...

HARRY POTTER IN:

THE FACTION AND THE STONE

Aspiring duellist Harry Potter, the BOY-WHO-LIVED, climbs the hierarchy of the newly founded SELF DEFENCE CLUB.

But as he and his friends SUSAN BONES and ALAN JORKINS seek to finish their first year at HOGWARTS, unknown FACTIONS move against them.

How will this effect Harry Potter's ultimate goal of becoming

THE DUELLIST?

…

Harry Potter watched the glimmering yellow spell as it sped toward him. That was the sort of curse of which only the more hardline would approve. Alcaraz's bone-breaker was fast, accurate, and could punch through most immaterial shields. It was also excruciatingly painful. And when a spell could safely knock an opponent out, or otherwise disable them, what was the point of unnecessary cruelty?

Still, just because he wouldn't use the spell, didn't mean his opponents wouldn't. Hence the simulation with the Lightspeed. Harry side-stepped neatly, careful to retain his duelling stance. It was always tempting to loosen up, to face the oncoming spell, but would make him a larger target in a real duel.

The Lightspeed pinged off the opposite wall, but Harry was already spinning to face it. He ducked this time, letting the faux-curse skim over his head. Then he side-stepped, and side-stepped again. Sweat was beginning to pool around his forehead. He'd been going for what must've been twenty minutes.

"Form!" Alan shouted from the sidelines. Harry and Susan hadn't been able to hide their training escapades from him for long, and he'd taken the use of the illegal Lightspeed with surprisingly alacrity.

Harry ground his teeth together, straining to retain his basic gireht* posture - legs bent, body side-on, wand-arm outstretched. His thighs were burning, his back aching to keep itself fairly straight. Two dozen times he'd collapsed into his bed, exhausted and cramping. The pain pushed him on, and he pushed through the pain, steadily climbing the informal rankings of the Self Defence club.

He'd already beaten every first year at least once, but beyond that… "Gah!" Harry winced, cursing himself for daydreaming. The Lightspeed had hit him right in the ribs. "Cedo," he said, "cedo!"

Like a plane without fuel, the Lightspeed dropped out the air, and Harry dropped to the floor, rubbing his flank. That would leave a bruise. Panting, he massaged his thighs, then his calves, as Susan came to him with a bowl of water and a flannel.

"Y-you push yourself too hard," she said. She'd said that a lot.

"Need to match McConnell," Harry gasped out between breaths, his hands on his knees.

McConnell was a second year, another member of the club. Harry had faced him twice, and lost twice - easily. He looked to be an even better duellist than his older brother - who happened to be Gabriel's best friend.

Not that Gabriel ever showed favouritism. More than the Lightspeed, her advice had guided Harry beyond the abilities of most of the second year students (at least by his own reckoning - he hadn't actually duelled any yet). It still wasn't enough. Sometimes, Harry wondered if it would ever be enough. The club was strewn with an infuriatingly talented array of duellists, especially in the upper years. Thomas Fowler, Donovan Swift and Dale Ames-Linderson came to mind. Did he really have that sort of talent? Or was his place atop the younger students a result of his Giswiften practice and his study of Tricks to Ensnare and Tips for Victory?

Two days ago, McConnell himself had been ambushed by a third year in on the second floor corridor (Harry had yet to learn why); the older student had been trounced, beaten without a sweat. McConnell had flowed around his opponent's spells like they were little more than a nuisance. Harry could not help but wonder if he'd be able to do that by second year. Or would he be like that unlucky third year, embarrassed by someone plainly more talented than him?

The thought made something in Harry's chest burn. He straightened, returning to his gireht stance. "Again," he said, but Susan shook her head.

"Y-you've had enough Harry, or you'll fall asleep in Astronomy again."

Harry blushed through his sweat. That had been embarrassing. "Fine," he turned to Alan - who was grinning stupidly. He'd never let him forget that. "Your turn?"

The Ravenclaw shook his head. "I'm good. Unlike you, I'm not a fan of pain. I'd also like to climb the stairs of the Quidditch platforms when the game is on."

The first game of the year, Hufflepuff vs Ravenclaw, was fast approaching. Harry was looking forward to watching it… but, before that there was - admittedly - some pain as Harry staggered over to the nearest chair. His legs felt like two bars of lead. Sitting seemed like halving his weight. Now he was comfortable, Harry dabbed his brow with a cold cloth, then towelled himself off. The charms on his robes were working overtime to cool him; he could almost feel their tingle. Would more expensive robes be less obvious in their magic? Perhaps he could have his Hogwarts robes re-enchanted…

Harry closed his eyes and relaxed, thinking it over. Then again, the tingle wasn't too bad… and there was nothing wrong with plain charmwork, was there? The enchantments on his chair were lovely, turning a hardback into something that cushioned like a cloud…

The seat across from him creaked. Harry jumped, his eyes flying open. He must've fallen asleep.

Alan had sat across from him. "I was all ready to draw a moustache on you."

Harry blinked; he could not help but imagine it - not so much the image of him with a moustache, but someone else touching his face… "Please don't," he said, cloaking his disquiet in his best Hopkins impression, "you're a terrible drawer."

"N-now that's mean," Susan admonished. She was already sitting at their shared table, a little round thing like that which might be found at a pub.

"Terrible," Alan said jocularly. "I'm offended. For that, I'll have to remind you that we've got another of Adelita's lectures tomorrow."

Harry groaned. Adelita Land was the club's creature expert. And while she was knowledgeable, her talks weren't to his preference. He just wanted to duel, and duel, and duel some more.

"Trolls, this time. Apparently, they can be more civilised than Crabbe or Goyle."

The image of a large green figure wearing Slytherin robes - with Crabbe's features - wafted through Harry's mind and he coughed out a tired laugh. "I'll believe it when I see it."

He proceeded to fall asleep again.

...

...

As it turned out, trolls could be tamed. Or so Land told them, as they listened on low-strung benches that reminded Harry far too much of Muggle P.E. Even Gabriel sat with them, taking notes with everybody else. According to the lecture, trolls were native to northern and eastern Europe, and were to be found in a multitude of guises, depending on their geographical and topographical location.

Trolls of the British Isles were relegated to swamp, cave and mountain, while on the Great European Plain* (whatever that was), a giant form of troll called the field troll herded equally oversized Daedalian Oxen. The origin of the latter form of troll was believed to be a product of Alchemy. All kinds had been shrouded from Muggles by wizardkind for centuries, long before the Statute of Secrecy, as they were both a source of cyclopean labour and potions ingredients.

In a bizarre anecdote, Land related how her father had set a pair of cave trolls to shifting boulders blocking a mine after a collapse at one of their mines. Apparently they were as intelligent as particularly clever primates - at least - and though they lacked the ability to speak, they could understand basic English. Nor were they inherently evil. They buried their dead, cared for their children, and even played games.

Not that Harry really cared. He just wanted to duel.

Just then, someone poked him playfully in the side. He looked over to see Gabriel smiling lopsidedly at him. "Bored?" she whispered.

"Er," Harry looked back to Land, who was giving the club time to complete their notes, then back at Gabriel. She was still smiling, her grey eyes glimmering. But she was always smiling, so that wasn't really a measure of her mood... and Land was her friend. Wouldn't it be rude to be bored? "No?" he ventured.

Gabriel saw through the lie with ease, ruffling his hair. It didn't provoke the same unease as Alan's moustache threat the day before. "It's okay to be bored, you know? Everyone can't like everything."

"I-I know, but-" Harry nodded toward Land's podium, "-You know, she's given up her time, and researched for this, an-"

Gabriel giggled. "You're too easy to fluster. Just gotta imply you're offending someone, and bam! Flushed Harry."

Flushed Harry. Harry felt his cheeks flush at the name. "I-er, well-"

"Have you been listening? Have you taken notes?"

Harry looked down at his exercise book. He'd managed six paragraphs - relatively neat ones, too. He'd gotten much better with a quill since August. "I have."

"So," Gabriel shrugged, "Adelita's taught and you've allowed yourself to be teached. The rest-"

"-We can work it out," Harry finished for her.

"See! You're working it out already."

Land returned to her lecture then, latterly speaking about the field trolls of the Baltic. They were gigantified, and rougher than their compatriots. It had long been the prevailing theory that Jarylo the Alchemist had created them as soldiers against the invading Christians. Obviously, they had never engaged their target; Jarylo was found squashed in the spring of 1195 AD*.

That macabre fact signalled the end of the lecture and the beginning of the questions and answers. The Muggleborns were usually the most eager here and, predictably, Hermione Granger's hand shot straight up, with Matthew Hartin following just an instant later. Harry did have questions himself (How did real trolls relate to trolls of mythology? Were the differences between trolls entirely based around their surroundings, or were trolls in, say, Spain different to trolls in France?), but he knew others would ask his questions for him. There was no need to draw attention to himself.

He had enough already; people were still staring at 'the Boy-Who-Lived' in the corridors. It was making Susan nervous by proxy, and that was getting on Harry's nerves in an entirely different way. Upsetting Susan was like kicking a kitten - a scarlet-haired, occasionally sardonic kitten. Harry struggled to rid himself of the resultant image; a furry, meowing Susan, staring up at an uncomprehending troll. Merlin, he thought, this is boredom.

Adelita Land's lectures still proved superior to Professor Quirrell, whose stutter, if anything, only grew more pronounced as autumn began to settle into the Highlands. Cold winds began to blow from the north; the trees shrugged their vast shoulders, and scattered the castle with golden leaves. The first Quidditch game of the year looked like it would be a cold one. At night, when the sun was setting over the Forbidden Forest, when light would shine upon the boughs and the branches, it looked as though the forest were afire with heavenly light.

Harry had spent no few hours watching the sun steadily set, either atop the Astronomy Tower or on the covered bridge across the Black Lake. Alan preferred the latter, when the reflection of the blood-red sun shimmered upon the water. To Susan's amusement, they often imagined what they'd be doing if they were confined to their old Muggle lives. Neither would be living in a castle, watching the setting sun, unhurried.

One chilly evening, they were swapping scenarios when Alan stopped mid-sentence. His face had turned ashen, as though the cool breeze had seared the heat from his skin. There was no warning, no obvious reason; his face contorted, horrible realisation blooming across his features. White cheeks immediately reddened. Tears were suddenly glistening in his eyes.

"An- an- and then, I- I'd-"

Like the first drops of a terrible snow, his tears began to fall, etching heart-wrenching tracks down the planes of his face. He was staring at the horizon, where the setting sun was meeting the water of the lake.

Harry's heart clenched. What could he do? Was it his fault? Had he done something, said something in his last story? He went to put an arm around his shoulder, then frozen. What if he made it worse?

He looked toward Susan for help, who shrugged helplessly. She looked almost as distraught as Alan.

Eventually, Alan's quiet sobbing became too much. "Um, A-Alan?" Harry ventured. When he did not reply, he had to try again. "Alan? What's wrong?"

The Ravenclaw brushed away his tears with his sleeve, leaving an unfortunate trail of snot on his robe. "I-I just t-thought, I've not thought about her for a-ages, you know? It's-" his face drew grim, as he tried to think up an appropriate word, "terrible. I'm terrible. I-I haven't sent my sister a letter in a week. I've not even thought about her in a week!"

Sister? Harry thought back as best he could. Now he thought about it, Alan rarely mentioned his face… his adopted, Muggle family. He'd certainly never mentioned a sister. When the topic came up, he'd always dismissed it as 'complicated'. Which it was, as Harry understood it; Alan was a Pureblood who, in the chaos of the British Wizarding War, had found himself adopted by a Muggle household while he still had close wizarding relatives.

It was, possibly, a unique situation.

While Harry was thinking, Susan put a reassuring arm around their shared friend. "What's your sister like?"

Alan's face lit up through the tears. "Adorable," he said immediately. "Annoying and adorable. She's nine, and loves singing Total Eclipse of the Heart - badly!"

Susan, clearly, had no idea what he was talking about, so Harry took over. "You've been busy," he said. "Cut yourself some slack. I haven't thought much about my Muggle family either lately." For entirely different reasons, Harry added silently. "It doesn't mean you don't love them."

"Loving them isn't the problem," Alan said bitterly. "No, that is the whole problem. What will my sister be doing when she's eleven Harry? Will she be enjoying sunsets outside a bloody castle? What about- what about when she's sixteen? How far apart will we be then?"

Harry and Susan looked at each other, a quiet understanding passing between them. Neither knew what to say.

They sat together for a while, in silence, watching the sun dip beneath the lake.

...

...

It was during one of these sunsets that Harry stumbled upon his own source of sorrow. His pain was less immediate, more like a splinter in his thumb, which wormed deeper whenever he tried to retrieve it. Harry's disquiet built slowly, gradually, and it all began with a book.

A Modern History of Magical Britain, specifically. Gabriel had been reading it one day after duelling practice, and something about it had caught Harry's eye. If asked, he would not be able to explain what; perhaps the title, the author's name (Phineas Stone, as it happened to be)? He could not say; but catch his eye it did.

Gabriel had noticed, and duly offered the book. Harry had gladly taken it, albeit a little thoughtlessly. History wasn't his forte, but he trusted Gabriel's judgement of a good book. Two days later, he settled in atop the Astronomy Tower, A Modern History of Magical Britain in hand. A light breeze was blowing from the west; the sun seemed red and massive in the slowly dimming sky, vast like a giant eye peering down upon Scottish peak, hill and forest.

Cracking it open, he absently flicked through the pages. As they might, those passages that Gabriel had most often read naturally appeared more prominently - by virtue of the slight creases caused by repeated readings. Neat notes were dotted around the pages - notes, Harry noted, that seemed to be made by a Muggle pen.

The wind tugged for a moment at his hair, and Harry frowned; he'd found little of interest.

… At least until the last tenth of the book.

Something changed in that last crease, that final noteworthy passage. The strange stains were the first clue, whose remnants were but faded spots on the thick yellow pages; they were almost unnoticeable, if not for the bright, weak light of the steadily setting sun. Beside him, Alan struck up conversation with Susan. Harry ignored them; there was something intriguing about those stains…

Mystery was prickling at Harry's mind, but it took him only a moment to identify their origin. Not spilled water, or tea, but tears! The two splotches, just far enough apart, were unmistakably the remains of tear stains. They were old, very old; the book too was well-thumbed. Had Gabriel bought this book as an eleven year-old?

Harry paused, his hand hovering over the page, ready to turn - never to look back. Gabriel herself had likely forgotten those tear-stains were there. Would this be prying? Something uncomfortable stirred in Harry's stomach, an unpleasant mixture of curiosity and guilt. Would it be right to read on?

Unbidden, his eyes began to read:

-after the failure of Lucius Malfoy (Imperiused) to push through the Richmond Accords, the Dark Lord returned to his earlier strategy (see chapter four) of personally imposed fear and intimidation. His motivations for this regression cannot be rationalised by this scholar, or likely any other. By this time - and I am in agreement with Huxley's famous analysis in his seminal The Moods of Madness - Voldemort had become quite mad.

In thrall to this madness, he proceeded to take to the field again, raiding half a dozen households in the waning summer of 1981.

Something twisted terribly in Harry's gut.

The public response to these attacks was varied, leaving much to interpret for the historian willing to examine this most controversial time. Crouch (The Latter Blood War, 1984) argues that this return to older methods proved shockingly effective; amongst others, Dearborn (Nights of Fury, 1983) contends that, though the public were appalled by the individual deaths, they interpreted Voldemort's actions as the flailings of a desperate rebel. It is beyond the scope of this book to comment, so I can only direct you to my fellow historians, their published works available in stores, and their essays in the Historia Anglica and its competitors.

Regardless, these attacks came to an abrupt end on Halloween 1981, when the Dark Lord visited the household of Lily and James Potter. The Potters had become his stern foes, pouring treasure into the flagging Auror Department (see chapter five), and together were one of the few duelling pairs to successfully escape from his clutches - twice.

Sweat began to pour from Harry's brow.

Voldemort infiltrated their cottage in Godric's Hollow through methods unknown, seemingly with the intention of ending not only their 'rebellion', but also their line. For that was why they had retreated from public life and the field, as Lily Potter (nee Evans) had fallen pregnant with their son, Harry.

Harry slammed the book shut, barely restraining the urge to vomit.

"Harry!" he heard Susan cry. Her shout was somehow vague, as though he were underwater. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath. What was wrong with him? They were only words in a book. There was no great revelation. He already knew how this story ended. Why had it affected him like this?

You know why, a traitorously honest voice whispered in his mind, the same reason you've stuck to mediaeval history.

Harry's vision blurred. The answer spun around his mind, taunting, threatening to burst into his conscious like a nightmare of lightning. A strange numbness came over him, a retreat into himself. Only then did he admit it:

It was because he didn't want to know.

That terrible thought sparked a fire in his soul, sending thoughts tumbling like raindrops from a storm.

Until very recently, his parents had been more like… ideas. Intellectually, he'd always known he must've had parents from the moment he'd been able to know anything at all. But until Hagrid had discussed them - glowingly - during the trip to Diagon Alley, he'd never heard anything definitely true.

-Something shook through his psyche-

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had occasionally said horrible things about them, and he'd vacillated between believing their lies and ignoring them. When he was really young, he'd imagined his parents being famous, actors from the television; a family to rescue him from his cupboard and nasty Uncle Vernon, shrieking Aunt Petunia and piggish Dudley.

-That trembling, what was it?-

But he'd soon grown out of that, growing into bitterness - and guilt. No one, he'd thought, was ever coming to his rescue and, whoever his parents were, he'd wished they were someone else. That pain had built, and built, and built, an irregular, a dull ache behind his heart. How could he have wished his parents were some strangers on the television?

- "Harry! HARRY!" -

Harry Potter blinked; the world returned in vivid, blinding colour. Susan Bones' eyes were like two sky blue jewels, her hair a wreath of deep flame. Pain wound around his head, and he closed his eyes once more, bathing in the darkness.

"Harry?"

He was hearing properly now, and processing the world again. Alan was beside him, he knew, clinging onto his arm. Susan was before him, on bended knee. She'd been looking at him, so worried…

"What… what happened?"

He could hear Alan gulp beside him… "You… you had a-a fit, I think."

A fit?

Suddenly, he was aware of the drying tear tracks that had cut down cheeks, the snot on his nose… and the strange hollow in his heart.

"Oh," he said when he opened his eyes. Night greeted him. The sun had set.

...

...

He'd refused to speak of his- the… outburst that night. After that, Susan and Alan had treated him as though he were made of glass, like an antique vase or a fragile old lady. Their coddling was infuriating; but more infuriating still was that it was all his fault. Ever since he'd been introduced to the wizarding world, he'd recognised that he was an outsider - heritage or not. That was a weakness.

Eleven years sleeping in Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's cupboard had educated him on weakness. It needed to be concealed. Hence his original plan of hiding his ignorance - which, he could now admit, was foolish. Parvati and Padma Patil still wouldn't speak to him, though he'd crossed wands with both on the Self Defence Club's duelling platform.

To make up for his stupidity, he'd re-read the offending passage from A Modern History of Magical Britain. It did not evoke the same emotion the second time around, much less the third. This time, he could examine the words more carefully, noting the author's little flourishes. The attention he drew to his parent's resolute stand; their own skill in the duel. And, though he did not weep, something began to gnaw at Harry's mind…

For a few days thereafter the book lay forgotten. His focus turned first to a particularly bothersome batch of Transfiguration homework. First year practical transfiguration remained unchallenging, and the theory behind it was simple to understand. Professor McGonagall had them focusing almost entirely on what was usually labelled transformation, the simplest derivative of the broader subject. Broadly, transformation involved the manipulation of an already present object - altering shape, size, or even density. Turning a wooden pencil into a wooden ruler, for instance.

Their introductory lesson was a bit of an aberration - Alan reckoned it was a test, designed to detect if any of them had any particular skill in transfiguration. Harry agreed… because if it was, he'd done best on that test.

But this latest assignment wasn't strictly practical or theoretical (not that they had been given any practical Transfiguration assignments yet), but rather historical. They'd been tasked with researching the history of Transfiguration, and it was… complicated. Extremely complicated, as befitting the (possibly) most complex of magical subjects.

That research was further interrupted by another lecture by Adelita Land, this time on glumbumbles, which turned out to be a great deal less exciting than trolls. Land explained that glumbumbles (Alan had sniggered at the uninspired name) were a magical variation of bee common to the British Isles, northern France, northern Germany and Scandinavia.

Their ridiculous name was a result of their artificial origin; in common with the field troll - indeed, perhaps the only thing they had in common with a fifteen foot humanoid - was their creation by an alchemist. Though unlike the murky genesis of the field troll by the pagan wizard Jarylo, the genesis of the glumbumble was well-documented.

Which, Harry soon decided, was unfortunate, because it gave Land plenty of boring ground to cover. Alan was yawning beside him; even Susan was struggling to pay attention. He could guess what they were thinking; what did this have to do with self defence? Why would a magical bee, specifically created to help pollinate magical plants, be a danger to witches and wizards?

Eventually, they got their answer. As it turned out, the mastermind behind the glumbumble was no less doomed than Jarylo the Alchemist. He and his fellow researchers had created the glumbumble through the melding of many other animals, a process called Chimerisation. Apparently, this risked the unwelcome transfusion of characteristics from the 'patron' creatures.

The glumbumble's bizarre melancholy-inducing honey was thought to be the only unintended side-effect… until Britain's powerful leylines pulsed, as they were sometimes wont to do, and the previously docile glumbumbles had gone into a frenzy, killing the head alchemist, Jonathan Goodbarrow, and his staff. Land's description had made the Self Defence Club collectively shudder. Harry could only imagine the betrayal Goodbarrow must've felt in his last moments. It made his stomach turn.

Thereafter, they listened far more intently to Land's lecture, especially as she discussed how to ward frenzied glumbumbles away. Broadfire spells, designed to hit a wide area, were ideal - especially fire-based curses. Not that Harry could cast such a spell; the closest he could come was an overpowered incendio like he'd cast in the Rosier's forest. Fortunately, a variety of magical implements had also been engineered to calm their frenzy.

By the end of the lecture, the glumbumble and its silly name didn't seem so funny anymore.

But the next few days made them forget all about being stung to death by oversized magical bees; the first Quidditch game of the year was approaching, and it was Hufflepuff vs Ravenclaw. Alan seemed to have all but forgotten the trouble with his sister as the game approached. As far as Harry could tell, he'd damned his Transfiguration homework and spent most of his Ravenclaw-ish talents analysing the game. Apparently, the new Hufflepuff seeker, a third year called Cedric Diggory, was particularly promising. Harry had no opinion to give, but listened gamely to Alan's broadly Muggle understanding of Quidditch. Many comparisons to football were made.

Soon it was the Saturday before Halloween, and the day of the game. The whole school was abuzz with excitement. Even the Gryffindors and Slytherins were interested.

Alan was so stimulated he missed his mouth at lunch, which Harry and half his year had spied from the Hufflepuff table. Hopkins had smirked to himself, and muttered something that made Jones giggle. McMillan and Finch-Fletchley hadn't noticed. They were too busy discussing Quidditch… the business of Quiddtich.

From what Harry overheard, the players were very well paid.

After lunch, it seemed as though the entire school moved to the Quidditch pitch. Which, Harry knew, was ovular, five-hundred feet long and one-hundred and eighty feet wide. Because Alan couldn't stop telling him.

But Alan's memorised facts failed to encapsulate its majesty. The pitch was immaculate, like some mediaeval jousting ground morphed by a dream. The grass below was perfectly kept - Aunt Petunia would've loved it - and from that grass arose six soaring poles atop which six shining hoops stood, three to each side. Those goalposts were so tall, yet so slender, that they boggled the eye.

Surrounding the pitch, tall towers arose, patterned with what must've been a hectare of cloth-of-gold, silk, and silver stitching - like the barding of a rich knight's horse. Harry was sitting in one of the Hufflepuff towers, ever so slightly out of breath. Susan was panting. The staircases had been mightily steep.

"A little cold up here," Hopkins said to his left. Alan had gone to join his own House. "Imagine how the players feel."

Harry pursed his lips. The cold really was descending on the castle now, Hopkins was right... but he never really knew how to talk to Hopkins. He was a strange guy. "I'm sure you're enjoying thinking about it, Hopkins."

"What a terrible thing to say, Potter," he said carelessly, "and you're totally right."

Harry didn't quite know what to say to that, so he followed his usual policy and didn't say anything at all.

They watched the teams warming up silently for a while, until out of nowhere... "And call me Wayne, Potter. We're housemates for the next seven years, after all."

"Then call me Harry, Wayne."

It seemed obvious then that Wayne would continue the conversation. Wasn't this part of an attempt to make friends? Bizarrely, he said nothing at all. Harry and Susan shared a bemused glance and a shrug. Wizards, Harry had noticed, could be... eccentric, and Wayne Hopkins was one of the strangest he'd met. He didn't seem to care about anyone else's opinions or feelings; he said what he wanted, when he wanted. It didn't matter if they were his own age or seventh year prefects. In fact, Harry had heard him insult Adrian Chelmsford - one of the aforementioned seventh year prefects - straight to his face.

But his musings were soon interrupted; Madam Hooch was flying toward the centre of the pitch, and the captains were on course to meet her. The teams were lining up behind them, readying themselves.

The chattering in Harry's tower turned to a hush. Excited tension spread through the crowd like an electrical pulse, spreading from Madam Hooch, through the players, and into the crowd. Harry felt it too. He could suddenly hear his heart beating; he almost imagined his vision was sharpening, as though he could take off his glasses and still see.

Madam Hooch said something to the captains, who nodded and shook hands. She blew a flashing silver whistle -

"AND THEY'RE OFF!" a teenager's voice boomed through the crowd. "WELCOME TO THE FIRST GAME OF THE SEASON - ON THE RIGHT WE'VE GOT THE BADGERS OF HUFFLEPUFF, AND ON THE LEFT THE BRAIN-BOXES-"

"JORDAN!" Professor McGonagall's voice warned through the amplifying enchantment.

"Sorry, Professor. Anyway-"

The voice carried on narrating the game. Harry didn't recognise the voice. Who was that?

"Lee Jordan," Wayne supplied for him. "A bit of a nutter."

Harry had to restrain his smile at the irony.

Unfortunately, the game didn't seem to be going well for Hufflepuff. Harry didn't understand Quidditch completely, even after Alan's over-eager explanations, but he understood the rules at least. The 'Quaffle' was like the ball in football; it was large, about the size of a basketball; the general idea was for the three chasers to pass the Quaffle through the opposition's goalposts. A keeper defended those posts.

Adding complexity, two more balls called 'Bludgers' were whizzing around the pitch under their own power. They were small and weighty, shaped like cannonballs. Worst of all, they were enchanted to knock the players off their brooms.

Just then, a Hufflepuff chaser ducked as a Bludger fired past his head; behind him, a player with a bat swung wildly at the ball. He connected with a resounding crack. He, Harry knew, was a 'beater'. One of two on a team, his purpose was to protect his own team from the Bludgers and to try and knock the opponents off their brooms.

... Unfortunately, this beater was wearing blue and gold, and sent the Bludger straight back at the Hufflepuff chaser. Harry winced; the Ravenclaw was too close to miss. The Bludger crashed into the chaser, who rolled desperately. The ball skimmed his back. Harry let out a breath of relief.

"You know," Wayne said conversationally, "I saw your name on a house cup not too long ago."

Harry's brow crinkled. That didn't make any sense; and it was just the sort of annoying thing Wayne would say. "Oh?"

"Yes, your father. He was captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Played seeker, you know? Maybe you should try out next year. I think you'd be better than this… lot."

It was incredible, the amount of bile he managed to put into such a simple word as 'lot'. But Harry wasn't thinking about that; in fact, he barely paid any attention to the rest of the game (Hufflepuff won because of - as Alan had predicted - Cedric Diggory). He was thinking, once more, about his parents. About Halloween. About that dull, horrid numbness in his heart, the guilt which weighed him down.

Over the next few days, it refused to go away. No matter how many games of exploding snap he played with Alan, or how many games of wizard's chess he lost to Susan (she'd been taught by her aunt since she was seven, so the games weren't very fair), he could not shake that horrible sensation.

Finally, Halloween arrived. It was a Thursday off, but Harry wasn't feeling very festive. In fact, he felt vaguely sick. He struggled through his training, took a stupid loss to a second year. Now he was sitting in the common room, worrying about the feast. Attendance was mandatory, but…

But he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Couldn't he bend the rules just a bit? And if he were asked why he wasn't present, it wasn't like no one knew the significance of the date. Instead, he could go to the duelling hall and read. No one would look for him there.

He glanced up at Susan. He'd have to tell her, but he was sure she'd understand.

...

...

Harry was just settling into Quidditch Throughout the Ages (a short-term loan from Alan) when the door to the club hall opened with a slam. Jolting, he half expected to lock eyes with a teacher come to fetch him, but instead saw… Hermione Granger? The girl stomped sullenly to a corner, sat - not taking a moment to see Harry - and burst into tears, head in hands.

Meanwhile, Harry was watching on, at first bemused, then ill at ease. She'd sat away from him, a curtain of thick, bushy brown hair plastered over her face. He shifted in his seat, her sobbing scratching against his soul. This felt wrong; like he was intruding on something private.

But if he tried to move, she might notice… and now he'd seen her, could he really leave her alone, crying her eyes out? Granger didn't exactly have many friends to help her; it was, he judged, part of the reason she was upset. She was… difficult to miss, and a difficult person in general.

Harry had noticed her on the first day of school. How couldn't he notice a girl who raised her hand for every question, and who seemed to stumble over social conventions as though she were wearing a popularity blindfold. While he'd seen girls like her at Saint Gregory's, the magical world was another matter entirely. No matter how much she'd read - no matter how much she'd learned - taking a lecturing tone with wizard-raised children, pureblood or half-blood, was only ever going to end in tears.

Which it had, and it was making Harry fidget with guilt. Now he knew, could he really ignore her? No one had ever been there to wipe his tears. On the other hand, she could be just as offended by his intrusion… He bit his lip, torn between going over to her and pretending she didn't exist.

Her crying didn't stop. But soon enough it would, and then she'd notice he'd been there the whole time…

That would be even worse, so Harry resolved himself, stood, and walked over to her.

"Granger?" he said tentatively, his hand hovering near - but not too near - her shoulder. He didn't want her startled, but wasn't physical contact part of comforting someone? He knew it might help; he just didn't have the confidence to do it.

Granger jumped as though stung, her wild, tear-stained eyes meeting his. Up close, he saw that she had very expressive eyes - they were brown, and deep, and looking at him with a mixture of surprise and shame.

"H-Harry!" she gasped out, struggling to collect herself. "I, um- h-have you been here the whole time?"

"I have," Harry replied, taking the opposite seat. He tried his best reassuring smile, but just felt awkward. "You were a little too busy to notice." Weren't jokes meant to make situations like this less… tense?

Perhaps it worked better than he expected, because Granger managed a watery smile back. "I was-" she searched for the right word, "-distracted. I should leave, I've interrupted your study here… wait, why aren't you at the feast?"

There it was - that overly familiar, imposing tone. But with her face a mess, her eyes red-rimmed, he couldn't muster the antipathy. "It's Halloween. The night my life - changed."

"Oh. I-I um, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"- I know. I suspect that's part of the problem."

Hermione hung her head. "I should leave," she repeated.

It was like kicking a frizzy-haired dog; Harry couldn't bear it. So he said something stupid. "No. No, don't. Tell me what's wrong. Someone's got to listen, right?"

Granger's lip wobbled dangerously. "Y-you already know why, then? I... I don't have any friends. Nobody... nobody likes me, I try - I try and be nice and, and it all just comes out wrong!"

Harry searched his memory for specific incidents involving Granger. She was a know-it-all, there was no doubt about that, but in his experience being a know-it-all wasn't necessarily a problem. He was reminded of Daniel Lane, who had been the resident 'genius of Saint Gregory's'; but people had liked Lane, because he knew how to help other students, and he knew when to shut up. He also knew to help Dudley with his homework.

Which is not to say he never showed off - he did - but the other students could put up with that. Some even found him interesting, Harry included. No, he thought, the problem wasn't Granger's cleverness; it was how she was clever that rubbed people the wrong way.

"I think," Harry began carefully, "people don't mind that you're intelligent, Granger. Less so in the wizarding world, anyway. Until-" he froze; he'd almost let slip his recent re-introduction to magic. And though it was impossible to keep a total secret, there was no reason to spread that weakness around... "-Wizards, witches, they seem to live in the past, right?"

Granger nodded cautiously.

"Well, that's only half-true. They do in some ways - which is why they won't mind you being clever. There aren't any skinheads in Hogwarts to beat you up, you know? But from what I've seen, you're looking at the wizarding world like a Muggle, picking fault. I heard you complain about quills in Charms, on our first day? That, well, that offends people-"

"But quills are ridiculous!" Granger cut in between sniffles.

"I heard you say that, and I thought so too. So I asked Professor Flitwick after class - he said that quills are preferred over Muggle pens because the feathers of birds are easily enchantable. That's why it's so easy to write with a wizarding quill - it's like a pen, but not."

Granger's face was slowly falling into something akin to shame. "Oh," she said quietly. "I wondered why they were so easy to use… I... I didn't know."

I didn't know. Those three words, he judged, were painful for Granger to admit.

Finally, Harry put his hand on her arm. She didn't shrug him away. "It's a different world, Granger." His mind flickered back, just for a moment, to Halt End. "They - we - aren't idiots; this civilisation runs on its own logic. The sort of logic that lands us in a wonderful castle with plenty of free time. You've just got to give it a chance... and maybe find some Ravenclaws to study with."

At that, Granger giggled, and her eyes lit up. She began to collect herself, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I think I get it now. I've just been... angry, ever since I realised I wasn't going to make friends the way I wanted."

Harry let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. That could've gone so, so wrong…

"Say, why's that poster on the wall? I've been holding that question in for weeks - see I can do it."

She was pointing to the original SLEF poster, set pride-of-place on the wall opposite the corridor entrance.

Harry smiled at the memory. "Just a little joke," he said. "When Gabriel ordered the posters, the first lot came out like that."

"Oh, I se-" Her brow crinkled. "Can you hear that?"

Harry could hear that. It sounded like... banging? No, like footsteps, massive footsteps... Like an elephant. He frowned. It couldn't be anything dangerous; Hogwarts was the most secure castle in the country. Perhaps it was a prank? Harry stood, went over to the door, and poked his head into the corridor.

An ugly, off-green face stared right down at him.

"Oh," Harry said.

He shut the door with a slam.

"Troll," Harry said numbly, "there's a troll outside."

Granger stood, carefully pushing her seat under the table. "What?" she said. "Don't be silly, Hogw-"

The door buckled against the troll's massive club.

That broke Harry from his stupor. He sprinted over to the side door, Granger following him. Yanking on the door handle, Harry cursed. "Merlin's sweaty underpants!" he said, imitating something he'd once heard one of the Lyle brother's say. He'd forgotten which one. "It shouldn't be locked. It's never locked."

"Alohomora!" Granger cast at the lock. It still wouldn't shift.

The corridor-side door, however, did. At the troll's third mighty strike, the door flung open, rattling on its hinges. The troll marched through, hitting the door's backswing as it ducked through the doorway. That corridor-side door shut again behind it.

Now there was a moment to truly observe it, Harry felt the blood drain from his face. It must've been twice as tall as a man, with eerie, lumpy grey skin - hide, really - and vast limbs, each set like a tree-trunk onto a small, squat body garbed in a sack-cloth. But Harry's eyes were mostly drawn to the fast oaken club it wielded, which must've weighed twice as much as Harry himself. It held it in one hand.

He scanned the hall in desperation. Surely, there was something that could help them?

There were tables, benches... a particular table atop which sat a bottle of wizarding smelling salts. The ornamental duelling swords, set in their strange candelabra sheathes - and the duelling circle itself… which was, in fact, a raised rectangular platform. That gave him an idea.

He dived toward the circle - paradoxically closer to danger - and pulled a crank that stuck out of one end. The platform rumbled; the troll, all twelve feet of it, seemed to pause at the sound.

For a long moment, Harry feared the magical machinery would fail, that his gambit wouldn't pay off... but, slowly, the circle began to rise. Fortunately, it didn't float - or else the troll could simply duck underneath; rather, the wooden panels around the edge of the platform were unfolding, expanding, girding the circle with extra height.

Now, the platform was taller than Harry. The troll's upper body was peaking over the top, but he was willing to bet it couldn't easily climb the circle.

"Come on Granger!"

His shout sent her running toward him; and it also got the attention of the befuddled troll. Granger got there first, but the troll wasn't far behind. Together they ran to the other side of the podium; the troll lumbered after them. Then they circled back, making sure to keep the platform between them and the troll

They doubled back once more as the troll followed. Harry grinned triumphantly. It simply couldn't keep up with them - and the podium wasn't so tall that they couldn't see where the troll would go.

"Not the brightest spark, is he?" Harry said, in a moment of heady victory. His brow was crowned with an invigorating tingling; that, he thought, was check.

The troll seemed to understand him, because it bellowed angrily. Not that it mattered, because another door was right behind them. He tugged at the door handle. It didn't move.

The tingling turned to a sick sinking sensation as Granger's spell failed to unlock the door. Boom! - like a stampeding elephant - boom! - the troll was quickly - boom! - drawing closer.

"Run!"

Run they did, diving past the beast and back up toward the opposite end of the hall. Harry's mind was already turning; worryingly, he could already hear Granger's panting breaths. She couldn't keep this up for much longer; either they'd be saved, or… squashed.

Or, he thought, a sharpness forming in his mind, they'd save themselves. He palmed his wand and waited… until they were turning a corner. "Glacies!"

He leaned down and touched the flagstone floor, a patch of which shimmered with a cool sheen. Now all they had to do was wait. The troll would turn the corner and slip. Hopefully it'd bang its head on the way down…

Harry watched it tread on the ice… and nothing. It carried on. "Dammit!"

"Trolls have spider-like grips on their feet! Didn't you listen to Adelita's lecture!?" Granger cried. "That was never going to work!"

Harry felt more than a spike of annoyance. No wonder, he thought, Granger had no friends. He didn't have time to snap back. Instead, he squared himself; "Wingardium Leviosa!"

He commanded the nearest chair toward him, then… "Depulso!"

The chair shattered into timber against the troll's face.

Predictably, Granger took this moment to inform him that troll's hide was tougher than an elephant's.

"I'm going for the eyes," Harry bit back. Merlin, how had she become less sympathetic now he was trying to save her life?

The troll was angry now, and getting too close, so he ran back down the hall. Granger followed, looking aghast. "You don't need to do that. All we've got to do is keep running, it's not clever enough to catch us. A teacher will find us soon."

Harry stopped at the end of the podium and, ignoring her words, strained to banish a heavy table straight at the troll's head. Then another chair; then a table. It shrugged them all off. In fact, it almost seemed to be… laughing? There was something menacing about its grunts, something that sent a shiver of terror through his spine. Adrenaline had kept his fear at bay so far, but now… now he had a moment to consider.

Perhaps they were going to die.

"How long can we keep running?" Harry said, as they bounded by the platform once more. "We'll run out of breath before it does."

When he took the time to stop and pelt it with objects once more, Granger had gone pale. This time she raised her wand with him, though she failed to hit the creature's head. Harry couldn't tell if it was her aim or squeamishness that held her back. The rampaging troll shrugged every hit off, regardless.

They repeated this three or four more times, each volley becoming increasingly desperate. They were running out of things to throw - and worse, they were running out of magic.

He could feel its absence everywhere. In his bones, his chest, his legs… his head. That was most concerning. Though he knew he could run and keep running, a heaviness was beginning to fog his mind. The edges of the world were starting to swim. They were the first symptoms of magical exhaustion.

Would he fall unconscious before they could be saved? That might be better than being killed by a troll while awake, he thought morbidly.

It turned out they would be saved from post-conscious death… because a spine-chilling thunk suddenly emanated from the troll's location. "Oh God," he heard Granger mutter.

He recognised the sound too. They stood, frozen in terror, as the duelling platform began to descend to its usual height. The troll must've caught the lever with its leg, or its club.

The troll watched the podium descend with a sort of dull malevolence, while Harry fled to the main door, Granger hot on his heels. "ALOHOMORA!" she screamed at the handle. It was a final retreat, an act of despair. Like the previous half a dozen times, the door did not budge.

Harry watched her silently; something else, something beyond the edges of magical exhaustion, was now creeping upon him. It was a strange… detachment, a numbness. Acceptance? He thought distantly.

The troll's deathly stride drew closer. It had climbed over the podium.

Harry turned to face it. His vision seemed to sharpen, to slow; he saw its ugly, misshapen head. Its beady eyes glinting with enraged malice, its lips twisted into a hideous, gloating sneer. He saw its club, already reared back to smite them. How much damage, he thought, would that do to a person?

This was it. All his dreams, his parent's sacrifice; it'd all come to… this.

And then he saw it.

The glint in the corner of his eyes. The symbol; the sword.

New adrenaline coursed through him, like a great fire swirling through his veins. There was a fourth year charm he knew, useful for duelling… but he could do it.

"Accio!"

One of the four ceremonial blades that surrounded the platform whizzed toward him.

All the while, the troll grew closer; death approached in vast strides.

Its club cast him in shadow, and Granger's yanking on the door ceased as she began to sob anew.

But as he had willed, the sword now levitated before him.

He aimed, casting as much magic into his last spell as possible.

"Depulso!"

The blade blasted off like a rocket, spearing straight through the troll's throat, spraying thick red blood everywhere. It splattered on Harry's face, his robes, Granger beside him and the door behind him. The smell was overwhelming. The channels between the flagstones were running red. And all the while the troll was thrashing, slowly collapsing, gasping, holding its throat in an unpleasantly human manner.

Harry watched, detached. The exhaustion had returned. The darkness in the corners of his vision was rapidly eclipsing the light.

Then the door finally burst open, revealing a selection of teachers - Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Sprout - Ron Weasley, Susan… and Gabriel.

Her wide eyes looked from the dying troll, to Harry, and then back to the troll.

Oh dear, Harry thought; her expression was horrified. He suddenly remembered Adelita Land's lecture on trolls, on how they weren't really creatures of evil. She'd even spoken fondly of them. The pathetic, grunting creature now seemed a little less lethal… and a little more of a problem.

But he could think no more.

Darkness approached, and Gabriel's wide eyes were the last sight Harry saw before he fell into unconsciousness.

Glossary:

*Gireht is Old High German for straight.

*The Great European Plain is the distinct flatland ranging from the Netherlands to Russia, ceasing at the mountains of Central Europe. Technically, much of the south of England might also be regarded as a continuation of the plain, but the Channel makes it an exception.

*This would be part of the Northern Crusades, which resulted in the Christianisation of Eastern Europe.

A/N:

So… everything is wonderful until it isn't. Alan struggles with the tension between the wizarding and Muggle world, while Harry begins to truly connect with the memory of his parents. Which would be drama enough, except that a certain troll seems to know exactly where Harry is at a very particular… and all the exits are suddenly locked. Now he's been forced to kill it, in an unpleasantly bloody fashion, how will the fallout affect the rest of his year at Hogwarts?

I suppose you'll have to find out next time. Feel free to like, favourite, review etc. :)

Take care,

JoustingAlchemy