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HARRY POTTER IN:

THE STONE

Hartin is beaten, but the ramifications of Harry's choices linger on. New problems arise as the school year reaches its crescendo, and the mystery of the third-floor corridor thickens… and becomes a terrible dilemma for Harry. How will our hero deal with this new quandary? And will it aid his journey as he attempts to become

THE DUELLIST?


Previous chapter: Harry deals with the problems that arise from his challenge, including writing his own article for the Daily Prophet. He duels McConnell, Hartin's second, and proves victorious - just. Hartin storms out the hall, upset, as Harry and his friends celebrate.


Just ten minutes after the duel's conclusion, the rush of victory had already vanished like a gust of wind on a summer's day, leaving bone-ache and exhaustion behind. Harry's knees hurt from when they'd hit the floor, and his wand arm throbbed painfully. He struggled to restrain a yawn, very aware - even as his eyelids began to droop - that he was surrounded.

He was being congratulated, celebrated; people were shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, but Harry just wanted to flop into his comfy gold-black bed. It was all very loud, he thought blearily. Couldn't they leave him alone? Where was Susan? Where was Alan?

Faces were spinning around him, one smile morphing into another. He felt like he was in a whirlwind, slowly losing touch with the floor beneath his feet.

Just when he thought he couldn't stand anymore, a larger hand clasped his own, grounding him. All the faces became Gabriel, whose expression was reassuring. Harry felt himself relax; he allowed himself to be led away. He heard Gabriel speaking, pushing through the crowd, but he couldn't hear much at all. It was as though he was submerged in a deep, dark tank of water.

She led him down the corridor, down the Grand Staircase, until they stopped at a faintly familiar quadrangle. The silence of the walk, the cool spring air, had begun to clear Harry's mind. "I thought you were keeping your distance?" he said as they sat. The metal bench was pleasantly warm beneath them, as regulated by an enchantment.

Gabriel smiled and shrugged. "I didn't go to you straight away, did I? Besides, the crowd was overwhelming you."

The reminder suddenly made Harry feel tired again. He yawned into his hand, letting himself relax. He watched a pair of large white butterflies frolic above the grass. His eyes began to droop, and this time he let them close. "I didn't expect all that. We were just a first and s-" another yawn interrupted him, "-second years duelling."

"If you weren't so short, you could've fooled us for fourth years," Gabriel quipped.

Harry's lips dropped into a pout. Did she really need to remind him that he was the shortest boy in his year? … And, therefore, the school? "Thanks for the reminder, Gabby."

He'd only recently discovered she hated the nickname - which was why precisely no one else used it. Harry felt her tap him on the head. He still didn't open his eyes.

"That's what I get for saving you from that crowd," she said. He could hear her own pout… so she tousled his hair in a way he found particularly annoying. "Relax, kid, you're exhausted. No talking."

Harry was too tired to disobey. He put his head back, and enjoyed the shared moment, the silence, the warm spring wind blowing through the gothic quadrangle… but soon even Gabriel's presence receded, and his mind began to drift.

The duel replayed in his mind; he recalled every twist and turn. The opening volley, losing ground, matching McConnell blow-for-blow… and especially the finale. That single moment of victory was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. The Dursleys hadn't even let him take part in school sports' days. Approaching sleep, Harry took a deep, pleased breath of pleasant spring air.

Out in the north, atop Hogwarts' stocky mountain, the air seemed… bright in his lungs. Pure - as though he were inhaling something searing, joyful, and stern - all at once. An essentia, he thought vaguely, drifting ever further off, smiling slightly to himself…

He felt Gabriel's shoulder move against him - and he hadn't realised he'd been leaning into her until then - and he practically sensed her tense. "What're you doing here?" he heard her say.

There was warning in her words; a jolt of adrenaline forced Harry's eyes open.

Lother McConnell was just ten feet away, standing on the grass of the quadrangle, squinting as the sun streamed over the gallery and directly into his eyes. His hands were raised in the universal symbol of surrender. "I mean no harm," he said. His accent was softer than Borehill's. He gestured to his wand holster. "May I?"

Harry's vision of McConnell was blocked as Gabriel stepped in front of him, her wand clutched tight in her grip. Unless this were some sort of genius ambush, McConnell had no chance. He might've been good for a second year, but Gabriel was exceptional for a fourth year. Sometimes Harry wondered how she'd fare against an Auror.

"You may," he heard her say.

McConnell withdrew his wand slowly… and gave it to Gabriel without hesitation. "I only wish to talk to Harry - alone, though you can watch out of earshot if you wish."

Gabriel snorted. "Harry?" she said. She hadn't taken her eyes off McConnell.

What was going on? Why did McConnell want to talk to him? … What was there to say?

Now very awake, Harry peered around Gabriel and met McConnell's eyes. They were blue, and shadowed, but without malice. Without much of much, really. He met Harry's gaze with a singular… indifference.

Harry pursed his lips. He didn't really want to speak to McConnell, but what was the point of antagonising him? He shrugged. "We… we can talk."

Finally Gabriel turned, giving a pointed look. She strode over to the far end of the quadrangle and leant against the wall. She was twirling her wand through her long fingers all the while, making graceful, cautionary loops.

McConnell watched her for a long moment before taking her place on the bench. It was then, up close, that Harry really realised how lucky he'd been; McConnell was large for a second year. If he'd actually managed to get a proper hold of him… Which was a question in and of itself. As far as Harry knew, wizards weren't partial to brawling. Why would they be? So why had McConnell tried it?

"Hullo Harry," he said, leaning back with a casual air. "I truly mean you no harm. And if I did," he nodded toward the hovering form of Gabriel, "your… mentor would have me upside down before I could so much as touch you."

Dark haired and dark eyed, there was a maturity in McConnell's tone, a trait to which Harry had never really paid attention before. Lother McConnell had always been that guy, the duellist to beat. Never really a person. Now a new version of McConnell seemed to appear before him. It was a bizarre feeling, and Harry found himself off balance.

"I'm… I'm not sure I'd call Gabriel my mentor," he said; and as soon as he said it, he knew he'd fallen into some sort of verbal trap.

McConnell smiled indecipherably. "No, I'm not sure I would either. Perhaps I misspoke."

Harry shuffled uncomfortably on the bench. McConnell's dark eyes watched him.

"I suppose you're wondering why I want to talk to you," he led.

Harry replied in the affirmative.

"It's simple," the older boy said, shrugging lightly. His movements reminded Harry, somehow, of a big cat, or a lean wolf. He swallowed, and listened; "I want to explain the other sides of the story. I know about your altercation with Hartin in the halls, and I'm sure you're wondering why he's so hostile to you in the first place. You've also probably wondered why I stepped in as his second."

It was as if McConnell could peer into his mind. "I have," Harry said, equal parts curious and unnerved. There was no point in lying.

McConnell nodded. "I'll start with Hartin then. I'm not his friend - in fact, I think he's pathetic," he added, as though they were discussing the weather, or the new cauldron alloy regulations. "But I knew his reasons before he volunteered me, and made him explain them in detail thereafter. In fact, knowing his reasons - while you were ignorant - was half the reason itself."

Harry felt his brow furrow. What was he talking about?

Then McConnell seemed to pause before continuing, as if savouring the confusion he had sown. "Hartin is a reflection of your friend - what's his name, Alex? Ian? Alan - that's it. Hartin's parents were murdered by the Dark Lord's men; Hartin was given to Muggles. And when Hartin was introduced to the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived… last year, your arrival was all he talked about.

"He wanted to meet with you, talk to you - to be your friend. He built you up ten feet tall - but last September, the real Harry Potter arrived at Hogwarts. Short, reserved, and shy. He was so… disappointed."

Harry felt his jaw clench.

"He did try and approach you - so he says - but-" McConnell shrugged, "-you're a quiet person. Isolated. You have two real friends; Hartin has a dozen. I think he began to… replace that figure in his mind, that figure of the Boy-Who-Lived, with himself. You became an obstacle."

Harry had long ago gone cold. He wasn't sure what was worse, McConnell's story or the way he was telling it. He listened with a sort of detached horror.

"That's it, really. Matthew Hartin burns with hatred - for Death Eaters, for the Dark Lord, for chance, that failed to place him with a wizarding family. It all built up… and then there was the troll. And doesn't that sound ridiculous, when you really think about it? An eleven year-old heroically slays a troll, saving his friend and who knows who else? And that eleven year-old just happens to be the great Harry Potter, Britain's premier child celebrity, who is also totally unassuming - if a decent duellist?"

"That was the last ingredient - hence the corridor ambush, and the prank. Hartin was taking out his frustrations, trying to make him bigger and you smaller. But you can't beat talent. Talent always wins. Just as you've won now."

That was… a lot to digest. The euphoria of victory mixed uncomfortably with a bleak repulsion whose target he couldn't quite place. McConnell? Hartin? … Himself?

He recalled Hartin's devastated, tear-stained face in the wake of McConnell's loss. Would it have all been avoided if he'd just been a little more social? If he'd only been a little more… normal?

But on the other hand, how could he solve Hartin's problems if Hartin didn't tell him? Was this going to repeat in the future? Was this what it meant to be the Boy-Who-Lived?

"... There's one thing you haven't explained," Harry said tonelessly. "Why did you accept Hartin's offer to be his second? Why did Hartin even offer it? How did he know you'd accept? I was the one who challenged him."

McConnell shrugged. "Luck," he said. "Fate. Hartin and I are… acquaintances, through Bernard," - Bernard being Bernard Borehill, Harry knew. "We were discussing ways to improve our reputations, apprenticeships and such like. He steered the conversation your way; and what a laurel victory over the-Boy-Who-Lived would be? Not a meaningless practice, no - a real duel in a real tournament…

"... And just a week later, the opportunity appeared,' McConnell smirked. "As if by magic, as the Muggles say. You challenged him to a duel, and I was present. Hartin might not be our equal with a wand, but he's a quick thinker."

Victory over the Boy-Who-Lived.

That's what it was all about, really. Victory over an imaginary figure. Not even me, Harry though numbly. Susan was just caught in the crossfire. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you deserve the truth," McConnell said. "Because you can learn from the truth. I want the boy-who-beat-me to become the man-to-beat-them-all."

Then Lother McConnell clapped Harry playfully on the shoulder, smiled a strange, cold smile, and walked away.

Harry watched him leave, frozen; but his mind was spinning. Emotions swirled within him like a stormy sea, his thoughts caught between a Scylla of black, oily repulsion and a Charybdis of sweet, bright victory. What did it all mean? What was the point? Did McConnell really want him to feel sorry for Hartin?

… And why, on some level, was it working?

Gabriel's arm threaded around his shoulder as she sat back down. Harry leaned gratefully into her.

"McConnell might be clever, but he's got a lot to learn." She flicked her wand. "Finite."

Nothing seemed to happen beyond the faint blue light rippling from the tip of her wand.

"I've cancelled the listening charm." Harry filed the existence of the 'listening charm' in the back of his mind. He watched Gabriel's face harden as she met his eyes. "Listen to me Harry: stay away from McConnell. He's… unstable; don't think too hard about what he said. Hartin picked a fight with you, and he bit off more than he could chew," she leant forward, as if to emphasise her point. "You did the right thing, understand?"

Her voice was iron, unyielding; Harry nodded, happy to convince himself. Yes, he thought, she was right. Hartin didn't have to react the way he had. He'd chosen to take issue; he'd chosen to ambush him; he'd chosen to try a stupid prank. The storm in his soul abated, soothed by Gabriel's reassurance. "I do, I do - after all, I almost got ate by a giant dog because of him."

He regretted saying that as soon as the words left his mouth, and could blame it only on fatigue.

"What!?" Gabriel's eyes widened. "What dog? Was this after that ambush? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Because the fewer people who know about the third floor corridor, the better, Harry thought. "Because I didn't want to worry you," he said instead. "And it never came up. And I don't think the dog would really hurt me."

"Explain."

Her command left no room to argue.

Sighing, Harry turned his gaze to the cloudless sky and retold the story of that day over Christmas. Restraining the urge to watch her reactions, he relayed the ambush first, speaking concisely, recalling what was said as best he could; but when he arrived at the encounter with the cerberus, he sensed Gabriel tense.

Harry finally turned to her. She did not look happy; her grey eyes were as steel, her jaw clenched tight. "You shouldn't have gone through that, Harry. It must've been terrifying." She snorted lightly. "But then again, you seem to have a thing for stumbling across dangerous beasts." Her thin lips pursed. "Do you want me to ban Hartin's friends, too?"

Harry's heart warmed, but he shook his head. "No," he said. "Hartin's… faction will leave by themselves. You don't need to make yourself look more…" Harry searched for the word, "biased on my… on my behalf. I'd rather… I'd rather just put it all behind me."

"Fair enough," Gabriel smiled warmly. "You're too nice for your own good. Still, you're right; we've all got exams to take, after all. Best to forget about Hartin, McConnell and the third floor. I think you're right about the cerberus, it's probably trained to scare, not to kill."

Thereon the conversation simmered down. Harry sat and watched the little world of the quadrangle pass by. Smatterings of students were walking down the gallery; the sun was shining pleasantly, casting soft light through stained-glass windows. Harry felt his eyes begin to droop once more.

But something shook him away once more; "Oh," Gabriel said lightly. "Before you do forget, did you see anything strange about the cerberus? Perhaps in the room?"

Harry blinked; his vision was swimming with exhaustion, and he struggled to cast his mind back. "No," he eventually said. "Not that I can remember."

Then he yawned again, and closed his eyes, and didn't think any more of it.


When he woke about twenty minutes later, Gabriel was gone and his friends were in her place. Susan gave him a large, unexpected hug, and Alan a friendly slap on the back. "When he was running at you, I was so scared!" Susan cried. "I thought he was going to tackle you!"

"It was a strange move," Alan added. "McConnell must've wanted the fight to look brutal."

That was Harry's thought, and they discussed it for a while. Was McConnell trying to give the anti-Honourists ammunition ('what's ammunition?', Susan asked), or was he just trying to be controversial? Or, perhaps, did he think close fighting was the only way to win?

In the end they decided it didn't really matter. They left the quadrangle - knowing the school would be buzzing with gossip - and went down to the Black Lake, where they spent the afternoon skimming stones and playing. They only retired when Alan tripped himself over and fell in the water; after some panicked splashing, a red-faced Alan was guided to shore by the giant squid. Harry and Susan were practically rolling around on the floor with laughter.

Alan had to traipse back to Ravenclaw Tower dripping wet, leaving a trail of water behind him like a massive snail. His boots made horrid squelching noises with every step he took.

Harry and Susan waved him a cheery goodbye and departed for the Hufflepuff common room, where Harry's presence was greeted with a cheer. Now it was his turn to be red-faced; for the next half hour he was mobbed with well-wishers. He went to bed exhausted, and slept like a log.

And if logs could wake, Harry imagined he woke up like one too. Slowly, gradually - painfully, even. His whole body ached, his eyes were heavy, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton wool. Even his nose was blocked. It was, he knew, the aftermath of pushing himself so hard; but Harry had woken from worse, and dragged himself up at his usual early hour.

By the time he arrived at breakfast, his mind was still focused on yesterday; had almost forgotten about the letter Falkirk had written on his behalf. He was, therefore, nearly as surprised as the rest of the school when, on page six of The Sunday Prophet, Not for Honour, For Friendship: Harry Potter in his Own Words appeared. The article was practically verboten from Falkirk's letter. Falkirk was credited as the author; and he was receiving nearly as much attention as Harry himself. He'd gone as scarlet as one of Professor Sprout's strangling tomatoes, while Melissa Lovell - his fellow prefect and seeming female clone - looked incensed.

"I can't believe," Justin said, his eyes bulging at his own Prophet, "you actually got yourself in the paper, Harry!"

"The-Boy-Who-Lived could get himself in the paper every day," Ernie said archly. Harry bristled; then Ernie winked, "But Harry Potter would only speak when pushed."

"C-cheeky," Susan reprimanded in her familiar soft, whispery tone.

But Ernie was right, Harry thought. The article stirred a strange feeling in his chest; he'd used his fame reluctantly before, but always on a minor scale. This time, however, he'd done something - really done something. Something everyone could see. Was it unease he was feeling? Had the article been a mistake?

It was Wayne who snapped him out of his reverie. "This is the final spark for the potion," he said. "Now nobody can moan about 'barbaric honour duelling', 'setting a bad example'. You've won, Harry. Checkmate."

The longer Wayne spoke, the more Harry digested his words, the more they made sense. He had won. He'd won the duel, after all - and Hartin looked like a coward who couldn't fight his own battles. "Yes," he said. "You're right. Time to put all this nonsense behind us."

Wayne smirked back. "And start thinking about exams?" he said slyly.

Justin shuddered theatrically. "Don't say the word - they're still a few months away."

Ernie, predictably, disagreed, and Harry backed away from the conversation, listening rather than talking.

He let his mind wander to the only question that remained; what to do about Hartin's unimaginatively named 'faction'? One word to a teacher, he was sure, and the club would be broken up. Not necessarily for doing anything wrong - but using an abandoned classroom as a hideaway was technically against the rules. Not a rule teachers would actively enforce, but if it was brought to their attention…

Professor Snape would take pleasure in dismantling The Faction, Harry knew for sure. On the other hand, he'd already won; Hartin was humiliated, banned from the Duelling Club 'in perpetuity' (as Gabriel had said). Did he need another punishment? Did his friends - not all of whom had ambushed him - really deserve his revenge too?

The thought of anonymously informing Professor Snape of The Faction's existence was scuppered by his Potions lesson. It was the worst since his first day, when the terse, caustic professor had interrogated him with textbook questions. This time he watched Harry's Bubbling Potion (brewed to induce belching) like a goblin counting coins, waiting eagerly for any mistake, while spitting acidic remarks at every possible interval.

Harry had always got the sensation that Professor Snape didn't like him very much. After that first lesson, they'd come to a sort of truce; and now, as Harry handed a somewhat suboptimal Bubbling Potion to him, who snatched it with a sneer, he knew the truce was off.

"What's wrong with him?" Harry said angrily, as they made their way to Defence Against the Dark Arts. He'd barely managed to stop himself snapping back in class - and then he would be in trouble.

"It's either the duel," Alan said airily, "or the article. Pick your poison… or potion."

Harry considered what he knew. "The article," he ventured. "Professor Snape seems to like duelling."

"He should," Alan added, "he's been after the Defence job for years."

Susan hid her smiling lips behind her hand. "Y-you don't have to call him 'Professor' Snape if you're really annoyed with him, H-Harry."

Harry blinked. "What d'you mean?" Were his observations about wizarding formality wrong?

Susan paused in the middle of her stride, seemingly unsure what she meant herself. She began slowly, her old stutter returning; "I-I know you're… new- sort of -to the wizarding world," she eventually said. "B-but calling everyone p-professor even when you d-don't like them sounds… off."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. "Oh," he said.

Alan sniggered. "Isn't politeness insulting when it's fake?"

"Hmm," Harry felt himself flushing in real time. Had he been giving the wrong impression? No, he didn't think so; he hadn't made a habit of getting into disagreements with teachers. "Snape," he said, testing the word on his tongue.

It seemed to sound about right.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was much better. While Snape had shown his distaste, Professor Quirrell was overwhelmingly complimentary about the duel. He even said he'd watched it… though Harry had never spotted his turban in the crowd.

Unfortunately, Quirrell's praise did not distract from the terrible, garlic-infused stuffiness of his classroom. The damp and dingy room still reeked; but Harry had, in the second half of the school year, grown used to it. He only hoped his tolerance didn't fade over the summer; at first, the headaches had been awful.

Days passed thusly, with students and teachers both gradually forgetting the duel between Harry and McConnell. Hartin's friends - as predicted - did not return to the Self Defence Club… except Pritchard Moon, who it was generally assumed had fallen out with the rest of the group. Harry suspected differently; he was there, he suspected, to report back to The Faction.

For what purpose, he couldn't be sure. SLEIPH - whatever it was - likely had something to do with it; the answer could lie in the book he had… borrowed, but, with exams looming on the horizon, Harry had more pressing concerns to look into.

Not that it really mattered. Moon had little to tell the rest of The Faction; the club had returned to its usual schedule of meetings. Only two developments might've been of interest; the increasing use of conjuration in duelling among the upper-years, and Gabriel's escalated rhetoric.

Regarding the former, a few sixth and seventh years - and a single exceptionally talented fourth year - had begun employing stone slabs, rocks, slates and similar objects mostly to block spells, but also to fling at their opponents. It was a marvel to behold; Harry had watched, amazed, when David Hayes had blocked a nasty hex with a tiny stone slab which he then transfigured into an equally small net… which he'd then banished at his opponent's wand hand. "Merlin," Alan had said beside him, wide-eyed. But Conjuration was so far beyond Harry's understanding that he didn't even try to read the theory, never mind attempt the execution. Watching them battle was a humbling experience.

Simultaneously, Gabriel had resumed embellishing her teaching with exhortations toward justice, fairness and so on and so forth. It was not the first time; the same rhetoric had been employed after the Troll Incident to help ease tensions between the club and Hogwart's less… agreeable students and staff. It was certainly not the first time he'd heard about 1635 and the destructive height of duelling culture; and he knew it wouldn't be the last. Harry ignored it all, uncaring either way; the Self Defence Club was, to him, a duelling club. Gabriel could say what she wanted to trick the idiots.

About two weeks after the duel, everything had returned to normal… mostly. The weather continued to improve. It seemed an unusually warm spring; Harry and Alan asked Madam Hooch if they could borrow the school brooms, to which, after promising to muck the broom shed out once a week, she acquiesced. Harry became particularly fond of a Comet 220, which was slow but blessed with an impressive dive curve.

Outside the Quidditch pitch, as exams drew closer, the school's pace quickened. To Susan, it all seemed intensely overwhelming; but for Harry and Alan, Hogwarts was only just beginning to match the intensity of a Muggle school day. Watching their classmates—especially the pureblooded ones—succumb to cycles of anxiety was particularly odd. They usually panicked over trivialities, especially during the Easter holidays.

About three weeks after the duel, Harry received a message scrawled in Hagrid's untidy handwriting: Come to my hut this afternoon. Will have scones, Hagrid. Harry showed it to Alan and Susan. "Any ideas?" he asked.

Alan shrugged, but Susan looked thoughtful. 'Perhaps it's something to do with the heat, remember?'

Harry bit his lip. It had been stiflingly hot the last time they had visited…

After class, they took up Hagrid's invitation. When Hagrid opened the door at Harry's knock, a great rush of hot air burst from the hut. Before, it had been overly warm; now it must've been sweltering in there. What was Hagrid up to, trying to burn down his own house?

"'Arry!" Hagrid boomed, looking a little less pleased to see Susan and Alan, "Come in, come in."

It was, as expected, blisteringly hot inside. A blazing fire burned in the grate. Hagrid brewed them tea and offered them scones, which Harry and Alan accepted; the bread was pleasantly soft, but Hagrid's currents were - as usual - teeth-shatteringly hard. They were best eaten with plenty of butter and jam, but carefully.

They all sat around his tiny little table, and began to eat. Hagrid loomed wider than all three of them combined; he was sweating even more than might be expected, and smelled strongly of… apples? No, Harry realised, cider. Alan was picking the currents from his scone - which was big enough to hold like a hamburger - while Hagrid kept glancing nervously beneath the fire. Harry followed his gaze, and his breath caught in his throat.

In the heart of the hearth lay a great, black egg.

"H-Hagrid," Harry began falteringly, "that- is that, is that what I think it is?"

Alan dropped the currents he'd been holding; they fell upon the table, pinging and bouncing like dark, misshapen marbles. "That's," he whispered, awed, "a dragon egg. It can't be anything else. Merlin - Hagrid, how'd you get it?"

"Won it," said Hagrid. "Few weeks ago. I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

The egg was almost glittering in the flickering fire-light. Harry could barely take his eyes off it; though he did notice Susan seemed - though no less impressed - a touch more sceptical.

"What will you do with it?" she said. "I-I mean, when it's hatched."

Hagrid pulled a weighty book from under his pillow from "Well," he began brightly, "I've bin doin' some readin'. Got this outta the library — Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit — it's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on I em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An' see here — how ter recognize diff'rent eggs — what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them."

At that moment, Harry had never been more aware of the flammability of Hagrid's hut. Even Alan looked a little less amazed and a little more alarmed. "Hagrid," he said, "your hut is made of wood."

But Hagrid wasn't listening; he was staring into the fire. "There's gonna be a crack soon, there will. I called you here t'watch it hatch. I wasn't sure if t'show you, but 'ow many witches an' wizards can say they've seen a dragon hatch, especially so young? It's be special."

Then he took a pair of vast black tongs, pulled the egg from the grate, and placed it - steaming gently - on the table. Harry and his friends watch with wide eyes. The egg seemed to glow red-gold for a brief moment; then the colour faded to a deep, dark black which seemed to suck in the light.

Nothing, however, immediately happened. Nor was there any change after a long, tense minute.

Susan finally found the courage to speak: "H-hagrid, breeding d-dragons i-is against t-the law. T-the W-warlocks C-convention b-back in seventeen oh-something. Y-you'll g-get in trouble, and it's d-dangerous."

A crack suddenly appeared, and Susan's warning was ignored. Everyone leaned forward. Time seemed to slow as they all examined the smooth surface of the egg. Less than a minute later that initial crack splintered into a dozen; a strange clicking noise was coming from inside.

That must be… Harry thought with wide eyes.

Then there was a scrape and the egg split in twain. A tiny, ugly… thing fell onto the table with a pathetic flop.

The baby dragon was decidedly unimpressive. Its spiky wings were massive compared to its skinny, snake-like body. If it and Mrs Norris came to blows, Harry would bet on Mrs Norris.

"Awesome," he heard Alan whisper.

The dragon turned its bulging, orange eyes to him… and sneezed. Sparks flew from its nose.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Hagrid murmured. He reached out his massive fingers to stroke its head. It snapped at them like an angry feline. "Bless him, he knows his mummy!"

The aggression drained the last of Harry's awe; awkward questions were appearing in his mind. Could a dragon be tamed? How fast would it grow? Could it be taught to recognise Hogwarts' students as anything except a snack, even if it accepted Hagrid himself?

Unfortunately, the answers to those questions were not encouraging. Even more unfortunately, Hagrid couldn't be convinced to find a way to get rid of the dragon.

The next week was torture. Harry was constantly worrying about the dragon - or Norbet, as Hagrid had named him. He feared waking to see Hagrid's hut turned into a vast bonfire, or to hear that Hagrid had been sacked for breaking the Warlock's Convention of seventeen oh-something (he hadn't bothered finding out the actual year). He worried so much that the green-light dreams returned. They were strangling his sleep; unsightly bags were beginning to appear beneath his eyes.

He was so tired that, by Thursday, he snapped at Gabriel when she tried to prod him about Hartin's ambush - for possibly the twelfth time. "Stop it!" he snarled. "Why'd you even care, anyway? Hartin was a bullying idiot who tried to drive me out of the club!"

Gabriel recoiled and didn't speak to him until the next meeting. In the meantime, Harry tried not to think about McConnell's poisoned words, The Faction, or the fact that it was him who'd driven Hartin out.

By Saturday, Harry was dead on his feet… and the dragon had grown by three feet. Hagrid was beginning to slip in his gamekeeping duties. Harry sat in the Duelling Hall, hearing but not listening to one of Gabriel's lectures.

Everything was swimming around his head like a swarm of snapping piranhas, threatening to feast on his sanity. The dragon; McConnell; exams; Gabriel; the third-floor corridor; The Faction; SLEIPH… whatever that was. SLEIPH? Another acronym… Harry smiled in a slightly unbalanced way, his expression tinged by exhaustion. What even was that? He vividly recalled Borehill saying it with such admiration. In that stupid accent of his, he added uncharitably.

SLEIPH

Harry sighed at the ceiling. Gabriel was saying something about goblins.

SLEIPH.

Was that his neck aching? He rolled it left and right, and something caught his attention in the corner of his eye.

SLEIPH.

It was the comedic poster from the beginning of the year - the SLEF poster.

SLEIPH… wait…

Harry's sleep-deprived mind stalled like a an ill-loved Mini Metro*. Mentally, he placed the two acronyms beside each other. SLEIPH. SLEF.

SLEIPH… SLEF.

Surely… Surely not? They weren't the same acronym at all…

Harry released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. It was nonsense, right? Just the lack of sleep playing with his mind. Tiredness made everything worse; soon he'd be slurring his words like…

…Like Borehill…

SLEIPH… SLEF.

Harry suddenly felt very ill; a black dawn was rising, a sun of viscous, putrid pitch, slowly and unwillingly, in the mess that was his mind. A hidden message, his mind whispered. Everything was going dark.

He stood, uncaring that he was the centre of attention, and dashed out the hall. He practically sprinted to the Hufflepuff common room. Ignoring the curious eyes of his housemates, he dug into his trunk. It was at the bottom: Conjuring Courage: a Compendium for the Common Good.

It hadn't mattered before. The book was just a curiosity, a trophy more than anything else. He flicked through it, his mind sharpening into terrible clarity as he read. Direct Action, read one subtitle. Apply Pressure, another. Avoid the Talents of the Foe.

Harry swallowed. Carry out your Threats if Necessary. That was page fifty. He found it quickly. A shiver of ice ran down his spine. 'Threats', in this book, included… attacks. The violent kind.

He slammed the book shut and threw it back in the trunk, not wanting it even near him. Gabriel, he thought desperately, what have you gotten yourself into? If The Faction was interested in that sort of thing, and was keen to be accepted into… into whatever SLEF was, how bad was SLEF?

And how involved was Gabriel?

One final, horrible thought seized him then, as he began to reevaluate everything he ever knew about his mentor.

Why was she so interested in Hartin's Christmas ambush… no, why was she so interested in the third-floor corridor?

Glossary:

*Yes, Hagrid does refer to his own… dwellings as 'his hut' in canon. And of course, in canon, Hagrid doesn't decide to reveal Norbert to Harry and company; they stumble upon the hatching. Here, Harry has visited Hagrid more often and, therefore, gained his trust. Thus the invitation.

*The Mini Metro is an iconic British motorcar… usually for the wrong reasons. It came to symbolise the ambition and the failures of the declining British auto industry. Launched in 1980, it aimed to revive the ailing car manufacturer and compete internationally (specifically to aid Britain's semi-constant balance-of-payments crisis. Britain was developing a terrible trade deficit after the Second World War.

Like many post-War British engineering projects, the Metro was innovative (it employed new materials and a unique design, among others novelties)... And like much of Britain's post-War industrial goods, it was made - for the most part - abominably. Quality control issues, labour disputes, financial mismanagement - the Metro's life had it all, and reflected the broader struggles of British industry after WWII.

A/N:

Spring has sprung at Hogwarts, and not all is at peace. Has Harry discovered a horrible secret, or is there some misunderstanding here? He is, of course, drawing closer to uncovering the Philosopher's Stone - which canon Harry had been aware of for months now.

Our duellist has been preoccupied with other things.

Also, I'm probably going to combine the last two chapters of The Faction and the Stone, in keeping with my longer-last-chapters policy.

Remember, always take a moment to breathe.

JoustingAlchemy