender scented bubbles, that Harry and his housemates filed into Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Taking a seat in his customary desk on the side of the room, Harry observed his professor out of the corner of his eyes as he unpacked his inkwell, quill and parchment. A quiet ambivalence would be the kindest way to describe Quirrell's disposition these last few months; he had an undeniable passion for his subject and clearly held very strong opinions, but it was equally clear that he was unwilling to push the issue anytime he faced dissenting views.
It was this contradiction that had stood out the most to Harry in the weeks since he had all but run into Quirrell whilst he imparted his own brand of education onto the Head Boy. Beyond the worrying penchant for violence, Harry had struggled to put his finger on specifically what it was that perplexed him about the turbaned professor, but ever since that night it was like the answer had simply dropped into place; Quirrell did not care a whit as to whether or not any of them learned what he had to teach.
It was a cruel detachment of sorts that he displayed, especially given that his pupils were still teenagers and young children, neither of whom are necessarily academically inclined on principle alone. He could not - and would not be - ever be accused of not covering the necessary material. However, whether or not he suitably enlightened those whose education he was charged with was another matter entirely; Harry was convinced that at most, two thirds of his class would pass their final exams, and for many of those who did it would still be a close thing.
Pushing himself off of his desk, Professor Quirrell lazily waved his wand, dimming the lighting in the room and effectively bringing a halt to the last vestiges of conversation. Satisfied that all eyes were trained on him, he circled back behind his desk before coming to a stop.
"So far this year we've covered a lot of ground on what differentiates the various wizard induced manifestations of magic. Most notably we've dissected all the common classifications of spellfire as we push ever forward in our quest to posit the existence - or lack thereof - of an innate morality quality within the magic we invoke."
"Can magic be classified as good or bad? Or, light, or dark, if you prefer such undemanding terminology. If not, then what? Is it intent that influences our ideology? Or is it all rather arbitrary? A fickle variable that's better left to the decrees of government; let the powers that be decide what is right and what is not."
"Since the new year, we have explored this theme within non-wand based expressions of magic, with a particular focus on potions, totems and cuniform. Now, as we move into the final chapter of your first year of education, I would like to pivot once more as we continue our exploration for ethics. We will round out the first year curriculum with a study on inherent magic - especially in its more rudimentary forms."
"To do this, we will allow ourselves one guiding question - does the classification of a magical being have any correlation with their inherent magical capabilities. Simply put; do magical beings classified as dangerous exclusively utilise dark magic, and vice versa. To kick us off, we'll be taking an indepth look at Hags."
"Now as many of you likely already know, Hags have a well documented predilection for children…"
By the end of the double period a number of the first years were looking quite queasy as they left the classroom, with many of them having learned more than they ever wanted to know on the subject of how a Hag's magic was able to assist them in the preparation of raw meat.
Ernie in particular was currently spending a disproportionate amount of his focus on keeping his breathing steady. Ever the inquisitive soul, Justin trailed slightly behind the majority of his year mates as he kept up a lively one man discussion on the logistical difficulties facing hags in obtaining their preferred source of protein.
"Do you reckon they'd need to have some sort of connection to a specialist provider? Like a network of suppliers that they've built up relationships with over the years. I mean, It can't be easy for someone in their position to source high-quality cuts of meat on a consistent basis."
As they clambered off the suspension bridge Harry cast a furtive glance behind him at Justin before increasing his pace in the direction of the Quad Courtyard. Seeing what he was doing, the other first years around him matched his speed, eager to put some space between themselves and their painfully curious housemate.
"Or perhaps they attend secret underground auctions to handpick from the best selections. My Uncle is a butcher and I know for a fact that he prefers auctions; lets him assess the quality of the product before purchasing. Realistically, if you wanted to guarantee freshness that would be your best bet, right? I mean the only alternative to that would be to raise your own livestock - which isn't cheap mind you - but if you do it yourself then I guess that's one way to ensure they're slaughtered humanely."
That proved to be too much for Ernie who clawed his way past a quietly conferring Megan Jones and Zacharias Smith before stumbling forward onto his knees and emptying the contents of his stomach onto some poor sod's shoes. Blearily, he fished an embroidered handkerchief out of his robes and brought it to his face, dabbing awkwardly at the corners of his mouth before breaking into a coughing fit.
Mortified at conducting himself with such behaviour, Ernie prepared to apologise as he rocked back on his knees, the action forcing his eyes to trail up the robes of the person in front of him before coming to a halt on the lapel pin that announced the Fifth Year Gryffindor in front of him. His mouth - caught open in an 'O' shape - quickly closed to a thin line as he took in both the shock and disgust on the girl's face, and the fury radiating off her boyfriend.
There was a brief moment of pause where Ernie soared through the air and everyone just looked on in stunned silence. When his back hit the pavement and he slid to a stop it was as though a signal had been given, and the courtyard erupted into chaos.
In the wake of Ernie's unscheduled departure flight, a wave of more than twenty Hufflepuff first years surged forward, wands in hand, and crashed upon the two startled Fifth Year Gryffindors, knocking them to the ground. Despite the significant skill gap between the two groups, the initial shock paired with overwhelming numbers allowed the first years to quickly claim the initiative.
With the first years scarcely knowing anything more advanced than the Knockback Jinx, the fight quickly descended into a melee of fists and flailing bodies; Harry witnessed Susan Bones connect an elbow with the jaw of the Fifth Year girl that would have made Dudley beam with pride. He also observed Justin, Wayne and Stephen attempting to restrain her boyfriend with what he could only describe as the most aggressive bear hugs that he'd ever seen. The Gryffindor boy, who had somehow managed to stagger back to his feet, was on the verge of being dragged back down to the ground by his hair; clearly Professor Sprout had held that particular discussion with the wrong side of the first year dormitories.
Several startled oaths sounded as more Hufflepuffs became airborne; Sally-Anne Perks was thrown into Kevin Entwhislte mid-flight, the two of them landing heavily in a tangle of limbs and wands. Shouts and spellfire from behind them heralded the arrival of the cavalry, and suddenly the two hopelessly outnumbered Gryffindors became six, and the odds no longer looked so insurmountable.
Taking note of the group arriving rapidly on the scene, Harry muttered a hasty "Flipendo" in their direction before diving out of the way of a light blue spell that missed him by a good half a metre but which sent Zacharias Smith tumbling away arse over tea kettle. Making a mental note to look up a method of avoiding spells that didn't involve throwing himself face first into the ground, he rolled out of the way of yet more spellfire and into a sitting position where his eyes caught movement at the base of Ravenclaw tower.
The distraction cost him - a silver spell connected with his hip and he descended into hysterics. Falling to his knees, Harry watched through the tears of laughter as a small group of third year ravenclaws - who had clearly had the morning free and were only just now leaving their tower - dropped their bags on the pavement, and joined the fray.
Pandemonium settled over the courtyard; a maelstrom of hexes and jinxes exploded outwards in every direction. The Ravenclaws - wrongly - assuming that the brawl was quidditch related, had been provoked into a frenzy at what they saw as an unconscionable, one sided beatdown being bestowed upon Hogwarts' youngest students.
Raised to a furore, the third years brought down a co-ordinated and merciless barrage of light upon the Gryffindors, swinging the tempo of the fight once again. Reinvigorated by the unexpected source of aid, a dozen first years let loose screams of primal fury, their rallying cries echoed loud and clear; once more unto the breach!
Harry used the confusion to crawl - still unwillingly chortling due to catching a stray Tickling Charm - out of the immediate line of fire. A reedy Gryffindor who was all arms and legs attempted to dash past him; his mistake was in ignoring everything going on below waist level, and quickly he too was sprawled on the ground courtesy of a hand around his ankle.
A sound like a cracking whip rent the air. The noise was pitched so sharply and so loudly that students everywhere stopped what they were doing and turned to face the source of the noise. A burly Gryffindor apparently didn't get the memo as he spun furiously on the spot, kicking his leg out in a macabre dance as he attempted to dislodge a fully committed Hannah Abott who had her arms and legs wrapped around his shin and her teeth around his thigh.
"What is the meaning of this! McGee! Everson! Explain yourselves immediately!" Screeched Professor McGonagall, her face a canvas of unbridled fury as she stalked towards the students, many who stood frozen mid fracas.
"In all my time as an educator!" she shouted, her voice rising in intensity as she arrived in front of where the Gryffindors had been congregating. "Ravenclaws attacking Gryffindors, attacking…" at this she paused to take in the sight of the smallest combatants, many of whom lay moaning piteously on the ground. "First Year Hufflepuffs!" She gathered her indignation once more before continuing to speak. "Who is responsible for this utterly unfathomable madness! Well! Don't everyone speak at once!"
In response to that statement, everyone spoke at once. Raising her wand into the air, the crack of a whip once again echoed around the courtyard.
"Fine. If that's how you wish to handle this, then I think we shall take two hundred points from all three houses - yes Miss Brooks, I am well aware of how many house points two hundred is! You will all serve detention, to be advised by your heads of house - who you can be certain will be hearing from me about this - and each of you will be barred from attending the final two games of Quidditch."
"Now," she said, as a quill and parchment materialised in front of her, floating in the air, "I want all of you here, lined up by house, and you will each provide me with your names, starting with you Mr Cornfoot."
The fallout from the brawl in the courtyard was that Slytherin, who were already slightly ahead on house points, now had a commanding lead and were clear favourites to clinch the House Cup. The student body nigh on universally shunned everyone who had been involved in losing so many house points, with the exception of students wearing a crested shield depicting a serpent on their lapel. Theodore Nott actually shook Harry's hand in the hallway between classes, much to his bewilderment, and thanked him for his contribution to Slytherin's victory.
The detentions took a while longer for the professor's to work out, not because they lacked the information to render an informed punishment, but because there were so many students involved who required disciplining and the professor's were determined to ensure that as few of them as possible got to spend the hours assigned to performing menial tasks with their friends.
Fortunately for Harry and his housemates, they only had to attend a week's worth of detentions as opposed to the month each Gryffindor and Ravenclaw student had received; the Heads of House and Professor McGonagall unanimously agreed that at this stage of their education, the first years lacked the ability to inflict a months detention worth of damage. Although they were relatively certain that their competence was being questioned, Harry wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
And so it was on the final Saturday of March, that Harry made his way to the Entrance Hall, having received a note that morning informing him that he was to meet Mr Filch at the entrance hall at eleven o'clock for his seventh and final detention. Harry grumbled as he got up from his position in the Common Room with ten minutes to spare - Ravenclaw had pulled off an upset win over Slytherin in the Quidditch Cup Grand Final and the celebrations were still going strong; someone had produced two dozen cartons of butterbeer from somewhere, and Harry had spent an enjoyable few hours just sitting around with a drink in hand listening in to the conversations around him, occasionally even adding to them.
When he arrived, Filch was already there. So was Zacharias Smith as well as two Ravenclaws and a Gryffindor, none of whom he recognised, although he had a sneaking suspicion that amongst the chaos he may have cast a Lumos directly in the Gryffindor boy's eyes. Based on the scowl he directed at Harry, it appeared that his suspicion was correct.
"Follow me," said Filch, lighting a lamp and leading them outside, much to Harry's surprise.
"Reckon you'll think twice before brawling on school grounds again, won't you now?" he said, leering at them. "Oh yes… hard work and pain teach the best lessons if you ask me… It's just a pity they outlawed the old punishments... hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, that'll set you right. Still got the chains still in my office, I have - keep them in tip top shape in case they're ever needed… Look alive then, and don't bother trying to run off - or do - I enjoy a good hunt" he smirked toothily.
Their journey across the castle grounds was completed in silence, punctuated only by Smith's occasional sighs - each one accompanied by a not inconspicuous glance at his companions, clearly wanting someone to ask him what was wrong.
Harry wondered what their punishment was going to be. The idea that whatever it was clearly required them to be out on the grounds so late at night was unsettling. The moon was bright, but the near constant cloud cover made any patch of light short lived. Ahead, Harry could see the windows of a hut. A distant shout distracted him from his thoughts.
"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."
That grabbed Harry's attention; his other detentions had all been simple if mind numbingly boring, but somehow he didn't think the enormous gameskeeper would be the type to ask them to write lines. His confusion must have shown on his face, because Filch said, "I suppose you're wondering what you'll be doing out here, eh boy? Time to do something useful for once in your miserable lives; it's into the forest for the lot of you, so make your peace with the light now because it's forsaken in there" he said nastily, jerking his head in the direction of the shadowy expanse ahead.
At this Zacharias Smith's sigh set a new benchmark for most dramatic response to a statement during the 1991-92 school year. The Gryffindor amongst them perked up; a cocky look settled on his face, his interest clearly piqued. He opened his mouth to speak but before anyone could voice an opinion, Hagrid came striding out of the shadows ahead, one hand resting a large crossbow on his shoulder whilst the other clutched a bright pink umbrella. At his heel, an oversized boarhound lumbered obediently after its master.
"Abou' time Filch," he said. "I've been waitin' fer half an hour already. All right, you lot?"
"I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," said Filch coldly, they're here to be punished, after all."
"That's why yer late, is it?" said Hagrid, frowning at Filch. "Bin lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit, I'll take over from here."
"I'll be back at dawn," said Filch, "for what's left of them," he added nastily, and he turned and started back toward the castle, his lamp bobbing away in the darkness.
One of the Ravenclaw's turned to Hagrid and stated firmly. "I'm not going into the forest." Harry was unsurprised to hear a poorly concealed note of panic in his voice.
"Yeh are if yeh want ter stay at Hogwarts," said Hagrid fiercely. "Yeh've done wrong an' now yeh've got ter pay fer it."
"But this is an adult's task" his house mate chimed in. "The forest is forbidden for a reason, it's not somewhere you just send students - even as a punishment. I thought we'd be copying lines or something, there's no logic in this and it's way out of line for a simple detention."
"Copyin' lines! What good's that ter anyone?" Hagrid exclaimed. "Yeh'll do summat useful or yeh'll get out. If yeh think yer parents would rather you were expelled, then get back off ter the castle an' pack. Go on."
The boy scoffed. Shaking his head, he looked at Hagrid furiously, before dropping his gaze.
"Right then," said Hagrid, "now, listen carefully, 'cause it's dangerous what we're gonna do tonight, an' I don' want no one takin' risks. Follow me over here a moment."
He led them to the very edge of the forest. Holding his lamp up high, he pointed down a narrow, winding track that disappeared into the thick black trees. A light breeze lifted their hair as they looked into the forest.
"Look there," said Hagrid, "see that stuff shinin' on the ground? Silvery stuff? That's unicorn blood. There's a unicorn in there thats bin hurt badly by summat. This is the second time in a week; I found one dead last Wednesday. We're gonna try an' find the poor thing. We might have ter put it out of its misery."
"And what about finding whatever hurt the unicorn?" said the Gryffindor with an eagerness in his voice.
"You'll not be goin' chasin' after nothin' in the forest tha' migh' hurt yeh. If any of yeh see somethin', it'll be me or Fang that'll deal with it, yeh hear?" said Hagrid. "An' keep ter the path."
"Right, now, we're gonna split inter threes an' follow the trail in diff'rent directions. There's blood all over the place, it must've bin staggerin' around since last night at least."
"So me, an the two of yeh will go tha' way" he said gesturing at the two ravenclaws, "an Fang'll go with tha three of yeh the other way. Now, if any of us finds the unicorn, we'll send up green sparks, right? If anyone gets in trouble, send up red sparks, an' we'll all come an' find yeh. Right, light yer wands then please - let's go."
As they crossed the treeline and into the forest, the world around Harry fell away; the quiet hum of insects and the occasional beating of an owl's wings were replaced by an all encompassing silence that only enveloped them further with every step they took. Even the cool breeze that had ruffled their cloaks just a moment before was gone, replaced by an oppressive stillness that only magnified the absence of sound.
Thick trees stood like silent sentinels along the path, their gnarled branches contorted like twisted wooden arms as they stretched out into the darkness above. Smith walked on shaky legs, his footprints perfectly matching those of the fifth year Gryffindor ahead of him, as though he were following the only safe trail and each imprint was a promise of protection.
They'd been walking for close to an hour when they stumbled upon a pool of silvery blood just off the path, its ethereal glow cast an otherworldly sheen across the forest floor. The metallic scent of iron lingered in the air, its sharpness contrasting heavily with a sweet undertone that had Harry wrinkling his nose.
Fang perked up at the sight; his large nostrils flaring as he traced an invisible line to the right of the blood with his snout. He shuffled methodically back and forth along it twice more before taking off with a great leap, chasing after something only he could sense. Watching his two companions charge their way through the underbrush after the boarhound, he ran after them after only a moment's hesitation, lest he be left behind.
Harry ran for what felt like an age; ducking branches and clawing wildly at cobwebs as he twisted and turned in his pursuit, his already limited eyesight inhibited further by the suffocating darkness that pressed into him from all sides. After a time the noises ahead of him seemed to branch off from one another, and so - after yelling out his decision - Harry continued in the direction of the loudest noises far up ahead of him, confident that they belonged to the heavy body of Hagrid's large dog.
Supported by the occasional glimpse of giant paw prints in the soft forest floor, Harry was confident now that his two companions had gone the wrong way. Sending up green sparks in the direction he was travelling, Harry simply had to hope that the boys would see them and correct their course. Why they had decided to follow a different direction in the first place he didn't know; it was not as though either of them were capable of following the scent of blood.
Much of the adrenaline had worn off by now, and a stitch in his side was making its presence felt in no uncertain terms. He could no longer hear any noises ahead of him and silence returned to the woods around him. Still, he ran, guided by the oversized dog tracks that now stood out easily; the accumulated leaf litter covering the forest floor having given way to bare ground.
One minute Harry was running, the next his foot had caught on something solid and he was falling; his momentum carrying him ever onwards in a flailing tangle of limbs that halted only when his shoulder intersected heavily with a tree. A wet pop and a sharp pain were all the warning Harry received before nausea gripped him and his vision went black.
When Harry came to, his entire left hand side was quick to remind him of his most recent attempt to achieve human flight. Rolling onto his back, Harry reached up with his right hand, gingerly touching his shoulder before hissing in pain; he wouldn't be using his left arm again anytime soon tonight.
A strange sensation clung at his skin, and he quickly realised that the forest floor beneath him was slick with thick, shimmering blood. Eager to tear his eyes away from the large quantities of what was surely a Unicorn's vital fluid, his attention instead caught on a dark shape laying back where he'd previously been. Harry deftly recovered his nearby wand, pocketing it before scrambling forward on knees and hand - singular - to inspect the cause of his literal downfall.
Fang's features came sharply into focus; the great dog's face was forever frozen in a rigour of pain. From close up, Harry could see that it too had fallen suddenly, and that inertia had exacted its price on the dog's front legs; there were new joints where there should not be.
A precision cut ran down the underside of its neck and continued halfway along its underbelly, its length marred slightly by singed flesh and hair; as though whatever had sliced open the dog had discharged an extreme amount of energy as heat.
Harry threw himself away from Fang; heedless of the pain shooting up his arm he frantically backpedalled until he found his path blocked by a pair of very human legs. Tilting to the side, he raised his eyes upward, desperately hoping to find the cocky smirk of the Gryffindor, or better yet, Hagrid's bushy visage above him.
Quirrel peered down at him through the shadows, his face a mask of controlled apathy.
"Hello, Harry."
Harry could do nothing but stare blankly upward; his mouth opening and closing soundlessly until he finally found his voice.
"Why?" Harry demanded, hating how frail he sounded in that moment.
Quirrell blinked in response.
"Because you are Dumbledore's Achilles heel, and I require a distraction."
"Stupefy!"
Here we go! I never liked the idea that Dumbledore was simply 'called away' thus allowing quirrel unfettered access to the third floor corridor, and all that lay below the trap door. It just seemed too convenient. It also seemed, well, lazy. Anyway, let me know your thoughts in the reviews, and please, if you liked what you read, favourite and follow - it helps promote the story like you wouldn't believe.
