The Faction and the Stone III
…
Slowly, things began to settle down for Harry. He relaxed back into the slow, unhurried rhythm of Hogwarts. After about a week, the incessant staring petered out. For that, Harry was glad.
But not everything went back to the way it was. Gabriel continued to keep her distance. There were no more smiles from her, no more advice, no more easy companionship; and the longer she stayed away, the more her absence felt like a hole, a hollow in Hogwart's steadily beating heart.
Almost as painful was the realisation that about a quarter of the students who hadn't attended that first session after the troll incident wouldn't be returning at all. Though Alan disapproved, Harry found them difficult to blame. The Self Defence Club had become as much a social club as a learning opportunity. After what had happened, he could understand why some might choose not to return.
Unfortunately, one of those students was Adelita Land. That particularly stung. She was one of Gabriel's friends, a tutor herself... and a great lover of magical beasts and beings. The very thought made Harry wince.
Not long after, the second Quidditch game of the year took place. Gryffindor versus Slytherin was, according to Susan, Hogwarts' sporting highlight. Harry wasn't sure if that was because the match was of a higher quality than those involving Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw (he didn't know enough about Quidditch to really judge), or if it was a consequence of their shared dislike. The airborne grace of the Gryffindor captain, Oliver Wood, pointed to the former - not that he moved much, being the keeper; the brutal tactics of both teams' beaters implied the latter.
After three long, cold, hours the Slytherin seeker finally caught the snitch he was seeking. "Thank Merlin's grubby beard," Wayne said. His skin was beginning to take on the same sheen as a block of ice. "Why don't the warming charms work?"
Beside him, Megan Jones had piled on layers until she looked like a black and gold letterbox, with her two brown eyes staring out at the pitch.
Harry shared his pain, rubbing his hands together ineffectually. As December approached, the weather had turned bitterly cold. Now a fresh frost clung to the grounds each morning, glimmering in the weak sunlight like fields of sparkling crystals. Snow had crowned the mountaintops; but after a brief flurry at ground-level, it had turned - in Alan's words - 'too cold to snow'.
That cold had gotten everywhere. It crept into corridors, and sent biting winds roaring through courtyards. Justin (he and Ernie, like Wayne, had moved past last names) was shivering so violently during a Potions lesson that he'd spilled his essence of billywig, which had made his potion fizz… then explode.
Professor Snape had not been pleased.
To Alan's annoyance, Harry had lately been spending more time in the Hufflepuff common room, lazing about by the fire in an overstuffed armchair. Visiting another house's common room was not generally the done thing, so they'd seen a little less of each other in the past week or so. Harry promised himself he'd make up for it after Christmas, and especially after February, when the weather would (hopefully) warm once more.
But before any of that, Christmas was fast approaching. Harry felt it in the air - a certain… spark, a magic all its own. Even the old caretaker, Filch, seemed a little less moody. He hadn't threatened to hang someone up by their toes for weeks!
Yet not everyone was full of Christmas cheer. Harry never heard them himself, but he was told that whispers were still going around - growing louder even - about his run-in with the troll. Some of them were speculating that it was an attempt to kill him (which Harry found most likely, and he'd been told Professor Flitwick was examining the enchantments on the doors that hadn't opened), while others claimed more cynical motives. Most repeated was the idea that the whole incident was faked - something created to boost the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived.
There was really nothing to do about that, so he didn't do anything.
Then, one day in mid-December, the denizens of Hogwarts awoke to find their home adorned in several feet of snow ('too cold, yeah right' Harry had crowed at Alan). The Black Lake had also frozen solid, so that it looked like a vast black marble. Out came the ice skates; out came the snowballs. The Weasley twins, known for their pranks, received detention for charming several snowballs to follow Professor Quirrell around, and bounce off the back of his turban. Harry thought their spellwork was rather impressive.
He was just watching Hagrid heave a vast fir tree up one of the open-air galleries, leaving a trail of needles in his wake, when he met Draco Malfoy leaning against the doorway of an unused bathroom.
"Potter," he said, his pale eyes flickering between Harry and the disappearing mass that was Hagrid.
Harry stilled, cautious. He knew the other boy wanted to make some unpleasant comment about the half-giant; since their first meeting, Susan had told him more about the Malfoy family and their ideas. None of it sounded good.
But on the other hand, Malfoy had never shown any hostility toward him personally... so there was no reason to be hostile in turn. Just wary. "Malfoy."
And where, he wondered, were Malfoy's friends Crabbe and Goyle? Inside the bathroom, up to no good, waiting for Harry to enter?
But Malfoy did not ask him in. "Watch yourself Potter," he said instead. "That idiot Hartin is spreading rumours about you."
That Harry already knew. "About the troll? I know - I just don't know why."
That Harry already knew. "About the troll? I know - I just don't know why."
"Jealousy," Malfoy sneered. "And resentment. There is a feeling among some students that you-" and Malfoy spat the following words out like they were a bogey-flavoured Bertie Botts bean, "'-'betrayed Gryffindor by being sorted into Hufflepuff'. They think the vanquisher of the Dark Lord should've only been a 'brave and gallant' Gryffindor."
"That's childish – and Hartin isn't even a Gryffindor." Harry said.
"This is a school, Potter," Malfoy pointed out. "But that's not the problem. I noticed that you've put your name down to stay at Christmas. So has Hartin - and his three closest friends. Watch yourself Potter, the corridors will be empty at half-term. Who knows what might happen?"
Harry eyed Malfoy critically. He'd definitely caught something suspicious; was this a real attempt to help him? Or was there some other reason? Was he trying to get in his good books? It didn't really matter, Harry supposed; it was useful to know. "Thanks Malfoy."
But now Malfoy might think he was owed something... Harry paused, mid-step. "Oh, and about that Herbology assignment; I know everyone's stuck, but I'd check out a copy of Ireland's Plants and Other Flora, by Irene Iskglass."
As the book wasn't on the reading list, Harry himself wouldn't have known where to look - except for Hannah Abbott's tip. And thank Merlin for her, he thought, stepping around the weeping ghost of the Grey Lady; someone had to like playing with plants. He'd had well enough of that at the Dursleys.
Susan and Alan were waiting for him in the Great Hall. Even encumbered by a whole tree, Hagrid had still gotten there first - leaving a trail of needles behind him like a festive snail.
Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were busying themselves with Christmas decorations. "Ah, Hagrid," the small teacher chirped, "the last tree - put it in the far corner, would you?"
That would make the twelfth tree to festoon the hall, along with blooms of holly and mistletoe strung along the walls. Some of the trees were already decorated with miniature icicles, others with hundreds of tiny candles.
"Have you pulled each one, Hagrid?" Harry said, looking between the towering trees.
"Aye," Hagrid said. He was seemingly preparing himself to hoist the fir over his shoulder. The half-giant didn't even seem out of breath. "An' then Nippy the 'ouse elf clears the needles afta me."
Harry reminded himself, not for the first time, to never make Hagrid angry. He already knew from Hike's Creatures of Land, Earth and Sea that half-giants inherited their giantish forebears' resistance to magic.
Now he didn't know what to say to such a Herculean feat of strength. "Er, nice one Hagrid, keep at it."
Alan waved him over.
"Just had a word with Malfoy," Harry said lightly, once he'd sat down. The hall was mostly empty; a few students milled around to watch the teachers decorate.
Susan tensed. "W-what did he say?"
"He gave me advice," Harry said. "Apparently, Matthew Hartin will be staying at Hogwarts for Christmas - along with his friends."
Alan was fiddling with the sleeves of his robe, his Muggle jumper just peeking out beneath the sleeve. "It's a trap, then? I'll tell my parents I'm staying at Hogwarts if you like. I'm sure Professor Flitwick won't mind."
"Me too," Susan added straight away.
"No," Harry said thickly. He was struggling not to choke on his words; something heavy and warm had welled up inside him at their loyalty. "No, don't change your plans on my account. I'll be careful."
...
...
The holidays officially began just a day later. Harry suddenly found himself almost alone in the Hufflepuff common room. Or, he thought as he relaxed into the best armchair by the fire, he had the common room to himself. He almost had the castle to himself. Perhaps a dozen students remained; they were outnumbered by the teachers.
It was a wonderful and sobering thought. He could explore at will, find those places he'd otherwise never hope to find. Secrets were surely hidden behind at least half a dozen tapestries, and who knew what some of the lesser known paintings might say? Harry had rarely been alone and free at once; always it had been one, or the other. Alone in his cupboard, where he was not free, or free at breaktime, when he was not alone.
Yet now he was alone, and free, he had time to ponder why he was alone and free. He had no one to go back to for Christmas. The Dursleys wouldn't miss him. He'd thought, perhaps, that because of the war, more of his classmates might've found themselves in situations like his… but apparently not. Even Alan, who'd somehow been lost during the chaos, had a Muggle family who loved him.
Susan, Harry suspected, was not untouched by the fighting either. She never spoke of her parents, only her Aunt Amelia (in terms both loving and reverent). He was sure Alan had noticed too, but neither of them knew how to approach her silence. How could you broach something like that, something that caused so much pain that she never spoke of it?
Harry sighed, pushing his head into the armchair. Susan had a gentle soul - perhaps too gentle, in this case.
"What're you thinking about?" a grinning voice said.
Ah, he thought; then there was that. He wasn't entirely alone. Harry cracked open an eye. "Nothing much," he told Wayne glibly. The other boy was, in fact, grinning.
Aside from a reclusive seventh year, they were the only Hufflepuffs in the castle.
"Susan, perhaps?" Wayne said knowingly, stroking his non-existent beard in a performative pose - as though he were Sherlock Holmes, unlocking some elaborate riddle. "Or maybe Gabriel?"
Harry felt his cheeks redden and wrinkled his nose. What was Wayne even implying!?
"I've seen the way you look at her," Wayne continued, "when you think nobody else's looking."
Something about that stung; "She won't even talk to me," Harry bit back dismissively.
Wayne dropped his pose abruptly. "Because of the troll?"
There was nothing teasing in his tone.
"Yes," Harry said simply. He eyed his housemate curiously. What was he getting at? Why was he interested? Wayne had always struck him as an unorthodox Hufflepuff - he couldn't imagine loyalty was his first, second or even third greatest virtue. Only hard work had delivered him to the black and yellow. Harry was much the same.
Which made Wayne something of a mystery.
Or perhaps he was over-thinking? Harry had found himself doing that a lot since the troll incident.
Wayne, meanwhile, fished something out his robe pocket. "Fancy a game?" he offered.
It was a black heptagon that filled his palm, about as thick as a large marble. Harry frowned. He had no idea what it was - and though his ignorance of the wizarding world wasn't a secret, nor did he advertise it.
"Er, sure?" he gambled. Maybe Wayne would explain what it was before they started; or perhaps the game would be self-explanatory?
But Wayne only frowned in turn. "You don't have t'hide with me, you know? There's no shame in not knowing."
If it were the first, or even the second time his bluff had been called, Harry would've frozen. It wasn't, so he just sighed. At least Wayne was being direct... for once. "Everyone expects me to be 'the Boy-Who-Lived' - and the Boy-Who-Lived understands what's going on," Harry searched his feelings. "I just... I just want to be a duellist."
Wayne's pale blue eyes softened. "It must be hard. I'm not even sure why people have kicked up so much fuss about some smelly creature, and my father's a politician!"
"It's complicated, I think," Harry agreed. He'd tried to read some political leaflets during his stay in Diagon Alley, but he'd had no context to understand them. His perusal into history books hadn't helped either; the mediaeval age he'd attempted to understand had a totally different government, with familiar names but without even the Ministry of Magic. He'd long given up. The Shape of Magic had gone untouched for months; he'd returned A Modern History of Magical Britain to Gabriel through her friend David Hayes.
"You'd best ask a teacher," Wayne said. "Then again, Snape'd probably have a very different answer than Professor Sprout. All I know is that there are four big parties, and some of them are big wet blankets."
Harry laughed. "What's this game then?"
The game, as it turned out, was a traditional wizard's game (and Harry suspected Wayne had offered something non-Muggle on purpose) called push-and-pull. The heptagon the 'puller' would spin clockwise, radiating a rainbow of magic like a sparkling whirlpool. One player, the 'puller', would attempt to stop the heptagon spinning via magic alone.
Harry hadn't even known that sort of thing was possible, but Wayne had shown him how; the heptagon was actually the vessel for a sophisticated enchantment, whose purpose was to simulate the sensation of magic itself.
By placing their wand into the rainbow wake, the witch or wizard could, if concentrating, pull against the heptagon's push by sense and will alone. The third player was supposed to disrupt the other player by pushing along with the heptagon.
Harry had taken the game rather flippantly, losing four in a row... at least until Wayne told him it was also an exercise meant to stimulate the magical senses. The ultimate purpose was to help awaken those same magical senses, which some witches and wizards never managed their whole life. He'd won every single contest thereafter. Until, with a great surge, the heptagon spun off its axis and launched itself against a wall, sending them both into fits of giggles.
When they'd eventually come to their senses, Wayne flicked his wand. "Tempus,*" he said. A lazy waft of lilac smoke emerged from his wand and slowly spun into the shape of a clock. "We should get going," he said, reading the time. "They'll be serving dinner soon."
With fewer people to cook for, the food the house elves were making was even better than normal.
But Harry was more interested in the spell. It seemed extremely useful. "Where'd you learn that one?" he asked, nodding at the vanishing smoke.
"My father," Wayne said, "but take a look at the third year charms textbook. It should be in that. It's not a hard spell - it just requires a bit of power."
Was that, Harry wondered, a boast?
Either way, he needed to see Hedwig, so he said his goodbyes and made his way toward the Owlery. Up and up he went, through the basement, by the Great Hall and up the Grand Staircase. Here the walls were thick with portraits, and the stairs shifted impossibly from landing to landing. All of it was built around a vast square shaft which soared to a distant, heavenly ceiling.
It was possible to get almost anywhere in Hogwarts from the staircase, but the stairs moved so often one could often find themselves at the opposite end of the castle to where they had wanted to go. Or to somewhere they'd never seen before, and where they'd never see again.
As he'd expected, the stairs were shifting unfavourably, so Harry was left waiting, daydreaming. His mind flitted briefly from topic to topic, but the push-pull game was still on his mind - and especially Wayne's words about sensing very thought sent a thrill straight through him.
What would it be like to feel magic, really feel it? He thought he'd felt Hogwarts' magic when he and the others crossed the Black Lake. It was an indescribable sensation - but that was to be expected. Hogwarts was one of the most magical castles in Europe - even a Muggle would sense something in its presence.
The ability to sense magic was different. He'd heard it described like synthesia, when one sense was experienced through another. Like hearing colours, or seeing sounds. The accepted theory rationalised this as an adaptation, as witches and wizards were not born with a sixth sense. Few were truly capable of sensing anything more than the strongest spells and enchantments though, and each witch and wizard experienced magic in their own way.
The stairs shifted, allowing Harry onto the third floor.
Would that, Harry wondered, specialise a wizard into a particular subject? Did some kinds of magical awareness favour curse-breaking, or enchanting, or rune-cutting? And how did immensely powerful wizards like Dumbledore sense magic; in fact, how did they experience the world? Could they feel the magic of grass beneath their feet, of the smallest flower, the grandest waterfall?
More importantly, how did it affect duelling? Could they sense spells approaching behind them? Could they ever be surprised? Was it possible to detect what sort of spell had been fired at them?
Harry came out of his reverie to glare at the unmoving stairs. They were mocking him, he was sure of it - unobligingly remaining set to what he was sure was a dead end. After about thirty seconds of waiting, one of the paintings called out; "Those stairs don't move on snowy afternoons lad, you'll be here all day!"
The gilded nameplate below the painting named him as Rupert Rind, an eighteenth century wizard so large he was almost bursting out of his robes. His grey beard almost touched the floor, and in his hand he held a magnificent pineapple*.
"Wonderful," Harry groused back. "I'll take the long way."
There was, he knew, a spiralling staircase from the third floor to the fourth. That would take him to another section of the Grand Staircase where he could try again. Merlin, he thought, it was a good thing the school schedule was so relaxed, or everyone would be late to class all the time.
Perhaps a magical sense would allow someone to detect how the stairs would move? The stairs were, he knew, old enchantments that'd gone haywire in the magically rich environment of Hogwarts. According to Hogwarts, A History, a series of levers once operated each set of stairs, allowing the denizens of the castle free reign to manipulate them as they wished.
Eventually however, the powerful sorcery of the castle had seeped into the enchantments that controlled them, and the levers, now useless, were removed. Thereafter, the stairs had a mind of their own…
Harry stopped, his thoughts interrupted. Had he just heard something? He swept his eyes across the corridor. Sconces cast deep shadows on the flagstones, atop which a long Persian rug had been placed. A couple of doors he knew to be locked (he'd tried them both in his search for a suitable duelling room) flanked him. The walls were windowless and - he realised with a start - strangely devoid of paintings.
It was a perfect place, he thought slowly, but with increasing concern, for an... his eyes widened, ambush!
Harry whipped out his wand - just in time to block a jinx fired from a shadow right below one of the sconces. His heart hammering, he returned with a jelly-legs jinx which flowed straight into an Impedimenta. The figure cursed, but side-stepped neatly away from the wall, belaying a certain amount of training. In the fire-light, it was revealed to be Bernard Borehill, a Ravenclaw with an incomprehensible Scottish accent... who just so happened to be one of Matthew Hartin's friends.
Three more figures barrelled out of the once-locked doors.
One of them was Hartin himself. Damnit, Harry thought; Gabriel hadn't even begun to discuss duelling multiple opponents. At least none of them had got behind him.
"Impedimenta!" he cast, targeting one of Hartin's other friends. "Flipendo! Rictusempra!"
With no other option than to overwhelm, Harry started pelting them with jinxes, never attacking the same opponent twice. Catching Pritchard Moon off guard, his second tickling spell connected, sending him into a fit of uncontrollable giggles and, thereby, dropping his wand.
"Idiot!" Hartin said, turning to cast the counter-spell on his friend.
Side-stepping an unusual pink-tinged hex, Harry took the opportunity and cast the simplest, quickest jinx he knew; "Relashio! Relashio! Relashio!"
Hartin looked to be rooted to the spot, but Borehill covered him with a minor Protego; the third impact shattered the shield, leaving Hartin and Borehill disappointingly unmolested.
Harry gritted his teeth. If only he'd thought to aim his spells, then their weak shield wouldn't have been able to cover his whole body... That'd been his chance; if he'd forced Hartin - easily the strongest of them - to drop his wand, he was sure he could win a chaotic two against one, especially with Moon giggling like an idiot and Hartin scrambling for his wand in the dark. They would've made great distractions.
Instead, Moon stopped laughing, and Hartin turned back to Harry, his wand-tip alight with what Harry was sure was a Flippendo.
He might've imagined it, but he swore that time seemed to slow in that moment; his eyes flickered from hostile wand to hostile wand - all four of them, for the first time, pointed in his direction at once.
Damn.
He ducked the first barrage, and side-stepped the second.
"Aim at different points!" he heard Hartin say. "Don't let him dodge."
Four jinxes filled the air in front of him. "Protego!"
The hemispheric shield absorbed them all. Its surface was nearly opaque and, though Harry knew he had more magic than his ambushers, he also knew he was in trouble. In fact, he was stuck. While holding the Protego he couldn't cast a spell; Hartin and his cronies were free to siege his shield. Gabriel had once mentioned that it was possible to transfer a shield to the off-hand, a sort of wandless magic. She'd never explained how, and it would be well beyond him regardless.
All Harry could do was steady himself and fend them off. "What're you doing, Hartin?" he called out to them. "I don't think we've ever spoken."
He could see Hartin's sneer even through his shield. "Just doing what should be done, Potter! That troll nonsense was just the Augur's call! Why do you think you've not talked to me all these months?"
Harry frowned, feeding more magic into his shield. What was he talking about? "Because we're in different houses, different classes," he said. Wasn't that obvious?
Hartin and his friends sniggered like he'd told a joke. "That's your excuse for being an arrogant sod? You won't talk to anyone except your two lackeys, Jorkins and that Pureblood snot, and that's your excuse? Even Gabriel isn't good enough for you!"
Harry felt his cheeks flush; his confusion was falling away, and anger was filling the hole it left. Lackeys? Pureblood snot? And he'd totally misinterpreted what'd happened with Gabriel!
Meanwhile, Hartin had lost patience. "Go around Pritchard," he ordered. "The shield doesn't protect his back, remember?"
Moon made to move; and Harry knew his time was running out. His eyes darted around the corridor. Surely there was something? Ceiling; walls; portraits; sconces; flagstones... rug.
Rug.
Harry bit his lip, watching his opponents keenly... it was risky, but…
There was no other option.
Suddenly he dropped his shield and ducked to the ground.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" he cast, wrenching the rug up. He caught Hartin's face, twisted in a rictus of surprise, and smiled while the rug wrapped over the four like a trap. Soon they'd shrug it off, so… "Duro!"
As the grey-brown spell leapt from his wand, Harry could not help but laugh, knowing they could hear. It was designed to transfigure the first object it touched into something approaching stone, at least in hardness.
He just hoped that whatever enchantments were layered on the rug didn't interfere…
But he didn't even wait for the spell to hit. Who knew how long it would divert them, even if Duro worked?
Instead, he turned and ran, sprinting through corridors, through doors, past stairs and finding... more corridors. Harry skidded to a stop, panting lightly. His breath left little puffs of condensation in the air. Wherever he was, it was cold.
And where, exactly, was he? Hogwarts' gothic corridors could be a maze, broken only by particular landmarks, like a Roman fountain that flowed the wrong way, or singing gargoyles who sang only lies on Tuesdays. But here he didn't recognise at all.
Harry listened for the sounds of pursuit and, hearing nothing, he turned to the nearest portrait. He could deal with Hartin later; for now, he needed to find his way to the Owlery, or at least the Hufflepuff common room. Portraits could usually point the way, if they so deigned.
But the portrait was empty... as was the next, and the next. Harry ran down the whole corridor, and saw not one inhabited painting. What was going on? Nothing else struck him as strange, at least until he saw a faint smear of dust hidden in the gilding of the empty portrait of someone called Thaddeus Ravenwood.
Dust? Harry pursed his lips, and cast his mind back, trying to recall the last time he'd seen anything less than a pristine portrait. Not here, no… that'd been back at Halt End. Hogwarts herself had a hundred house elves (according to Hogwarts, A History) to cook and clean.
In fact, Harry realised, with steadily growing concern, the only time he'd seen dust in Hogwarts was in specifically abandoned classrooms, or in the occasional secret room he'd stumbled across. And as this wasn't a secret room or classroom, that could only mean this… this was in the forbidden section of the Third Floor.
Which, to paraphrase the Headmaster, promised only a very painful death. Harry swallowed heavily; he felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head. No wonder Hartin hadn't followed. Now near frozen, he slowly peered about the corridor, watching with new eyes. The sconces, he realised, were unlit; shadows he'd barely noticed before seemed to bubble with malicious promise. What was the Headmaster warning against? What was waiting in the darkness?
Harry's thoughts spun from horror to horror, recalling more Adelita Land's lectures than Professor Quirrell's discourses in boredom. But he knew he did not know enough. As he'd almost admitted to Granger, he knew less about the wizarding world than he knew he didn't know about the wizarding world.
Gingerly, Harry began to creep down the dim-lit passageway. The hairs on the back of his neck had started to stand on end; his breath came short and sharp, and he could hear his heart booming in his ears. Plenty of doors stared out at him like glum brown faces, marred by faint blemishes of dust and grime. Harry didn't dare try any of them. Who knew what was lying behind each one?
Eventually, one did catch his eye. A door inset down a short corridor of its own, flanked on either side by gilded sconces. Burning sconces.
"Thank Merlin," he whispered to himself, breaking a spell of awful silence. It could only be the way out.
Harry took a hold of the proud bronze doorknob and wrenched. It was locked. Oh, Harry thought; that made sense.
"Alohomora!" he cast. After Granger had used it to try and unlock a door during the fight with the troll, Harry had looked it up himself. It was too useful not to learn.
The door clicked; Harry tried it again, feeling a certain amount of triumph. At the end of the day, he'd beaten Hartin, after-
- Harry's thoughts ground to a halt as he saw a nightmare come to life. He was staring straight into the eyes of a colossal dog, a dog which filled the space from floor to ceiling. Six burning eyes were looking back at him... because this dog had three heads. Three massive heads with three sniffing noses, three pricking ears and three sets of vicious, fang-filled mouths big enough to eat a Harry-sized boy in one gulp.
Harry backed out of the door, not daring to look away, and slammed it shut behind him. He ran, and ran, and ran, uncaring if Hartin found him again. He just wanted to get as far away from that thing as his legs could carry him.
Glossary:
*Surprisingly, Tempus isn't a Canon spell. It's become so woven into the fanfiction mythos that I imagine quite a few people think it is.
*Pineapples were once symbols of wealth and status. It's said that Christopher Columbus presented them to King Ferdinand of Spain in 1493. Because of the difficulty in acquiring the fruit, they achieved a halo of luxury, becoming centrepieces of banquets throughout Europe. Depending on the wealth of the owner, they might not even eat the pineapple when so displayed.
Later, when Europeans had engineered methods to grow them on their own estates, they did not lose their fame; rather, they also became symbols of skill and effort. It took a lot of money and nurturing to successfully grow pineapples in any European climate through the use of greenhouses.
Thus, the pineapple became a decorative motif used in design, denoting the ideal of hospitality and peacemaking.
A/N:
So, Harry has finally met Fluffy - and later than in canon. It's not in the film, so is often forgotten, but in the canon book Draco Malfoy challenges Harry to a duel at midnight, which turns out to be a trick. Filch is waiting for them. They run from him, and come across Fluffy; this happens just after the flying lesson - so canon Harry is aware that something strange is going on long before The Duellist's Harry, who cares more about… duelling.
Anyway, take care all of you.
JoustingAlchemy