Two weeks into September, a notice goes up on the Slytherin corkboard that Harry had been watching for: the Quidditch team tryouts will be on the last Sunday of the month. He makes a mental note and begins counting down the days, listening to the currents of conversation. Malfoy brags increasingly loudly about how he's planning to try out and how sure he is he'll get a position. Harry isn't quiet about his own intentions, talking cheerfully with his friends about it, inviting Theo and Millicent, and Ron when his Slytherin friends aren't available, to come out and fly with him in the evenings or watch him practice—it only spurs Malfoy's own bluster on, which is what Harry wants. He's confident that he can show Malfoy up in the tryouts, and after all the bragging he'll look like twice as much of an idiot.
As the day of the tryouts draws closer, Harry does have his moments of nerves. Hermione doesn't really help; every time he mentions in her hearing his intention to try out, she gives him a disapproving look and sometimes says something forbidding about how dangerous it all seems. Harry knows it's dangerous—he's a good flier and he loves it, nothing could keep him out of the air, but he doesn't entirely understand how wixen can be so relaxed about playing a high-speed, full-contact sport a hundred meters up in the air as if they couldn't fall to their deaths at any moment. He supposes the professors watching wouldn't let anything really bad happen, but he's heard stories about some of the injuries in professional games, and he's not much of a fan of breaking his limbs or his face or his ribs or any other part of himself in a fall or from contact with a Bludger. There's also the fact that while Harry is a good flier, he still has never actually played Quidditch, and isn't sure his skill will translate.
He tries to put it out of his mind, lets Sirius reassure him when he mentions his anxiety in one of their Saturday evening chats, the night before the tryouts. Sirius ruffles his hair and reminds Harry that his father was an excellent Quidditch player, that Harry is a natural in the air, and that Sirius himself intends to come out to the pitch as Padfoot to watch, just in case.
It's almost enough to keep Harry from feeling nervous on the morning of the tryouts, but not quite. He picks at his breakfast and then makes a quick trip back to the dorm to get his broom and his gloves, knowing it's early yet for the tryouts but hoping that the fresh air will settle his nerves. To his surprise, Neville is hovering awkwardly in the Entrance Hall when Harry gets back there, and joins him as he heads out through the massive main doors, matching his pace so that they walk side-by-side. Neville doesn't say anything until they make it out through the front doors, and then he bumps Harry gently with an elbow.
Harry glances over at him and finds Neville smiling.
"You're braver than I am," Neville says. "Maybe you should've been in Gryffindor after all."
Harry snorts. "Maybe. But I'm not braver than you, Neville."
"I'm terrified of flying."
"You could do it if you had to." Harry runs a hand through his hair, trying to settle the wild strands, which are long enough now to fall around his face—it'll be wind-tossed soon, but he might as well look composed even if he doesn't feel it. "Do you think I've got a shot?"
"You're a great flier," Neville says, and tugs Harry to a stop, looking at him seriously. "And you're… you're an asset, Harry. I think you'll do fine."
Harry shrugs. "It's hard to say. I don't think Flint likes me much."
"Is he the sort of put his personal feelings about his shot at winning?"
"I don't know," Harry says. "But he pushed me down the stairs last year, after that mess with Norbert."
Neville stares at him, wide-eyed. "I didn't know that!"
"Yeah," Harry says, and shrugs again, then resumes walking toward the Quidditch pitch. "It was… I don't know. It didn't seem personal, but I still don't think he likes me."
"Merlin, Harry," Neville says. "Didn't you tell anyone?"
"Of course not," Harry says. "I mean… it could've been worse. And anyway, who would I have told? Snape? Not likely he'd have done anything, probably just sneered at me for tattling. Sirius? He's not my dad, Neville. And even if he were, he wasn't a professor last year. No point."
Neville sighs. "Still, Flint shouldn't've gotten away with that."
"Maybe not, but that's how it is in Slytherin." Harry looks up at the distant hazy blue sky and contemplates it. "Things aren't kind, but… it was fair, I guess, by the House's rules."
"If you say so," Neville says. Harry thinks he can see him shake his head in his peripheral vision, but Neville doesn't harp on the subject—better than Hermione. She'd been with him when it happened, but he doesn't think she'd ever really realized what had happened, and if she had, she'd never have let it go. She'd have been twice as unbearable about his trying out for the Quidditch team with Flint still captain, at least.
Halfway down to the Quidditch pitch, Neville stops and says, "I should probably go back before any Slytherins show up."
"Probably," Harry agrees, pausing as well. "Thanks, Neville."
"Not sure I was much help, but you're welcome." Neville smiles at him, then waves and turns away, heading back up to the castle. Harry waves after him for a moment, then lets out a slow breath. Truthfully, even just having a moment to talk to Neville calmed him down a little—his friend has a soothing presence, somehow. He's very steady. And now Harry feels… well, at least a little more prepared than he was before.
The Quidditch pitch is still deserted when he gets there, so Harry takes the opportunity to do a little last-minute practice with his Snitch and to warm up on his broom. He's not sure what Flint's approach will be, and wants to be ready for anything. He puts the Snitch away, however, as soon as he sees a group leave the castle and begin heading down toward the pitch. He stays in the air, doing a few idle loops around the goal posts, weaving in and out, and then putting on some speed to fly a few laps. It's enough to distract him, so much so that he doesn't notice the other Slytherins enter the pitch until someone from below shouts, "Oy, Potter!"
He pauses, sits up on his broom to bleed off speed, and looks down. It's a bit too far to really see who's there, even wearing his Quidditch goggles, which Sirius had helped him get enchanted with his prescription, so he dips down. Most of last year's Quidditch team is there, carrying several bags of gear: Lucian Bole and Peregrine Derrick, the Beaters, and Adrian Pucey, Graham Montague, and Marcus Flint himself, the three Chasers. Only Higgs and Miles Bletchley, the Keeper, are missing. As Harry drifts downward, Flint raises a hand to wave him closer, so Harry drops quickly, pulls up, and then lands a short distance from them, sweeping his broom out from under himself smoothly as he walks over.
"I take it you're planning to try out," Flint says, once Harry's in easy earshot. Bizarre, Harry thinks, to realize only now that he's never actually spoken to Flint before. The older boy's voice is deep and even, surprisingly pleasant for a person with such a brutal reputation. He's big, yes, built tall and broad, and not particularly pretty, but Harry doesn't feel menaced. Not right now, anyway.
Harry responds to the observation with the nod. "I'm looking forward to it. You can have the pitch, if you need to set up."
"Kind of you," Flint says, his tone bone-dry. "Go sit in the stands."
"Yes, Captain," Harry replies, trying not to sound sarcastic. From Pucey's snort, he fails, but Flint doesn't seem angry, just waves him away. Harry goes as bid, taking his broom and heading up to sit in the stands and watch the senior students set up for the tryouts. While Pucey, Montague, and the Beaters lay out a box of tiny yellow-painted balls, a series of rings that look a lot like hula hoops, and other such items, Flint ducks out of the pitch to retrieve the lockbox which contains the actual Quidditch balls, as well as an armload of school brooms for anyone trying out who doesn't have their own. The older Slytherins don't seem bothered by Harry watching them prepare; they don't even seem surprised. Harry decides to take that as a good sign, and waves a greeting to Higgs when he arrives a few minutes later, accompanied by Bletchley, last year's Keeper. Higgs waves back and then gets to work helping his teammates; they seem to work well together, and Harry hopes that that doesn't mean that he's got no chance at all at taking Higgs's place. Higgs hadn't seemed overly concerned about giving it up on the train, but his experience might be enough to get him the spot on the team even if he doesn't want it as much as Harry or Malfoy. Only time will tell, Harry tells himself, and settles in to watch.
Other Slytherins begin to arrive about ten minutes before the actual start of the tryouts, by which time last year's Quidditch team have finished their setup and are standing around in a clump on the field, talking. Making plans, maybe. None of them wave for Harry to join them, so he stays where he is until he sees Millicent and Theo arrive, and then he goes down to say hello to them.
"I didn't think you two were going to try out," he says, after they've said their hellos.
Both of his friends shake their heads. "No," Millicent says. "Maybe in a few years. We just wanted to watch."
"Honestly, you couldn't pay me to get out there and do that," Theo says. "I'll stick with watching, thanks."
Harry snorts. "Sure, Theo. Well, I had a good view from up there," he says, and points up to where he'd been sitting in the stands. "Have fun. Don't cheer for Malfoy."
"Would I do that?" Theo asks innocently.
"Yes," Harry says, "if you thought it'd get you somewhere."
Both Millicent and Theo laugh. "You're not wrong," Millicent says, pats Harry's arm, and then accompanies Theo up into the stands. Blaise, Harry notes, is absent—but then, he's not half as Quidditch-crazy as those two. He'll come to the games if Harry makes the team.
Gemma, Hussain, and Warrington come down as well; Gemma and Hussain seat themselves a few rows above Millicent and Theo in the stands, and Warrington picks himself a spot on the field to start stretching his shoulders. He's got a broom with him that Harry thinks he recognizes as being a few years old, but of good quality and in good condition. There are also a number of other older Slytherins who Harry doesn't really know, some of whom head up into the stands, others lining up on the field to try out. Then Malfoy and his gang arrive; he's flanked as usual by Crabbe and Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson is trailing after them, lacking the company of Greengrass and Davis for once. The four of them stand in a group on the field, Malfoy preening in what looks like new Quidditch gear—he has a broom, too, a Nimbus 2001 to match Harry's. Harry sighs, seeing that, and meanders over toward the old Quidditch team. They're getting close to starting time, and he wants to be ready.
Sure enough, it's only a few minutes after Malfoy's arrival that Flint nods decisively to something one of the other players says and then turns to shout across the field, "Gather up, anyone trying out! Everyone else, up in the stands!"
Harry comes over, joined by Malfoy and four older Slytherins, including Warrington. Once they're all gathered, Flint says brusquely, "This won't take long. Positions? Warrington?"
He looks at each player in turn as he says their names, staring with Warrington, who says, "Chaser." Another of the older Slytherins, Ricker, is also trying out for Chaser, and the other two, Bode and Ambrus, are trying out as a pair for the Beater positions. Then comes Malfoy, who of course says, "Seeker," as does Harry himself, who Flint comes to last. Harry tries not to take that as a bad sign, and tightens his grip on his broom.
"Good," says Flint, once they're all done. "So, Bletchley, you keep your job. You others—I know how my team flies, I don't need to see them. So we'll see what you can do. Chasers first. Warrington, Ricker, mount up."
The two named nod and step away to do as they were told. Harry and the remaining crowd of those trying out gather a ways away at Flint's gesture and watch as he too mounts and rises into the air to speak to Warrington and Ricker. After a moment, he waves to the players below, and Pucey opens the Quidditch chest to pull out the Quaffle and toss it up.
Flint puts the potential Chasers through a series of straightforward agility exercizes first, both with and without the Quaffle under their arms, and then flies with them through some passing drills. After a while, Harry sees Ricker fumble the Quaffle on a pass, and without hesitation Warrington dives for it—when he manages to catch it, he gets a nod from Flint. They continue a little longer, but finally Flint seems satisfied and heads for the ground, Ricker and Warrington on his heels.
He doesn't say anything to them when they land, just shouts, "Beaters next!"
Warrington and Ricker come over to join the group, and Bode and Ambrus mount and join Flint in the air.
"How'd you think you did?" Harry asks Warrington in an undertone, when he comes to stand next to Harry.
Warrington shrugs. "Fine," he says. "Not sure I'll make the team; the current Chaser trio clicks well, and they've got no reason to change it up."
"You seemed like you performed well, at least," Harry offers.
Warrington glances down at him. "Thanks."
"Does Flint take reserve players?"
"Not sure," Warrington says. "He hasn't before, but we haven't had much talent in the last few years."
"Have you tried out before?"
"No." Warrington shrugs again. "Not much time for it."
"Right," Harry says, and glances up at where the Beaters are trying out. Flint seems to have enchanted a series of brown balls the size of regular Bludgers to fly at them, and they're trying to hit them through the rings Harry had seen earlier, which are being levitated by those members of the team still on the ground. Neither seems to be doing very well.
Fortunately, Flint doesn't seem inclined to let them flounder for long, and seem enough he's directing them to the ground as well. Which, Harry realizes, swallowing hard, means it's time for the Seeker trial. As with the Chasers, Flint doesn't say anything to the Beaters, just calls for Harry and Malfoy.
Harry mounts up, trying to ignore Malfoy doing the same thing next to him, and kicks off, zipping up to join Flint. Once they're both at his height and close enough to be heard, Flint glances between them and says, "First, no funny business."
Harry nods immediately, but Malfoy scoffs and says, "Don't look at me."
"Both of you," Flint says. "Speed first. Potter—round the arena as fast as you can. Weave through the goal posts, otherwise stick as close to the wall as you can."
Harry nods and goes without comment. He lays as close to his broom as he can and lays on the speed, so close to the wall that he's almost brushing the fabric, and he can hear it rippling behind him in the wind his passing generates. When he hits the goalposts, he dekes out from the wall, weaving through as fast as he can, taking the turns so tight he almost hits the middle post with his shoulder, and then makes the second half of the run. The posts go a little smoother the second time, and he whips around the remaining section of the arena before turning on a dime and racing back to the centre to meet Flint and Malfoy. Flint has a stopwatch in his hand and clicks it as Harry reaches them, then nods to Malfoy, who zips off with a final sneer at Harry.
Harry isn't sure how fast he'd done it, more focused on not hitting a goalpost or drifting away from the wall, but Malfoy is quick. It feels like less than a minute before Malfoy is back at the centre, though Harry is sure it was longer than that—but it's hard to judge time right now.
Once Malfoy is back, Flint nods at them both, then says, "Alright. Dives; start at the height of the goal posts, dive as steeply as you can, pull up as late as you can. One at a time, again. Malfoy first."
They both nod and head for the goal posts. Malfoy shoots Harry another of those obnoxious superior smirks before he goals, diving toward the ground at speed. He dives steeply, but, Harry thinks, not as fast as he'd been racing at full speed; he's holding back. And he pulls up pretty far shy of the ground, bleeding off speed as he shoots across the pitch until he can fly back up again to join Flint at the centre. Flint waves to tell Harry to go, and Harry immediately flattens himself, turns the point of his broomstick to the ground, and lets himself drop. Pushes his broom, in fact, racing for the ground as fast as he can. In his mind, he marks the distance as the ground grows closer and closer, confident in his ability to pull up at the absolute last moment, unlike Malfoy. His heart is racing, the wind loud in his ears, and then the ground is right there and he whips upward, blazing across the pitch so close that his boots would be brushing the ground if he didn't have his toes tucked up on his broom's footrests. He keeps his speed, too, determined to show Flint what he's made of, only slowing when he reaches the centre of the pitch and has to rise to rejoin them.
From the stands, Harry can hear someone cheering and shouting, and he resists the urge to turn and give a wave. No reason to be cocky; it's not over yet. But Flint's stony expression does seem to have softened a little, and he gives Harry a more serious once-over once he pulls his broom to a stop, hovering in front of him.
"Reflexes," Flint says next. In brusque terms, he describes what he wants. Similar to the Beaters, he has foam balls painted yellow, and he's going to enchant them to pelt toward Harry and Malfoy. They're to catch as many as they can and let them drop; they're not to move their brooms doing it.
Once again, they're going one at a time, Harry first this time. He sets himself up where Flint directs him and flexes his right hand, getting ready. Flint doesn't give any signal before the first ball comes flying toward Harry, but Harry's reflexes are sharp, and he's able to snap his hand out to snag the ball. And then the next, and the next. He misses a few, among them one that flies low, and another far to the left that he doesn't lean fast enough to snag, but he manages to catch one that's about to hit him directly in the face, and he manages another narrow catch so high above his head that he has to let go with his left hand and extend his whole body upward, reaching. He hits a sort of rhythm, watching for the flash of yellow and snapping his hand outward. All in all, he thinks he catches most of them, unless there were some in his peripheral vision that he didn't even see. Malfoy, at least, is no longer smirking when Harry flies back over—he's looking rather sour, in fact.
Harry is pleased to realize why shortly after, as he watches Malfoy take his own turn. His reflexes are good enough for the balls that fly fairly close, but he's not as good at predicting the path of the more distant ones and misses more of those than Harry knows he did himself. He makes the low catch, but doesn't dare make the reach for the high ball, which comes at a different time than it did for Harry. Provided they had the same number of balls thrown at them, Harry knows he caught more than Malfoy did, and from the frustrated look on Malfoy's face when he comes back, he knows it too.
Flint still looks very neutral. He continues to look neutral when he says, "One last thing. Can you take a hit?"
Malfoy looks taken aback. Harry's not sure how he looks; probably grim.
"What?" Malfoy demands, a moment later.
"Quidditch is a contact sport," Flint says. "The Seeker is a major target. Can you take a hit, Malfoy?"
"I should hope the rest of the team would protect me!" Malfoy protests. "The Seeker is the most valuable player, after all!"
Harry rolls his eyes. "A Seeker wouldn't be much good without a Keeper," he says. "And even a good Seeker is nothing to a better team of Chasers."
Truthfully, Harry knows that from watching Slytherin's games last year. Higgs was a decent Seeker, but substantially worse than Ravenclaw's Cho Chang and Hufflepuff's Cedric Diggory, and though he was better than Gryffindor's Seeker, it wasn't enough to out-score the Gryffindor Chasers.
"Then they'd better not pick you," Malfoy says spitefully.
Harry ignores him. "I can take a hit," he says to Flint.
"Willing to test that, Potter?" Flint asks.
Harry shrugs. "If you need to." He can take whatever Flint dishes out, he's pretty sure.
Flint eyes him, then says, "No." Then he looks over at Malfoy and says, "Not you, either. Let's go."
He starts back down toward the ground without another word. Malfoy races to catch up with him, and Harry can hear just the faint drift of words back up toward him. So, Malfoy's taking the chance to make his pitch, probably offering a bribe. Fine. Harry darts down past them, racing in a dive toward the ground again, allowing himself to enjoy it before he has to land again. He's not sure that what he's showed was enough, but he's sure he did better than Malfoy. It comes down to Flint's integrity now, his priorities. Which connection will he want more?
Harry lands and dismounts before Flint and Malfoy, then jogs over to join the group. Last year's team has formed a clump with those trying out, watching the final trial, and as Harry comes over both Warrington and Higgs nod at Harry.
Harry takes a deep breath as he waits for Flint to arrive and deliver his verdicts. He's surprised at his own nerves—he wants it more than he'd originally expected. But he suspects Flint will deliver the other decisions first, and is proved right.
When Flint arrives he nods at all of them, then says, "Alright. Chasers first. Ricker, you're still a bit rough, I don't have a place for you." Ricker scowls but shrugs, doesn't voice any objection. "Warrington, you're solid, but not enough for me to break up my team. If you're willing to come to some practices, I'll let you play reserve."
"Sure," Warrington says easily.
"Try out again next year," Flint instructs, to a nod from Warrington, then he moves on. "Beaters, neither of you is up to scratch."
Bode and Ambrus exchange a look, both a little downcast, but neither seems surprised. "Alright," Bode says, after a moment. "Thanks, captain."
Flint nods at them both, then turns to the Harry and Malfoy. Harry's gut feels tight, and he takes another deep breath.
"Seekers, you both did well in the trial. You're both faster than Higgs, and with some polish either of you could surpass him, so, Higgs—"
"Oh, don't worry about me," Higgs says. He sounds amused. "Go on, captain."
Flint grunts. "Malfoy," he says. "I appreciate your offer; generous of you."
Malfoy smiles. "Of course," he says. "It's my pleasure."
"I'm sure it is," Flint says. "I'll keep it in mind if Potter fails to perform, but I'm giving the position to him."
There's a beat. Then Harry starts to grin, at the same time as Malfoy shouts, "What!?"
"Potter's our Seeker," Flint says. "He's better than you."
"But—"
"I want to win, Malfoy." Flint narrows his eyes. "If you try to change my mind, I'll be pleased to take it as an insult."
Malfoy's mouth snaps shut. Then, after a moment, he grits out, "Fine," and storms off, his hand white-knuckled around the handle of his broom.
Harry tries to tone down his grin, but doesn't have much success. "Thank you, captain," he says, once Malfoy's gone. "I won't disappoint."
"You'd better not," Flint says. "Welcome to the team, Potter. First practice is Thursday evening."
Harry nods. Then, when Flint waves them all off as a dismissal, he bolts for the stands to tell Theo and Millicent the good news. He's made the Quidditch team; stage one of his plan to take down Draco Malfoy is complete.
Harry spends the remainder of the day of the tryouts being celebrated by his friends in Slytherin. Theo and Blaise are both openly happy for him, Theo slapping him on the back multiple times as they walk back to the castle, and Millicent stops him in the common room and shakes his hand once they all get back. So does Higgs, publicly conceding his position with a wry smile. Other members of the House are playing close attention, Harry knows, and tries not to be too visibly nervous. He only hopes he'll be able to live up to this tryout—he knows he'd done well, and he knows Flint will help him train, but still. Now it's really going to be time to put his money where his mouth is.
In the dorm that night, Harry allows himself a brief moment to crow about the look on Malfoy's face; Theo, up in the stands, hadn't seen exactly what had happened, but he'd seen Malfoy storm away and he's eager for the description. Blaise is more quiet about his enjoyment but seems to relish Harry's recounting of events all the same, and Harry goes to bed with a buzz of triumph.
The next day is Monday and Harry nearly bounces through class, unable to entirely contain himself. After Defence in the morning Harry lingers for a moment after class to give Sirius a huge hug and tell him, "I made the team!"
Sirius ruffles his hair, grinning wide, and says, "Never doubted you, pup. Now run along, I've got another class coming in."
Harry nods and dashes off—the class coming in is the sixth-years, and Harry waves at Gemma and Hussain when he spots them waiting in the hall on his way out the door. Gemma laughs and waves back, and then Harry continues on. He's got a free hour before lunch and he wants to use it to finish his homework, so that he can spend his free block in the afternoon with his Gryffindor friends.
Sure enough, in the last hour of the day Harry's able to track down Hermione, Neville, and Ron in one of the study halls and plops down into a seat next to Ron, his satchel thumping onto the bench next to him.
"You look pleased," Hermione says.
"No kidding," Ron adds. "What's happening?"
"I made the Quidditch team!" Harry declares proudly.
Ron immediately lights up and reaches over to slap Harry on the back. "That's incredible, mate! Seeker, right? How many people did you try out against? Was it much competition? What did Flint make you do? Was it difficult? Is he as scary as he seems? Do you—"
"Give him a moment to answer, Ron," Neville interjects, laughing. He turns his smile on Harry and says, "Congrats, Harry."
"Thanks," Harry says, grinning back. "It wasn't easy, but he made us do dives and things, and do a sort of speed test, and catch fake Snitches. Nothing I couldn't do."
"Who were you trying out against?" Hermione asks.
"Just Malfoy," Harry says. "Well, technically Higgs too, but Flint said he already knew what Higgs could do and didn't make him do the exercises. And Higgs didn't seem very surprised that I beat him."
"You are a natural on a broom," Ron says. "And with that Nimbus… wow. Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to Gryffindor having to face you on the field, but I guess I'm happy for you anyway."
"Thanks, Ron," Harry says, feeling warmed. He knows Ron is still no fan of Slytherin, and it must've taken a lot for him to say that. "I'm just glad I beat Malfoy, honestly."
"Bloody right!" Ron declares. Hermione immediately sighs at his language, but doesn't say anything. "That prat doesn't deserve the spot."
"No," Harry says. "Plus he was bragging about it so much—he looks like a real berk now. Especially since he tried to bribe Flint, and even that didn't work."
"Huh," says Neville. "Can't say I'm surprised he tried a bribe, but I'm a little surprised Flint didn't take it."
Harry shrugs. "Flint's not nice, but he… he has principles, I think. Rules, like. I don't know what Malfoy offered him, but it wasn't enough to get past that. And I definitely did better in the trial, so."
"Well, good," Neville says. "Flint doesn't exactly play fair in games, from what I can tell, but…"
"That's because—" Harry pauses, considers. "Well, Slytherin wants to win."
It's more than that, of course. It's that Flint can afford to be fair and principled within Slytherin but there's no real profit in being that way outside of it, or toward those who place themselves on the outside. Last year, when Harry had lost all those points, he'd put himself on the outside and gotten a punishment for it. But when the time came, it stopped, because while Slytherin kept its own in line, it never showed that to anyone else. Snape had talked about that at the start of Harry's first year, that they were on their own against the rest of the school most of the time, and that meant that they needed to look out for themselves first.
It made sense in a way that Harry doesn't really like. Of course he wants to try to be fair to everyone. That's one of the things he's hoping to push the rest of Slytherin toward with this new influence he's gaining—they'll be the outsiders less if they don't make themselves like that. But for now, that's how it is, and Harry has to work within Slytherin House instead of trying to change it just yet. Joining the Quidditch team is his way of showing that he is part of Slytherin, no matter that he has Gryffindor friends, and that he's willing to play by the rules of people like Flint. Now that he's proven that, he can start to do other things, to show the ways that he actually is different.
And Harry has a plan for that, so he turns to Ron and he adds, "I wanted ask you something, too."
"Sure, mate, shoot," Ron says.
"Could you introduce me to your brothers?"
There's a pause.
"You mean Percy?" Ron asks, confused. Hermione and Neville are also both giving Harry quizzical looks.
Harry shakes his head. "The twins, actually. I want to talk to them about something."
"Don't know why you'd ask for it like that," Ron says, skeptical. "But okay. I'll tell them you want to talk to them, they'll turn up."
"Like a bad penny," Hermione mutters. "I hope you're not planning a prank, Harry."
"Oh no," Harry says. "I'm not going to be planning any pranks at all, don't worry."
"Right," Hermione says, not sounding much like she believes him. That's fine; he's planning on using her as an alibi at least a few times in the weeks to come, because no one would believe that Hermione Granger would ever cover for trouble-making. She's perfect, really.
Neville has an eyebrow raised like he's suspicious too, but he doesn't say anything at all, and Harry just smiles at him innocently. Neville shakes his head, then says, "So, how are you going to deal with Malfoy? He's sure to be mad."
"I'm not really worried about him, to be honest," Harry says. "He can't do anything, especially not with Sirius here. And the more he tries to threaten me without being able to follow through the dumber he looks."
"I s'pose that's true," Neville says. "Well, good luck, Harry."
"Thanks, Neville."
They exchange a quick smile, and then Hermione interjects to remind Ron and Neville and they're supposed to be working on homework right now, and both of them sigh long-sufferingly but obligingly pull out their books. Harry does too, though he has a novel, since he'd finished his Charms essay earlier. They spend a companionable hour and a half, occasionally taking breaks from reading or working to chat, then part ways to drop off their things in their common rooms before dinner. Ron promises again to tell the twins that Harry wants to talk to them, and so Harry settles in to wait.
Harry doesn't know the Weasley twins very well, but if they're anything like Sirius and Remus, they'll be curious enough not to wait very long before approaching him. Sure enough, it's only Wednesday afternoon when Harry, on his way back to the common room after Transfiguration, finds himself and the other Slytherins joined by two tall, lanky redheads who seem to appear out of nowhere. They slide in on either side of Harry, nudging Theo, who was walking on his right, out of the way.
"Hello, little snake," says the one on Harry's left.
"Heard you were looking for us," says the one on Harry's right.
Startled, Harry stops walking, as do Theo and Blaise. The rest of the Slytherins have fortunately dispersed, so there's not really anyone else around right now. "Er," says Harry. "I suppose Ron told you."
"Right—"
"—indeed!" they declare. The one on the left continues. "Gred—
"—and Forge—"
"—at your service."
They whirl so they they're facing Harry and both make showy bows, in perfect unison. Telling them apart is going to be a problem, Harry can already tell, so he tries to mark any differences he can between them—it's not easy. They really are identical, right down to the way their hair falls and the slightly rumpled way they wear their robes; Harry's sure those things will be different every time, just as much as their faces will always be the same. But they aren't the same person, no matter how much they're a unit, so he's sure he'll figure it out eventually.
"Thanks," Harry says. "Maybe we should go somewhere else to talk?"
"Certainly!" one of the twins declares. "Where shall we take our young friend, Fred?"
"Oh, I don't know, George," says the other. "We can decide on the way!"
With that, they sweep forward again, each taking one of Harry's arms like gentlemen at a ball and beginning to escort him firmly away.
"See you later!" Harry calls over his shoulder to Blaise and Theo. "If I don't show up to dinner, get help!"
"Er—" says Theo, and then the twins turn a corner and then, swiftly, another, sliding smoothly into a dim passage hidden behind a tapestry. Well hidden, in fact; Harry would never have guessed it was there. Once they're out of view, the twins release Harry, but they stay framing him—stepping so that now they're one in front and one behind—as they make their way through the passage. It doesn't rise or descend as far as Harry can tell, but it takes them a few minutes of walking before they emerge out from behind a different tapestry. Harry looks around, and realizes that despite his feeling when he'd been in the passage of walking on a flat floor, they're now on the fourth floor, when before they'd been on the first.
"Wicked," Harry says.
One of them twins—Fred?—turns around to grin at Harry over his shoulder, and taps his temple. "All sorts of things to know about this castle—"
"—if you care to learn," finishes George(?) behind him.
"How'd you even find it?" Harry asks. Fred and George show him into an empty classroom off a less-travelled corridor. To Harry's surprise, it's not very dusty, despite being clearly abandoned, and there appear to be three chairs set up around a round desk. They'd prepared for this.
"We'll show you ours when you show us yours," says Fred.
"Fair enough," Harry admits. "Thanks for meeting with me."
"How could we turn down the illustrious Heir Black—"
"—when he desires to meet with us peasants?"
"And with widdle Ronniekins looking so very confused, too!"
"We simply couldn't resist."
Then they both bow again, gesturing toward the table, and say in unison, "My lord."
"Ugh," says Harry, which makes both of them crack up. He takes a seat while they finish laughing and they join him at the table, then fix him with startlingly intent looks after their earlier joking around.
"So," says… George, Harry thinks? He'd lost track when he turned away from them to sit down. But he's determined not to ask—he suspects he won't get any respect from them like that.
"What can we do for you?" asks Fred.
"I'm trying to take Draco Malfoy down a peg," Harry says. "Or a few."
"Oooh," say the twins together.
"And you think we can help with that?" says Fred.
"Yes," Harry says firmly. "You're pranksters, I know that, and I know how smart pranksters can be. I think you're good allies to have."
"Smart," George says.
"That's a new one on us," Fred says.
"Most people prefer silly—"
"—frivolous—"
"—outrageous—"
"—insane—"
"—obnoxious—"
"—petty—"
"—we could go on!" George grins, sharklike, and leans in a little. "Why smart, o Prince Potter?"
Harry shrugs, deciding not to argue with the nickname lest he get something worse. That had happened sometimes with school bullies in primary school. "Can you keep a secret?"
"Of course," they declare in unison.
"Well," Harry says. "I know stories get passed down sometimes—have you two heard of the Marauders? They were a group—"
"We know," Fred says, leaning in to match George. "There are definitely still some stories about their bigger pranks—
"—floating around among us Hogwarts troublemakers."
"They're legends!"
"Icons!"
"Heroes!" the twins finish together.
"What I want to know," Fred says, "is how you know about them."
"Not the sort of thing it seems like the snakes downstairs would be talking about," George adds.
"No," Harry agrees. "The Slytherins aren't much for pranks. Not the kind anyone puts their name on, anyway."
"We imagine not," George says. "So?"
"It just so happens," Harry says, "that I know who the Marauders were."
Both of the twins looks a bit stunned, which Harry had been counting on. Sirius and Remus had told him over the summer that while they knew, from McGonagall complaining to them about it when they saw her, that Hogwarts pranksters and mischief-makers had continued to pass down stories about the Marauders over the years and take inspiration from them, no one actually knew anymore who they were. Even when they'd been at school, while the four of them had been suspects almost by default, they'd make sure that it was rare for all four of them to be involved in the same prank, and that made it hard for anyone to be sure. McGonagall, who'd usually been the one to catch them the few times they had been caught, had known, but she'd never shared that information with other students lest the addition to their reputation make them even more bold. So the identities of the Marauders was privileged information, and Harry had been counting on it being valuable to the twins, which it seems to be, fortunately.
There's a pause, and then the twins exchange a long look, clearly passing something between them. They're better at it than anyone Harry has ever seen, maybe because they've known each other since birth, maybe because they have the same face, or maybe because of some sort of other unknowable twin thing. Either way, after a long minute, they turn back to Harry in unison and say together, "Tell us."
Harry smiles. "Prongs was my father, James Potter. Padfoot was—is—Sirius Black. Moony is Remus Lupin. And Wormtail was Peter Pettigrew."
The twins fall back in their seats and both slap their foreheads. "Brilliant," says Fred.
"Genius," says George. Then he sits up and says, "So how do we know it's true?"
Harry shrugs. "I knew the nicknames without you telling me, though I suppose I could have found out elsewhere. But the timeframe is right, you know it. It wouldn't be hard to verify that they were friends. It's also public information that Peter Pettigrew is a rat animagus."
Among the other things Sirius and Remus had told Harry about over the summer was how his parents had gotten the way they are. He'd deserved to know, Sirius had said, and explained that their once-friend Pettigrew had betrayed Harry's mum and dad to Voldemort. Sirius had almost lost his mind with grief when he arrived only a little too late to save their sanities, though he had saved their lives; he'd been just in time to stop the Lestranges from killing them, their sadism satisfied. But he hadn't had the opportunity to fly off the handle—he'd had to handle arresting the Lestranges, and then, at first, he'd had hope that Lily and James might be cured. Not so, but it had kept him from the manhunt for Peter. Later on he'd done what he could, as had Remus, the both of them sharing whatever information they had, including Pettigrew's animagus form. Unfortunately, he'd completely vanished off the grid; it was impossible to find a single rat in all of London, never mind all of Britain, and that wasn't taking into account that Pettigrew could have easily fled the country in the confusion immediately following Voldemort's fall. Sirius's own animagus form was now registered with the Ministry as well, as was Remus's lycanthropy, though both of those were somewhat less well-known; Sirius's records are sealed because he was an Auror and now he's Lord Black, and Remus, well. He's tried to keep it quiet, for obvious reasons.
The twins are both nodding, clearly mulling this over. Then George says, "So, Wormtail was a rat animagus. Does that mean—?"
Harry puts a finger up to his lips in a shushing gesture, and, impulsively, winks. The twins will probably check, but he trusts their discretion. They know a thing or two about not getting caught.
"Well then," says Fred. "Valuable information you've offered us, little prince. What do you want for it?"
"I want to humiliate Malfoy," Harry says. "I don't even really need you to do it. I just want you to pull some pranks on him and make it look like I was responsible, but at times when it's provable that it wasn't me."
"Aha," say the twins, in unison.
"So you're trying to provoke—"
"—a public accusation."
"Yes," Harry says, nodding. "Exactly. I want him to be so frustrated that he can't resist trying to call me out in public; even better if he tries to threaten me over it. And I want to be able to pull out the list of pranks and show him, point by point, that none of it could have been me."
"He'll look petty—"
"—and foolish."
"That's the plan," Harry says.
"You know—" says Fred.
"—o snakely highness—"
"—you could've just asked."
"Didn't need to buy our help."
Harry shrugs. "Better to be sure, isn't it? And anyway, Sirius is impressed enough with you two that he said he'd be okay with you knowing in any case."
That's enough to put stars in both of their eyes. "With us?" they ask.
"Sure," Harry says. "Not that I know you that well but your pranks are mostly pretty funny, and Ron's told me some stories. Sirius liked hearing about it; said he was glad there were heirs to the legacy, since I'm not much for pranks myself."
"Fabulous," Fred breathes.
"Stupendous," George agrees.
They exchange another of those speaking glances, and then nod at one another. "Harry," they say together, "we've got something to show you."
Harry raises an eyebrow, and Fred reaches down into his bookbag to withdraw a folded piece of parchment. He spreads it partway out on the table between them, places his wand in the centre of it, and says, "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."
Ink unfurls across the parchment, bleeding sepia colour across the folded pages, transforming before Harry's eyes into a map. First comes the layout of Hogwarts' fourth floor, on which they currently sit, and then more and more, spilling out across the parchment. Then footprints begin to appear, each pair labelled with a name. In the room directly under Fred's wand, three pairs of footprints are close together, tagged with their own three names.
"Wicked," Harry whispers. "What is it?"
Fred smiles. He taps his wand, and says, "Introduce yourselves, lads."
An empty spot appears in the middle of the page which begins to fill with writing. First an elegant hand that writes, in clear cursive: Messers Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs are proud to present The Marauder's Map. Then other writing appears below, more casual, the first line of which is very familiar:
Messer Moony, at your service, stranger. It's definitely Remus's handwriting, a little sloppier and more cramped but still recognizable.
So polite, Moons, comes another line, this time unfamiliar. The writing is an open slanting cursive, elegant enough that Harry thinks this writer was responsible for the calligraphy above, though his regular hand is simpler. Messer Prongs greets you! Harry stares at that line. His father's handwriting.
Messer Wormtail would like to be introduced! says the next line, this untidy printing also unfamiliar; this, too, draws an intent stare.
Messer Wormtail can introduce his bloody self, comes the last new hand, this one a significantly messier version of Sirius's half-cursive. As Messer Padfoot is currently doing. Hello, stranger!
"Wow," Harry says. His voice comes in a whisper, and he clears his throat. "This is… amazing."
The twins are watching him with a careful compassion clear on their faces. "We'll need it for the prank campaign," says Fred.
"And it'd be nice to have another month or so to finish memorizing all the passages," adds George.
"But after that—"
"It's yours."
Harry looks up sharply, tries to gauge the sincerity on their faces. Both of them have open features, their noses covered in freckles and blue eyes wide and calm; he doesn't think they're lying to him. Still, "Why?"
"If your dad—"
"—and Lord Black—"
"—made this, it should be with you."
"It's your inheritance."
Harry swallows hard. Gryffindor sentimentality, he tells himself. But he's not going to argue with it, or with the generosity. "Thank you," he says, his voice a bit rough. He clears his throat. "You can keep it as long as you need it, of course, but… I will consider myself in your debt if you give this to me when you're done. Substantially in your debt."
The twins exchange a glance, and then offer him a nod as one. They're smart enough not to decline his offer—a favour from him is a valuable thing now, he's figured that much out. He thinks they'll consider carefully what to ask of him.
Harry clears his throat, then says, "Well, I'll leave the prank planning to you. You're the experts, after all. But… I could get one of you into the Slytherin common room, if you needed, and if you can get a message to me I'll be where ever I need to be when certain things happen, to make sure I have an alibi."
"Perfect," the twins say. Smiles appear again on their faces, wicked and clever, and then they rise in unison and hold out their hands.
Harry stands too and shakes each of their hands, and says, "Thank you."
"Nice doing business with you," says Fred.
"You'll be hearing from us," says George.
Then they make those theatrical bows again and make their way out of the room, whistling cheerfully. Harry laughs a little, then sits down to wait a few minutes before he leaves, so that they don't raise too much suspicion.