Chapter 5: Letters, Dogs, and Research
September 7, 1991 – Saturday
Gryffindor Girls' Dormitory
Buffy sat at the small, neatly arranged desk in the first-year girls' dormitory, the soft light of a single lamp casting a warm glow over the room. The dormitory, with its cozy, four-poster beds draped in deep crimson curtains, and walls adorned with posters of magical creatures and enchanted landscapes, was beginning to feel like home. Buffy's desk was cluttered with parchment, quills, and ink bottles, evidence of her attempts to get the hang of writing letters in the magical world.
Dawn stood behind her, peering over her shoulder with a mix of curiosity and eagerness. She shifted slightly, her dark hair catching the light as she leaned in closer. The young girl was dressed in her Gryffindor robes, her excitement about the new experiences at Hogwarts evident in the way her eyes sparkled.
"Buffy, do you think it's wise to mention well you know in the letter?" Dawn asked, her voice a blend of concern and hesitation. She was referring to the details about their extraordinary circumstances and their new, hidden world.
Buffy glanced up from her letter and offered a reassuring smile. Her eyes, reflecting both the wisdom of her years and the warmth of her newfound family bonds, met Dawn's. "I think it will be alright. Cin won't let anyone but Mom… Err, Aunt Joyce, get it," Buffy said, nodding towards the small owl perched in its cage nearby. Cin, with her soft, feathery plumage and intelligent eyes, hooted softly in what seemed like a confirmation of Buffy's words.
Buffy turned her attention back to the letter, her fingers tracing the elegant script she had penned. She scanned the words carefully, ensuring that each sentiment was expressed just right. "Dawn, anything else you want to add?" she asked, her tone thoughtful as she considered how to best convey their experiences and feelings.
She glanced at the parchment again, where her words had taken shape in neat, flowing handwriting:
Dear Mom and Dad / Aunt Joyce and Uncle Hank,
I still am trying to decide what to call the two of you. It is hard seeing how I grew up thinking I was your daughter, only to find out I'm actually your niece. It's just confusing; I will figure it out at some point though.
School has been great; I already made some friends; Hermione Granger (her parents are muggle) and Willow Weasley. Harry has made a friend also, Ron Weasley. Ron and Willow are twins like me and Harry are.
Dawn has been here for a couple days, I bet it was a shock to learn about her. It was a shock to me when I found out about it in my dreams. Dumbledore said I had some sort of cognitive ability, does that mean I'm psychic or something? When I'm not working on my own homework, I am helping Dawn with hers.
Well, we better go; Hagrid invited Harry and me to join him today. We're taking Dawn with us to introduce her to Hagrid. We love you both.
Buffy & Dawn
Dawn shook her head with a small, satisfied smile, "I think that about does it." She glanced around the room, taking in the familiar sights—the delicate, embroidered curtains of the four-poster beds, the colorful array of books and magical trinkets scattered about. It was a space that, though new, was quickly becoming a cherished part of their lives.
Buffy folded the letter carefully, her hands working with practiced precision. She then turned to Cin, who seemed to be patiently awaiting her next task. With a gentle, encouraging nod, Buffy secured the letter with a ribbon, readying it for its journey to the outside world. The thought of sending their news home, of keeping their family connected to their magical adventures, brought a sense of calm and purpose.
Hagrid's Hut
At five minutes to three, the group left the castle, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows across the grounds. Harry, Buffy, and Dawn led the way, with Ron and Willow trailing slightly behind, their faces filled with a mix of curiosity and anticipation. The two of them, who had never met Hagrid before, had eagerly asked to tag along after hearing tales of the giant with a heart as big as his boots. Harry and Buffy had agreed without hesitation, knowing how much there was to see in the company of Hagrid.
As they made their way across the grassy expanse, the towering silhouette of the Forbidden Forest loomed closer. Hagrid's wooden house sat nestled right at the edge, modest and rustic, with smoke gently curling from its chimney. The small house seemed both welcoming and slightly ominous, fitting perfectly on the border of such an eerie landscape. Outside the front door lay a pair of galoshes that looked well-worn from tromping through thick mud, along with a crossbow propped against the wall, its wood polished from frequent use. The sight of the weapons seemed at odds with the cheerful flowerbed near the windowsill, where colorful blooms swayed lazily in the breeze.
Harry stepped forward and knocked. Immediately, the sound of frantic scrabbling echoed from within, followed by deep, booming barks that made Ron and Willow exchange wide-eyed looks. "Back, Fang—back," came Hagrid's deep voice from inside, full of warmth but laced with a hint of exasperation.
The door creaked open just a sliver, revealing Hagrid's broad, whiskery face peering out. His hair was a wild tangle, and his eyes sparkled with recognition. "Hang on," he grunted as he wrestled with something unseen. The door swung fully open, revealing Hagrid's enormous figure as he struggled to restrain a massive black boarhound. Fang, whose powerful frame strained against Hagrid's grip, looked terrifying but had eyes filled with nothing but eager affection.
Inside, the one-room cabin exuded a cozy, lived-in charm. The walls were lined with shelves holding all manner of curiosities: jars filled with strange herbs, gleaming brass instruments, and a few books with frayed edges stacked haphazardly. Overhead, hams and pheasants hung from wooden beams, their rich, smoky scent mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest that drifted in through the open window. A copper kettle bubbled gently over the open fire, filling the room with a comforting warmth, while in the corner stood a massive bed covered with a patchwork quilt, each square telling its own story in faded colors and threadbare stitches.
"Make yerselves at home," Hagrid rumbled, finally releasing Fang, who bounded straight at Dawn with surprising speed for a creature his size. Dawn let out a startled laugh as the dog immediately began licking her ears, his tail wagging furiously. Like Hagrid, Fang was clearly more soft-hearted than his intimidating appearance suggested.
"This is Ron and Willow," Harry said, watching Hagrid with a grin as the giant poured boiling water into a large, battered teapot and heaped rock cakes onto a plate, the dense treats clattering heavily as they landed.
"Another set of Weasley twins, eh?" Hagrid remarked with a chuckle, his gaze flicking to Ron and Willow. He noted their shared freckles and red hair, shaking his head with fond amusement. "I spent half me life chasin' George and Fred away from the forest. Never could keep those two outta trouble."
"This is our sister… err… cousin, Dawn," Buffy quickly added, glancing at Dawn as she extricated herself from Fang's enthusiastic greeting.
Hagrid's gaze softened as he took in Dawn, his expression turning unexpectedly tender. "Joyce's daughter, eh?" he said, the name laced with familiarity and respect.
"Yes," Dawn replied, her voice quieter now, a hint of surprise in her eyes at hearing her mother's name spoken so fondly in this far-flung place.
The rock cakes were unappetizing lumps, dense and knobbly, with shriveled raisins peeking out like trapped bugs. Each bite threatened to crack a tooth, the hardness almost a challenge rather than a treat. Still, Harry, Willow, Dawn, Buffy, and Ron forced themselves to smile through mouthfuls, chewing with determined politeness as they shared stories about their first lessons. The taste was less important than the company, and despite the rock-like texture, the warmth of Hagrid's hospitality softened the experience. Fang, having settled beside Dawn, contentedly rested his heavy head on her knee. His drool trickled down her robes, but she merely smiled, patting his broad, slobbery head.
Conversation flowed easily, and Harry, Willow, and Ron couldn't help but burst into laughter when Hagrid referred to Filch as "that old git." Their amusement was clear, but across the table, Buffy and Dawn exchanged puzzled glances, their brows furrowed. Raised in America, the term was foreign to them, its meaning lost in translation.
Harry noticed their confusion and leaned in, whispering with a grin, "It means contemptible or unpleasant person."
Understanding dawned on their faces, and Dawn gave a small, amused nod. "Got it," she said, glancing back at Hagrid, who had moved on to grumbling about Filch's ever-watchful cat.
"An' as fer that cat, Mrs. Norris, I'd like ter introduce her to Fang sometime. D'yeh know, every time I go up ter the school, she follows me everywhere? Can't get rid of her—Filch puts her up to it," Hagrid grumbled, casting an affectionate glance at Fang, who wagged his tail sleepily as if hearing his name.
As the conversation drifted from Filch's misdeeds to their classes, Buffy and Harry couldn't resist telling Hagrid about their recent encounter with Snape. Hagrid listened, his brow furrowed, while Ron and Willow nodded in sympathy, clearly familiar with Snape's sour demeanor. When Buffy mentioned how Snape seemed to truly hate them, Hagrid quickly waved off their concerns.
"Rubbish!" Hagrid said with a dismissive snort. "Why should he?"
Shifting the focus, Hagrid turned his attention to Ron and Willow. "How's yer brother Charlie? I liked him a lot—great with animals." The mention of their older brother brightened Ron and Willow's faces, and they eagerly launched into tales about Charlie's work with dragons, their voices animated as they described the fiery creatures and Charlie's adventures.
While the conversation continued, Dawn's attention wandered. Her gaze drifted to the cluttered table, where she noticed a piece of paper partially hidden beneath the tea cozy. Curious, she reached for it and found it was a cutting from the Daily Prophet. The headline immediately caught her eye: GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST. The bold letters stood out, making her heart skip a beat as she read through the article.
Dawn's mind raced, the date ringing alarm bells. Buffy and Harry had told her about hearing from Ron and Willow that someone had tried to rob Gringotts, but no one had mentioned the exact date before. With growing unease, she handed the cutting to Harry and Buffy. "Harry, Buffy," she said, her voice tinged with urgency.
They took the paper, and as their eyes scanned the words, their expressions shifted from curiosity to dawning realization. "Hagrid!" Harry blurted out, "that Gringotts break-in happened on mine and Bells' birthday! It might've been happening while we were there!"
At that, Hagrid stiffened, avoiding their gazes. He busied himself with the rock cakes, shuffling them around on the plate as if they suddenly needed rearranging. His gruff voice offered them another, though it was clear he was dodging the question. "Another rock cake?"
The Potter twins exchanged a look and read the article again. 'The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied earlier that same day.' The words seemed to hang in the air, connecting unspoken dots. Both of them couldn't shake the thought—Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if you could call it emptying, by taking out that small, grubby package. Could that have been what the thieves were after? The question lingered between them, unspoken yet heavy with suspicion.
September 12, 1991 – Thursday
The Grounds
At three-thirty, the anticipation was palpable as Harry, Buffy, Dawn, Ron, Willow, and the rest of the Gryffindors hurried down the front steps and onto the grounds for their first flying lesson. The day was crisp and clear, with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves and sending a refreshing coolness through the air. The sun bathed the sprawling lawns in golden light, and as they marched down the sloping hills, the grass beneath their feet rippled like the surface of a green ocean. Ahead, on a smooth, flat expanse of lawn, the Forbidden Forest loomed dark and mysterious in the distance, its trees swaying in a slow, ominous dance.
The Slytherins were already gathered when they arrived, their faces a mixture of eagerness and arrogance as they waited. Nearby, twenty broomsticks lay in neat rows on the ground, each one looking as though it had been carefully placed with military precision. Fred and George Weasley, standing nearby, couldn't resist grumbling about the quality of the school brooms. "Some of them start to vibrate if you fly too high," Fred muttered, his voice carrying just enough to reach the others. "Or they always veer slightly to the left," George added, shaking his head in frustration. The twins' remarks brought a ripple of amusement through the group, but also a touch of apprehension—these brooms had a reputation for being unpredictable at best.
Their teacher, Madam Hooch, strode onto the field with an air of authority that immediately commanded attention. She was a striking figure with short, gray hair that framed her sharp, no-nonsense features. Her yellow eyes gleamed with the intensity of a hawk, scanning the students as if assessing each one's potential. "Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Buffy found herself glancing down at the broom beside her, its age evident in the worn handle and the twigs that jutted out at awkward angles. It looked more like a relic than a reliable piece of equipment, but there was no time to dwell on that now. She squared her shoulders, determined to make the best of it.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Madam Hooch called from the front, her tone leaving no room for hesitation, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" the students shouted in unison, their voices ringing out across the lawn.
Harry and Buffy's brooms responded instantly, leaping into their hands as though eager to be ridden. They exchanged a quick, satisfied glance, knowing they were among the few to get it right on the first try. All around them, however, there were brooms that stubbornly remained on the ground. Hermione's broom gave a feeble roll, barely shifting, while Neville's didn't budge an inch, despite his desperate plea.
Standing a little behind Buffy, Dawn watched her cousin with a mix of envy and admiration. Buffy made it look so effortless, like the broom was an extension of herself. "I still wish I could do it as easy as you, Buffy," she whispered, her voice betraying both her longing to succeed and the frustration of not quite getting it right.
Madam Hooch moved on to the next step, demonstrating how to mount the brooms without sliding off the end. Her instructions were precise, her eyes narrowing as she walked up and down the rows, correcting grips and adjusting postures. Harry, Buffy, Dawn, Willow, and Ron couldn't help but exchange delighted looks when Madam Hooch paused by Malfoy and informed him with a clipped tone that he'd been holding his broom wrong for years. The smug look on Malfoy's face faltered, and the Gryffindors suppressed their grins, savoring the small victory.
"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," Madam Hooch instructed, her voice commanding their full attention. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—"
But Neville, jittery and desperate not to be the last one in the air, pushed off too early, his feet leaving the ground in a wild, uncontrolled launch before the whistle even grazed Madam Hooch's lips. A collective gasp rippled through the group as he shot upwards like a firework, his broom soaring straight up with a frightening speed—twelve feet—twenty feet—until Neville's terrified face was a pale blur against the blue sky. His wide eyes looked down at the shrinking ground, and panic washed over him, freezing his limbs. The world below spun dizzyingly, and with a sharp intake of breath, he lost his grip, tilting sideways. The class watched helplessly as he toppled from the broom, his scream swallowed by the rush of wind.
WHAM. The sound of Neville hitting the ground was sickening—a solid thud followed by a loud crack that echoed across the lawn. A collective wince passed through the students, and they stared in stunned silence as Neville lay crumpled on the grass, facedown, his body still as his broom continued its lonely ascent, wobbling as it drifted lazily toward the distant Forbidden Forest before vanishing from sight.
Madam Hooch was at Neville's side in an instant, her usually stern face drained of color as she bent over him. "Broken wrist," she muttered, her voice low but laced with concern. Her hands were gentle as she helped him to sit up, but Neville's tear-streaked face twisted in pain as he clutched his injured wrist. "Come on, boy—it's all right, up you get." Her tone softened, but there was urgency beneath it. She turned to the rest of the class, her hawk-like eyes flashing dangerously. "None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.'" The threat hung in the air like a storm cloud, silencing any thoughts of disobedience.
With a reassuring arm around Neville's shoulders, Madam Hooch guided him away, his steps unsteady and slow as he leaned heavily on her. Tears tracked down his cheeks, mingling with the dirt smeared across his face, while he sniffled in an effort to hold back the sobs that still shook his chest. The class watched them go, tension lingering like an unspoken question, the silence stretching until it was broken by a sudden burst of laughter.
Malfoy's cruel cackle cut through the stillness like a knife. "Did you see his face, the great lump?" His voice was gleeful, dripping with malice as he relished the spectacle.
The other Slytherins, quick to follow their ringleader, joined in, their laughter sharp and mocking. Pansy Parkinson's high-pitched giggle was the loudest of all, her hard eyes gleaming with delight.
"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, her eyes blazing as she stepped forward, her fists clenched at her sides.
"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Pansy sneered; her expression twisted into a sneer. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati." Her tone was venomous, aimed to wound, and a few of the Slytherins snickered in agreement.
Before Parvati could retort, Malfoy's eyes gleamed with sudden interest as he spotted something glinting in the grass. He darted forward and snatched it up, holding it aloft with a triumphant smirk. "Look! It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him." The Remembrall sparkled in the sunlight, a delicate glass orb swirling with misty colors, now a trophy in Malfoy's taunting grip.
"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry, his voice low and deadly quiet. There was a sudden shift in the air, the playful breeze turning still as all eyes turned to Harry. The laughter died abruptly as everyone froze, the tension crackling like static. Even the Slytherins fell silent, sensing the confrontation brewing.
Buffy and Dawn exchanged anxious looks; their concern evident in the tightness of their expressions. "Harry," they whispered simultaneously, their voices tinged with warning and worry.
Malfoy's smile widened into a cold, malicious grin. He held the Remembrall up, letting it catch the light as it glinted tauntingly. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find—how about—up a tree?" His voice was laced with mockery, each word designed to needle and provoke. He knew exactly how to get under Harry's skin, and he was relishing every second of it.
"Give it here!" Harry shouted, his anger flaring as he took a step forward. But Malfoy, always quick to act when it meant causing trouble, had already leapt onto his broomstick and kicked off. The grin never left his face as he ascended swiftly into the air, displaying an impressive ease in the sky. For all his faults, he hadn't exaggerated about his flying skills. His broom hummed as he hovered near the top branches of a tall oak, high above the heads of the onlookers below.
"Come and get it, Potter!" Malfoy called down, his voice dripping with challenge as he waved the Remembrall, daring Harry to rise to the bait.
Harry didn't hesitate. His hands clenched in determination as he grabbed his broom, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He could already feel the rush of air, the exhilaration that came with soaring through the sky.
"No!" Buffy and Dawn cried out in unison, their voices full of concern. Both knew that breaking the rules like this could have serious consequences, and they could already picture what Professor McGonagall's reaction might be. The twins' voices mingled with Hermione's, who had gone pale with anxiety.
"Madam Hooch told us not to move—you'll get us all into trouble," Hermione added urgently, her eyes wide as she tried to appeal to Harry's sense of reason. But the fire in Harry's eyes made it clear he was past caring about the rules. The need to stand up to Malfoy, to defend Neville and his friends, was stronger than any fear of punishment.
Ignoring their warnings, Harry swung his leg over the broom and kicked off with a force that sent him rocketing into the air. The ground fell away beneath him as he shot upwards, the wind whipping through his hair. A thrill surged through him as he climbed higher and higher, his broom responding effortlessly to every tilt and shift of his weight. Buffy and Dawn's shouts of alarm became faint echoes beneath him, while Ron and Willow's cheers spurred him on with a reckless joy.
Reaching Malfoy's level, Harry jerked the broomstick to a sharp halt, his movements precise and confident despite it being his first lesson. He faced Malfoy in midair, eyes locked in a tense stare-off. Malfoy's smugness faltered, his sneer giving way to surprise as he realized Harry was not only keeping up with him but showing a natural skill that was hard to dismiss.
"Give it here," Harry demanded, his voice carrying a steely edge that left no room for games. "Or I'll knock you off that broom!" There was a fierce determination in his tone, an unspoken promise that he wasn't bluffing.
"Oh, yeah?" Malfoy shot back, attempting to mask his unease with bravado. But his grip on the Remembrall tightened, and his eyes flicked nervously between Harry and the distance to the ground far below. The confidence that had fueled his earlier taunts was wavering, his sneer no longer as sharp as it had been just moments before.
Harry leaned forward, gripping the broom with determination, and in a heartbeat, it shot forward like a missile aimed directly at Malfoy. The rush of air screamed past Harry's ears as he hurtled through the sky, his focus narrowed to the sneering figure just ahead. Malfoy's eyes widened in alarm, and with a panicked jerk, he swerved out of the way, narrowly avoiding a collision. Harry executed a swift, controlled turn, his broom responding as if it were part of him, and steadied himself midair. Below, scattered applause and cheers broke out, a few students unable to hide their admiration for Harry's daring maneuver.
"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry taunted, his voice ringing out with fierce confidence. High above the ground, without his usual backup, Malfoy's bravado was wearing thin. His smirk faltered as he glanced around, realizing that for once, he was on his own.
The realization seemed to sink in, and Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Catch it if you can, then!" he snarled. With a quick flick of his wrist, he hurled the Remembrall high into the sky, the small glass orb glittering as it caught the sunlight. Without waiting to see what Harry would do, Malfoy shot back toward the ground, eager to escape any further confrontation.
On the ground, Buffy and Dawn watched, their hearts pounding as the orb began its rapid descent. The sunlight made it sparkle like a falling star, a dazzling point of light against the brilliant blue sky. "Harry!" Buffy shouted, her voice edged with concern. She knew her brother's fearlessness all too well, and this dive was about to push it to its limits.
But Harry was already moving. Leaning forward, he pointed his broom downward and dove, his body flattening against the handle as he gained speed. The wind howled in his ears, mingling with the distant screams of onlookers. It was as if the whole world had blurred into a rush of color and sound, all except for that one small, glinting object hurtling toward the earth. Every second felt like an eternity as Harry streaked downward in a near-vertical plunge, his hand outstretched, fingers straining to reach the orb.
Closer, closer—then, at the last possible moment, with the ground rushing up beneath him, his fingers closed around the Remembrall. In one fluid motion, he yanked his broom upward, barely managing to level out before skimming the grass. He toppled gently onto the ground, sliding to a stop on the cool lawn, the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist. For a moment, he lay there, chest heaving, exhilaration and relief flooding through him as he stared at the bright sky overhead.
But the moment of triumph was cut short by the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps pounding across the grass. Buffy and Dawn's heads snapped around just in time to see Professor McGonagall charging toward them, her robes billowing like storm clouds in her wake. Her face was a mask of disbelief and anger, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes, magnified by her flashing spectacles, blazed with fury.
"Harry Potter!" she bellowed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the gasps and murmurs of the gathered students. The sheer force of her tone made Buffy and Dawn flinch, their stomachs churning with dread. Professor McGonagall's expression was one they knew all too well—the kind reserved for the gravest of infractions. The tension weighed on them like a leaden sky before a downpour, and they exchanged anxious glances, knowing Harry was in serious trouble.
"Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—" Professor McGonagall sputtered, her voice trembling with indignation as she struggled to find words. Her glasses flashed dangerously, catching the sunlight as she glared down at Harry. "—how dare you—you might have broken your neck—" The reprimand was fierce, her words slicing through the air like a whip. It was clear she was more shocked than she'd been in years, and the sheer intensity of her anger left everyone speechless.
Parvati Patil, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, tried to jump to Harry's defense. "It wasn't his fault, Professor—" she began, but she was cut off before she could finish.
"Be quiet, Miss Patil—" McGonagall snapped, her voice steely and unforgiving. The sharp rebuke silenced any further attempts at protest from the Gryffindors, a cold reminder of how serious the situation had become.
"But Malfoy—" Ron started; his voice thick with frustration as he pointed at the smirking Slytherin still hovering nearby.
"That's enough, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. She wasn't interested in explanations or justifications; her mind was made up. Turning her stern gaze back to Harry, she ordered, "Mr. Potter, follow me, now." The authority in her voice was absolute, leaving no room for hesitation.
Buffy and Dawn stood frozen as they watched Harry follow the professor, his shoulders squared but his expression troubled. Their anxiety deepened with each step he took away from them, the uncertainty gnawing at them like a persistent ache. The atmosphere was thick with worry, the gravity of the moment settling over the students like an oppressive fog. All they could do was watch as McGonagall marched Harry back toward the castle.
Great Hall
"You're joking," Ron said, his voice laced with disbelief as his fork hovered mid-air.
It was dinnertime in the Great Hall, and the usual hum of chatter and clinking of silverware filled the air. The enchanted ceiling above mirrored the twilight sky, streaked with hues of gold and lavender as the sun dipped below the horizon. Harry had just finished recounting his unexpected meeting with Professor McGonagall, leaving Ron, Willow, Buffy, and Dawn wide-eyed with shock.
"Seeker?" Willow echoed, her eyes wide with a mixture of astonishment and admiration. "But first years never—you must be the youngest House player in about—"
"—a century," Harry finished for her, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he shoveled a large bite of pie into his mouth. The warm, savory taste was comforting after the rollercoaster of emotions that afternoon had brought. "Wood told me," he added between bites, feeling an extra surge of pride. His heart was still racing with excitement, the realization that he was following in his father's footsteps sending a thrill through him.
Ron and Willow sat frozen in their seats, gaping at Harry as if they couldn't quite believe it. The amazement was written all over their faces—an awe that Harry found both flattering and a bit embarrassing. On the other hand, Buffy and Dawn exchanged worried glances, their faces reflecting none of the excitement that Ron and Willow felt.
Without a word, Buffy and Dawn quietly stood from the table, their unease clear in the stiff way they moved. Harry watched them slip out of the Great Hall, his expression softening with understanding. He knew they were worried about him—it was written in their eyes. After all, they had only just found each other again, and the bond they'd formed in such a short time ran deep. They had barely begun to rebuild what had been lost, and the idea of him getting injured, or worse, must have felt unbearable to them.
"I start training next week," Harry said as he returned his attention to Ron, Willow, and the others. Despite their absence, he knew Buffy and Dawn would come around—they just needed time to adjust. "Only don't tell anyone," he added, leaning in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Wood wants to keep it a secret."
Before anyone could respond, Fred and George Weasley sauntered into the hall, their sharp eyes spotting Harry immediately. The twins made a beeline for the Gryffindor table, their expressions alight with mischief and excitement.
"Well done," George said in a low voice, clapping Harry on the back with a grin. "Wood told us. We're on the team too—Beaters."
Harry's face lit up at the news. There was something comforting in knowing Fred and George would be on the team with him. If anyone could make Quidditch more fun—and a bit less terrifying—it was the Weasley twins.
"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year," Fred said confidently, his eyes gleaming with determination. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was practically skipping when he told us."
The thought of Oliver Wood, usually so intense and serious about Quidditch, skipping in excitement was so absurd that it nearly made Harry laugh. He felt a rush of warmth and belonging—this was more than just being part of the team. It was like finding a place where he truly fit, where he was valued not just as 'the Boy Who Lived' but as Harry, someone with potential and promise.
"Anyway, we've got to go," Fred said, glancing over his shoulder with a mischievous smirk. "Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school."
"Bet it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you," George said with a wink, and with a final grin, the twins sauntered off, disappearing into the bustling crowd of students. Their departure left a lingering sense of excitement in the air, but it didn't last long.
The mood shifted as soon as someone far less welcome made his presence known. Draco Malfoy strolled up with his usual smug expression, flanked by the ever-loyal Crabbe and Goyle, who lumbered at his sides like hulking shadows. The trio's arrival seemed to cast a chill over the group, and the warmth of camaraderie was quickly replaced with tension.
"Having a last meal, Potter?" Malfoy sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?"
Harry didn't miss a beat. His eyes narrowed, but his voice remained cool and steady as he fired back, "You're a lot braver now that you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you."
Malfoy's pale face flushed slightly, but he masked it with a derisive sneer. "I'd take you on anytime on my own," he spat back, his bravado thick in the air. He leaned in a little closer, trying to bait Harry further. "Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only—no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"
Harry's expression didn't falter, but before he could respond, Ron stepped forward with an indignant look, his red hair catching the torchlight. "Of course, he has," Ron shot back, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Harry. "I'm his second, who's yours?"
Malfoy hesitated, his eyes flicking between Crabbe and Goyle. It was clear from his expression that he was sizing them up, knowing neither was exactly the brightest. Still, with a nod that was more for show than confidence, he settled on, "Crabbe," as if it were a foregone conclusion.
"Midnight all right?" Malfoy added, a sly grin spreading across his face as he sensed the tension rising. "We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked."
When Malfoy had gone, Ron and Harry exchanged uneasy glances, both of them caught in a moment that was part curiosity, part anxiety.
"What is a wizard's duel?" Harry asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"
Ron, as nonchalant as ever, shrugged while finally getting started on his now-cold pie. "Well, a second's there to take over if you die," he said with the kind of casual tone one might use when discussing the weather. Seeing the color drain from Harry's face, he quickly backpedaled. "But people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway."
Despite Ron's attempt to play it down, Harry's concern lingered. "And what if I wave my wand and nothing happens?" he asked, his voice tinged with apprehension.
Willow, who had been listening quietly, leaned in with a mischievous grin. "Throw it away and punch him on the nose," she suggested, her eyes gleaming with a mix of practicality and humor. The comment lightened the mood just a bit, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle.
The brief moment of levity was interrupted by a sharp, "Excuse me," from behind them. All three turned to see Hermione standing there, arms crossed, wearing that familiar expression of disapproval that they were quickly getting used to.
Ron rolled his eyes and groaned. "Can't a person eat in peace in this place?"
Hermione wasn't about to be deterred by Ron's sarcasm. Ignoring him completely, she fixed her gaze on Harry. "I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying—"
"Bet you could," Ron muttered under his breath, earning himself a stern look from Hermione.
"—and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night," Hermione continued, her tone bordering on bossy. "Think of the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you."
Harry bristled at her words. "And it's really none of your business," he shot back, frustration flaring.
Ron, ever eager to end the conversation, added, "Good-bye," with a dismissive wave.
Hermione's expression hardened, but her eyes flashed with determination. "Well, I do know someone whose business it is," she said pointedly, her voice dropping slightly for effect. "And she happens to be my friend."
Harry's heart sank. He knew immediately who she was talking about—Buffy. His sister was fiercely protective of him, and if she got wind of this plan, she'd never let him go through with it. "Don't, please," he said urgently, the plea slipping out before he could stop himself. He really didn't want to drag Buffy into this mess.
But Hermione, unmoved by his plea, simply spun on her heel and marched off with purpose, clearly intent on finding Buffy and putting a stop to the whole thing. Harry, Ron, and Willow watched her retreating form, the weight of what was about to happen settling over them like a dark cloud.
Ron scowled and shook his head. "Brilliant," he muttered sarcastically. "Just brilliant."
Harry, however, could only think about what would happen when Buffy found out.
Gryffindor Common Room
Hermione stormed through the corridors, her determination simmering beneath a veneer of calm. She couldn't let Harry do something so reckless, especially not when he had just reunited with Buffy and Dawn after so many years apart. It wasn't just about House points; it was about keeping them all safe—something she suspected Buffy cared a great deal about.
She reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, muttered the password, and hurried inside. The room was warm and cozy, filled with the low hum of students chatting, reading, and relaxing by the fire. Her eyes scanned the room until they landed on Buffy and Dawn, sitting near the window, deep in conversation. Dawn was animatedly recounting something that had happened in Charms class, while Buffy listened with a faint smile, her eyes occasionally drifting to the flames crackling in the fireplace.
Hermione hesitated for just a moment; aware she was about to drop a bombshell that would completely ruin their evening. But it had to be done.
Taking a deep breath, she marched over to them. "Buffy, Dawn," she said, interrupting Dawn mid-sentence.
Both of them looked up, surprised by the urgency in her voice.
"Hermione, what's up?" Buffy asked, instantly noticing the tension in Hermione's expression. Dawn's cheerful demeanor shifted to concern as well.
Hermione wasted no time. "It's about Harry," she said, her words coming out in a rush. "He's agreed to a wizard's duel with Malfoy—tonight at midnight, in the trophy room."
Buffy's relaxed posture immediately stiffened, her eyes narrowing. "He what?" she said, her voice low and dangerous. Dawn's eyes widened, fear and disbelief mingling in her expression. "Hermione, you're sure?" Dawn asked, already knowing the answer.
Hermione nodded quickly. "I heard Malfoy challenge him, and Harry didn't back down. Ron even volunteered to be his second!"
Buffy clenched her jaw, the muscles in her face tightening. "That idiot," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She quickly stood, her movements sharp and deliberate. "I just got him back, and now he's risking himself for some ridiculous duel?"
Dawn looked between Hermione and Buffy, torn between anger at her brother's recklessness and worry for what might happen if this wasn't stopped. "We've got to do something," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
"I'm not letting him go through with this," Buffy declared, her tone brooking no argument.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
"Half-past eleven," Ron muttered at last, breaking the tense silence that had stretched between him and Harry. "We'd better go."
The weight of what they were about to do pressed on them as they pulled on their bathrobes. With wands in hand, they crept across the dormitory, their footsteps almost soundless on the stone floor. The spiral staircase wound downward in the dark, leading them into the Gryffindor common room where the only light came from a few dying embers in the fireplace. The armchairs, now only vague shapes in the gloom, loomed like shadowy sentinels. It felt as though the very room itself was holding its breath, aware of the trouble they were about to invite.
They had nearly reached the portrait hole when a voice, sharp and unmistakable, cut through the silence. "I can't believe you're going to do this, Harry."
Harry froze. His stomach dropped, recognizing the voice that carried both disappointment and concern. "Buffy," he whispered, exchanging a wide-eyed look with Ron. From the corner of his eye, he saw Willow descending the stairs, her expression a mix of worry and frustration.
A lamp flared to life, casting a warm, revealing glow over the scene. In the armchairs nearest the fire, Buffy and Hermione sat side by side, both clad in pink bathrobes and matching frowns. Buffy's eyes were narrowed, arms crossed as she leaned forward slightly, her posture radiating quiet authority.
Ron's face flushed with fury. "You!" he snapped at Hermione. "Go back to bed!"
But Hermione wasn't about to back down. "I almost told your brother," she shot back, her voice firm as her gaze flicked toward Ron and Willow. "Percy—he's a prefect, he'd put a stop to this nonsense."
Harry felt a surge of irritation at how meddling she was. "Come on," he muttered to Ron, determined to push through the resistance. He turned and shoved open the portrait of the Fat Lady and they climbed through the hole.
But neither Buffy nor Hermione was going to let them off that easily. As the portrait door creaked shut, Buffy rose to her feet with a determined set to her jaw. "Willow, would you please stay with Dawn? She's worried about Harry just as much as I am."
Willow hesitated, torn between wanting to follow her brother and her concern for Dawn. "You'll watch out for Ron, right?" she asked, anxiety lacing her words as she looked at Buffy.
Buffy softened for a moment, giving a reassuring nod. "Will do," she promised before she and Hermione swiftly moved to follow Harry and Ron through the portrait hole, their footsteps brisk and purposeful.
Corridors
Hermione's voice was sharp as a knife as she continued her scolding, her words rushing out in a near-hiss as they hurried down the corridor. "Don't you care about Gryffindor? Or do you only care about yourselves? I don't want Slytherin to win the House Cup, and you're going to lose every point I've earned from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells!"
Buffy, keeping pace beside her, shot Harry a glare. "You know this is reckless, right? You could get yourself and Ron caught—or worse, hurt—just because Malfoy can't resist a chance to bait you."
"Both of you, go away," Ron grumbled, his patience worn thin as he glared at Buffy and Hermione, who stood firm in their resolve.
"All right, but Buffy and I warned you," Hermione retorted, her voice rising with exasperation. "You just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow, you're so—" She never got to finish her sentence. As she whirled around to pull Buffy back through the portrait hole and leave the boys to their foolishness, the words died in her throat. The portrait of the Fat Lady was empty—gone on one of her nighttime wanderings.
Hermione's face drained of color as she realized the gravity of their situation. "Now what are we going to do?" she asked Buffy, her voice wavering with panic. There was a pleading edge in her tone, as if hoping Buffy might conjure a solution out of thin air.
"That's your problem," Ron snapped back, far more concerned with the rapidly ticking clock than their current predicament. "We've got to go—we're going to be late."
He and Harry took off down the corridor, their footsteps echoing faintly against the cold stone walls. They hadn't even reached the end when the hurried patter of footsteps behind them signaled Buffy and Hermione were in pursuit.
"We're coming with you," Buffy announced, determination lacing every word.
Ron spun around, his face twisted in annoyance. "You two are not," he shot back, almost shouting. "This isn't your fight."
Hermione crossed her arms stubbornly, her gaze locking onto Ron with unwavering resolve. "D'you think I'm going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch us?" she demanded. "If he finds all four of us, I'll tell him the truth—that Buffy and I were trying to stop you, and you can back me up."
Ron's face turned red with anger, his voice rising. "You've got some nerve—"
"Shut up, Ron!" Buffy snapped, her eyes flashing as she stepped closer, cutting him off with a sharp glare. "Harry, why are you letting Malfoy provoke you like this? You know better than to get dragged into his games." Her voice softened just a touch, a plea beneath her frustration. "Is this really worth the trouble you're about to bring down on yourself?"
Harry clenched his jaw, feeling the conflicting emotions swirl within him. Buffy's words hit him like a stone dropped into still water, creating ripples of doubt that spread across his resolve. He could sense the genuine concern in her voice—the protective instinct that had only grown since they'd reconnected as siblings. But it was exactly that concern that made him even more determined to go through with this. He didn't want to be treated like someone who needed shielding, and he certainly didn't want Malfoy's sneers to define his courage.
"I have to do this, Bells," Harry finally said, his voice firm. "He's not getting away with it."
Buffy's gaze softened, her expression a mixture of frustration and reluctant understanding. She knew that Harry had a stubborn streak just like hers—one that wasn't easily swayed once he made up his mind. Still, the thought of him putting himself in harm's way for the sake of Malfoy's petty challenge made her stomach twist.
"Harry," Buffy began, her voice low and laced with concern.
"Bells, quiet," Harry whispered urgently, cutting her off. His eyes darted around the shadowed corridor. "I heard something."
Everyone froze, straining their ears in the thick silence. It was a soft, muffled sound, almost like sniffling, mixed with shuffling feet.
"Mrs. Norris?" Ron breathed, his eyes narrowing as he squinted into the gloom. His heart raced at the thought of the caretaker's dreaded cat prowling around, ready to alert Filch.
But as they inched closer, it became clear that the sound wasn't coming from a prowling cat. It was Neville. He was huddled against the cold stone floor, curled up in a tight ball as if he'd been trying to make himself invisible. The moment they approached, he stirred, blinking blearily awake.
"Thank goodness you found me!" Neville gasped, his voice thick with relief and exhaustion. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes. "I've been out here for hours. I couldn't remember the new password to get back to the dormitory!"
Buffy's initial irritation softened as she saw the fear in his eyes. Neville had always been skittish, but tonight, in the eerie darkness of the castle corridors, she could sense just how alone he had felt. "Keep your voice down, Neville," she said gently, casting a quick glance down the hallway to check for any sign of trouble. "The password's 'Pig snout,' but it won't help you now. The Fat Lady's wandered off somewhere."
"How's your arm?" Harry asked, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice while glancing over his shoulder. Every second spent here felt like an invitation for Filch to catch up to them.
Neville's face brightened a bit, and he proudly showed them his arm, flexing it as though he'd been dying to demonstrate. "Fine! Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute. Said it was a clean break."
"Good—well, look, Neville," Ron interrupted, his eyes flicking anxiously toward the clock at the end of the corridor, "we've got to be somewhere. We'll see you later—"
"Don't leave me!" Neville practically yelped as he lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Ron's robe. His round face was a picture of pleading panic. "I don't want to stay here alone. The Bloody Baron's been past twice already." His voice quivered at the mention of the ghost, and his eyes darted nervously to the darkened corners as if expecting the spectral figure to materialize at any moment.
Ron checked his watch again, his brows furrowing in frustration as he shot a withering glare at Hermione, Buffy, and Neville. The anxiety was etched across his face as the seconds ticked away, bringing them closer to their confrontation—and possible disaster.
"If any of you get us caught, I'll never rest until I've learned that Curse of the Bogies Quirrell told us about," he threatened darkly, his voice barely above a whisper, "and used it on you."
Hermione bristled, clearly fighting the urge to snap back with a pointed retort. Her eyes flashed dangerously, and it looked as though she was on the verge of lecturing Ron on exactly how to perform the curse he was threatening. But before she could, Harry swiftly intervened, hissing for silence. His gaze was steely as he motioned for them to press on, his finger to his lips as he led the way.
They moved as one, the silence only broken by the faint scuffle of their slippers on the cold stone floor. The castle around them seemed to be holding its breath, the towering walls drenched in shadow, while beams of silver moonlight slanted through the high, arched windows. The thin bands of light gave the corridors an eerie, ghostly feel, each streak of brightness a stark contrast to the inky darkness that clung to every corner.
Harry's heart hammered in his chest as they navigated the twisting hallways, every nerve on edge. He felt sure that at any moment, they would round a corner and find Filch's leering face or the gleaming eyes of Mrs. Norris glowing out of the dark. The very air felt tense with the potential for discovery, but luck—or perhaps sheer desperation—kept them from crossing paths with any unwanted company.
They finally reached the staircase leading up to the third floor, and with a glance backward to check the group was still together, Harry led them up, taking the steps two at a time. Each creak of the old wooden steps seemed like it would give them away, but no one dared breathe too loudly or make a sound. The oppressive silence was only broken by the faint rustle of their robes and the echo of their hurried footsteps.
As they reached the third-floor landing, the atmosphere grew even more ominous. The corridor here was narrower, the walls lined with dark portraits whose subjects seemed to watch them with disapproving glares. Shadows clung to the alcoves, and the moonlight filtering in through the narrow windows barely seemed to reach the floor.
At last, they tiptoed toward the trophy room, the final stretch of their treacherous journey.
September 13, 1991 – Friday
Corridors
The tension in the trophy room was almost unbearable. The soft glow of moonlight spilling through the windows made the crystal cases shimmer, casting fleeting reflections across the walls. Cups, shields, plates, and statues gleamed faintly, the silver and gold accents glinting like hidden treasures in the dark. Every small noise seemed amplified in the stillness, each creak of a floorboard or whisper of fabric setting their nerves on edge. Harry gripped his wand tightly, his eyes fixed on the doors, waiting for Malfoy to burst in, wand raised and ready for a duel. Time dragged on, each second feeling like an eternity.
"He's late, maybe he's chickened out," Ron muttered, the anxiety clear in his voice. The possibility hung in the air for a moment, a sliver of hope that perhaps they'd been spared the confrontation after all.
But that hope was dashed in an instant. A sudden noise in the adjoining room made everyone flinch. Harry's wand shot up instinctively, but the voice that followed wasn't Malfoy's—it was worse.
"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner," came Filch's rasping voice, addressing Mrs. Norris. The cold dread that washed over the group was almost palpable. For a split second, they were frozen in horror, staring at each other with wide eyes.
Harry reacted first, wildly gesturing for everyone to move. They hurried as silently as possible toward the nearest exit, their breaths held tight in their chests. Hermione's eyes were wide with fear, and Buffy moved with quick, decisive steps, her gaze flicking between the shadows and the group to make sure no one lagged behind. Neville was trembling, nearly stumbling in his haste to keep up.
They barely made it out of the room before they heard Filch muttering behind them, "They're in here somewhere, probably hiding." His voice was like a snake slithering through the darkness, sending shivers down their spines.
"This way!" Harry mouthed urgently, eyes darting for an escape route. Their hearts pounded in sync as they crept into a long gallery lined with towering suits of armor, each one looming over them like silent sentinels. Filch's footsteps grew louder, echoing ominously behind them. The air was thick with dread, each breath quick and shallow.
Then, disaster struck. Neville, jittery and terrified, let out an involuntary squeak and bolted forward in a panic. In his scramble, he tripped and collided with Ron, who tried but failed to steady him. They both careened straight into one of the suits of armor, sending it crashing down in a deafening clatter. The noise reverberated through the gallery, an explosive sound that shattered the tense silence and seemed loud enough to wake the entire castle.
"RUN!" Harry shouted, adrenaline surging through him. They didn't need to be told twice—every instinct screamed for them to flee. The five of them dashed down the gallery, the sound of their pounding feet mingling with the fading echoes of the armor's collapse. None of them dared to look back, certain that Filch was on their heels. They barreled around a corner, robes flying, and tore down a series of corridors in a blind panic, the castle a disorienting maze in the dark.
Harry led them through sheer instinct, not knowing where they were headed, only that they needed to get as far away as possible. They nearly crashed into a tapestry, but without slowing down, they ripped through it and stumbled into a hidden passageway. They sprinted along it, breaths ragged and hearts hammering, until they finally emerged near the Charms classroom. They stopped there, gasping for air, the stone walls cold against their overheated skin.
"I think we've lost him," Harry panted, pressing his hand against the wall for support. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.
Neville was doubled over, his face flushed and drenched in sweat, struggling to regain his composure. "I—told—you," Hermione wheezed, her voice tight with a mixture of exhaustion and righteous indignation. She clutched her side, clearly winded but unable to resist the urge to remind them that she'd been right all along. "I—told—you."
Buffy, catching her breath beside Harry, shot him a pointed look that could've melted ice. "This isn't over yet, you know," she murmured, her voice carrying a quiet warning. Despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, her gaze softened slightly when she looked at her brother. "When we get back to Gryffindor Tower, Dawn and I are going to have a long talk with you, Harry." The protective edge in her tone left little room for argument. She cast a wary glance around the dark, winding corridors. "Talking about Gryffindor Tower, we've got to get back as quickly as possible. We've already pushed our luck enough tonight."
Hermione, her usual logical mind already piecing everything together, fixed Harry with an accusatory glare. "Malfoy tricked you," she said, her voice sharper than usual. "You realize that, don't you? He was never going to meet you—Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off." Her words dripped with a mixture of frustration and a desperate need to make sure Harry understood the danger he'd walked right into.
Harry clenched his jaw, feeling the sting of Hermione's words even though he hated to admit she was right. "Let's go," he said, his voice tense. He was more determined than ever to get back to the safety of Gryffindor Tower before something else went wrong.
But it wasn't going to be that simple. They had barely taken a dozen steps when a doorknob rattled loudly in the darkness, making them freeze in place. Before they could react, something shot out of a nearby classroom like a cork from a bottle. The air filled with a mocking cackle that sent a chill down their spines—it was Peeves.
The poltergeist's wide, manic grin stretched even further when he saw the group. He practically vibrated with glee. "Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you'll get caughty," he sang in a high-pitched, taunting voice.
"Shut up, Peeves—please—you'll get us thrown out," Harry pleaded, but even he knew the chances of reasoning with Peeves were slim.
Peeves' eyes gleamed with wicked delight, savoring the power he held in that moment. "Should tell Filch, I should," he said, adopting a mockingly pious tone as if he were considering the most virtuous course of action. "It's for your own good, you know."
Buffy, trying to keep her voice steady despite the panic rising in her chest, stepped forward. "Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please," she said, trying to appeal to whatever shred of decency the poltergeist might possess—though she wasn't holding her breath.
Peeves floated closer, grinning with malicious delight. "Should I, though?" he teased, tapping his chin in exaggerated thought. "What would be the fun in letting you off the hook?" The glitter in his eyes was a clear sign that he was relishing every second of their fear.
Ron, his patience snapping, swung his arm toward Peeves in a futile attempt to shoo him away. "Get out of the way!" he snapped, his frustration boiling over.
It was a colossal mistake.
Peeves' expression twisted into one of pure, unbridled mischief. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the empty corridors with alarming volume. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!" His shrill cry reverberated like a siren, surely reaching every corner of the castle.
Ducking low, they sprinted beneath Peeves' cackling form, hearts pounding as they tore down the moonlit corridor. Shadows whipped past them as they ran flat out, with the icy chill of panic nipping at their heels. They skidded to a halt at the very end of the hallway, slamming into a heavy wooden door—only to find it wouldn't budge.
"This is it!" Ron groaned in utter despair, pushing uselessly against the solid wood. The door rattled but refused to open. "We're done for! This is the end!" His voice cracked under the pressure, eyes darting wildly as if hoping the door might miraculously open on its own.
The sound of fast-approaching footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, growing louder with each second. Filch's raspy breaths and clattering shoes sent a shiver down their spines—he was getting closer, spurred on by Peeves' shouts.
"Oh, move over!" Hermione snapped, stepping forward with determined precision. With a fierce glare, she snatched Harry's wand from his hand, her movements sharp and quick as she jabbed it toward the lock. Her voice was a low, urgent whisper, "Alohomora!"
There was a sharp click, and with a creak, the door swung open as if by magic—because, of course, it was. Without a second's hesitation, they all tumbled through, nearly tripping over one another in their rush to get inside. The door closed with a quiet thud, and they stood pressed against it, holding their breath as though even a single exhale might give them away.
They strained to listen, every nerve on edge as Filch's voice filtered through the thick wood. "Which way did they go, Peeves?" he demanded, the anger in his voice barely masked by desperation. "Quick, tell me!"
"Say 'please,'" Peeves sing-songed back, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction. You could almost hear the gleeful smirk in his voice.
"Don't mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go?" Filch growled, his frustration mounting. The mere thought of the poltergeist playing games while his quarry slipped away made his blood boil.
But Peeves was in no mood to be helpful. "Shan't say nothing if you don't say please," he taunted, clearly savoring every second of Filch's irritation.
There was a pause, the silence hanging thick in the air. The tension was palpable as the group huddled in the darkness, clinging to the hope that Peeves would hold out just a little longer. Finally, with all the reluctance in the world, Filch ground out the word like it physically hurt him, "All right—please."
"NOTHING! Ha haaa! Told you I wouldn't say nothing if you didn't say please! Ha ha! Haaaaaa!" Peeves' triumphant cackling echoed through the corridor, the sound growing fainter as he whooshed away. Filch's frustrated curses, full of rage and futility, lingered behind, mixing with the fading echoes of Peeves' laughter.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry whispered urgently, "He thinks this door is locked. I think we'll be okay—get off, Neville!" His irritation flared as Neville's hand tugged insistently at the sleeve of Harry's bathrobe. "What?"
The others turned around to see exactly what Neville had been trying to draw their attention to. What had been assumed to be another safe hiding spot turned out to be anything but. They were not in a room; instead, they found themselves in a long, dimly lit corridor. The forbidding nature of the corridor became instantly clear as they faced a sight that froze their blood.
Right in front of them, filling the entire space from ceiling to floor, stood a monstrous dog. Its presence was so overwhelming that it seemed to warp the air around it. The beast had three heads, each one as fearsome as the next. Three pairs of eyes—mad, rolling, and malevolent—fixed on them with an unnerving intensity. The three noses twitched, flaring with the scent of their intrusion, and three gaping mouths dripped with saliva that hung in long, glistening strands from the dog's yellowish, razor-sharp fangs.
The creature stood utterly still, its six eyes boring into them with a menacing glare, as if waiting for them to make a move. The sense of dread was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on their chests.
Buffy, her instincts screaming at her, groped desperately for the doorknob. The choice between facing Filch or this beast was no contest—she would have preferred Filch any day. In a rush of panic and adrenaline, they stumbled backward, Buffy's hand slamming the door shut with a resounding thud. They turned and fled, their footsteps echoing loudly in the otherwise silent corridor. They ran with a speed fueled by sheer terror, their hearts racing as they sought to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the horrific creature.
They sped down the winding corridors, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Filch's pursuit, if it continued, was lost on them; their only focus was escaping the horror they had just encountered. Their frantic flight continued until they reached the seventh floor, where they skidded to a halt in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady.
The portrait swung open at Harry's hurried, "Pig snout, pig snout," and they tumbled into the familiar safety of the Gryffindor common room. Collapsing into the nearest armchairs, they sat there, panting and trembling, the adrenaline slowly ebbing from their systems.
For a while, the room was silent, each of them lost in their own thoughts and the lingering shock of their close encounter. Neville, in particular, looked utterly shaken, his face pale and his eyes wide, as if he had seen something so terrifying that words failed him.
Finally, Ron broke the silence, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and irritation. "What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school? If any dog needs exercise, that one does."
Hermione, having regained both her breath and her temper, was practically radiating irritation. "You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" she snapped, her voice sharp and cutting. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"
"The floor?" Harry suggested, still somewhat dazed from their encounter. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads."
"No, not the floor, Harry," Buffy interjected, her voice edged with frustration. "It was standing on a trapdoor."
Hermione's eyes flashed with realization. "It's obviously guarding something," she said, her tone more intense now, as she stood up, glaring at the others. Her expression conveyed a mix of exasperation and anger. "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed—or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."
Ron stared after her, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "No, we don't mind," he said, a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"
"Ron," Buffy said, shaking her head in exasperation. She turned to Harry, her eyes conveying a mix of concern and resignation. "Dawn and I will talk with you in the morning." With that, she followed Hermione up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet common room.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
The next morning, the Gryffindor common room was awash with the golden light of dawn. The sun filtered through the high windows, bathing the room in a warm, ethereal glow that contrasted sharply with the cool blue tones of early morning. Long shadows stretched languidly across the room's plush armchairs and scattered cushions, the soft light illuminating the patterns on the worn rugs and casting a serene, if deceptive, calm over the space.
Harry sat in a secluded corner of the common room, his posture slumped and his face pale and drawn. The night's adrenaline had left him feeling drained, his usually bright eyes now shadowed with exhaustion. He stared vacantly at the flickering flames in the fireplace, the warm hues of the fire doing little to chase away the chill of his sleepless night. The room was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the low murmur of early risers as they made their way down for breakfast.
Buffy and Dawn, having clearly resolved to confront Harry about the previous night's events, made their way over to him with purpose. Dawn's expression was set in a stern frown, her brows furrowed in concern. Buffy, on the other hand, wore a mask of mixed emotions—her eyes reflecting both concern and frustration, the lines of worry etched deeply into her features.
"Harry," Buffy said firmly, her voice slicing through the morning's soft calm like a blade. She pulled an armchair closer, its legs scraping softly against the floor, and sank into it with deliberate gravity. Her posture was rigid, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to brace herself against the weight of the conversation to come.
Dawn took a seat beside Buffy, her gaze piercing as she looked at Harry with a mix of frustration and concern. "Yeah, you've got some explaining to do," she said, her tone serious but laced with an underlying note of empathy.
Harry looked up from his contemplation, his expression a blend of guilt and apprehension. "I know, I know," he said, his voice rough with the remnants of fatigue. He rubbed his tired eyes, the heaviness of regret settling on his shoulders. "I shouldn't have gone out last night. It was reckless."
Buffy leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Harry with a combination of deep concern and exasperation. The light from the window played across her face, highlighting the earnestness in her expression. "Reckless? That's an understatement. You almost got us all caught, and worse—you nearly got yourself hurt. Did you even think about the risks?"
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the armchair creaking softly under his weight. "I was just trying to stand up to Malfoy. I didn't expect it to go this far. We only wanted to show him that we weren't afraid."
Dawn shook her head, her frustration apparent in the sharpness of her movement. "Showing Malfoy up is one thing, but putting yourself in danger is another. It would have left one less person protecting me, Harry, if you had been expelled."
Buffy's face grew more serious as she continued, her voice tinged with a trace of fear. "I don't even want to think about what would have happened if that three-headed dog had gotten ahold of you," she added, her eyes widening slightly at the memory. The image of the monstrous creature, its three pairs of eyes and dripping fangs, still haunted her. "It could have been much worse than just being caught by Filch."
In the days following, Buffy, Dawn, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, were consumed with a dual quest. They were determined to uncover any information they could about the Key and the enigmatic woman whom Faith had battled. Equally compelling was their need to unravel the secrets lying beneath the trapdoor guarded by the three-headed dog.
October 1, 1991 – Tuesday
Gryffindor Common Room
Buffy's face lit up with a warm smile as Cin landed gracefully beside her during breakfast, dropping a letter from Joyce into her eager hands. The bustling Great Hall seemed to fade as she carefully unfolded the letter, her anticipation growing. Excusing herself from the table, she guided Dawn and Harry to a quieter corner of the common room, where they gathered around her as she began to read.
Dear Buffy, Harry and Dawn,
Buffy, sorry it took me so long to reply; I thought it would be best to let Cin rest before sending her back. It is a long flight for her from California to Hogwarts.
Yes, Dumbledore told us about Dawn. Yes, it was indeed a shock to find out that the monks did what they did, but we still love her no matter where she came from. As far as I'm concerned, she has been and always will be my daughter, regardless of where she came from. I feel relieved a little that you're looking out for her. No one I hope is teasing her about being a year younger than everyone else, I hope.
Dawn, how are you doing? I miss my little pum'kin belly and can't wait to see you along with Harry and Buffy during the Christmas break. I hope you've made some friends like Buffy and Harry have, and if you haven't you will I know.
Buffy, Harry, Dawn, I have some bad news. Hank and I have decided to get a divorce. I will be moving back to England so I can be closer to you all by the end of October. Don't think for a second that our divorce has anything to do with the three of you, because it doesn't. We just grew apart; we will of course remain friends. And of course, you three can see him any time you like; in fact, he made me promise to let you three spend some time with him next summer.
Oh and, Buffy, I completely understand your confusion on the whole the deal with calling me mom or aunt. You take your time figuring it out, okay?
I love you all, and will see you at Christmas
Love,
Joyce
The words on the page seemed to echo through Buffy's mind as she finished reading. Her heart felt a mix of emotions—comforted by Joyce's reassurance of her love but also weighed down by the news of the divorce. Buffy and Dawn exchanged glances of shared surprise and concern. Although Buffy had occasionally overheard snippets of heated arguments between Joyce and Hank, the formal announcement of their separation was still a jarring revelation.
"Harry, do you mind if I send Hedwig?" Buffy asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of resolve and tenderness. "I want to send a quick note to Mom… err Aunt Joyce to let her know we're all thinking of her."
Harry gave a reassuring nod, his understanding evident. "Go ahead, you might let her know that I'm on the Quidditch team and when my first Quidditch game is also."
Buffy's smile returned, albeit faintly, as she quickly scribbled a brief but heartfelt note to Joyce, conveying their love and support. With the note in hand, she hurried off to find Hedwig, determined to send a message of solidarity and encouragement.
October 14, 1991 – Monday
Library
Buffy, Harry, Dawn, Faith, and Wesley huddled around a cluster of tables in the library, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of their wands and the dim glow of the reading lamps. The air was thick with the musty scent of old parchment and leather-bound volumes, each book a treasure trove of forgotten knowledge. The group's shared sense of urgency was palpable as they pored over dusty tomes and ancient texts, seeking any clue that might unravel the mystery of the Key and the enigmatic woman who sought it.
Dawn's brow furrowed in concentration as she flipped through a particularly aged book with a cracked spine. Her eyes suddenly widened, and a spark of excitement flickered in her gaze. "I found something on the Key," she exclaimed, her voice rising with newfound enthusiasm. "It's described as a form of energy, supposedly as old as the universe itself. It's said to have the power to open the gateway between dimensions."
Wesley's face tightened into a concerned frown, his normally composed demeanor giving way to visible anxiety. "That is not good," he said gravely. "If someone were to obtain you, Dawn, they could potentially use you to open such a gateway, causing realities to bleed into one another. The consequences could be catastrophic. We must understand why the Mystery Woman desires the Key so urgently."
Faith, who had been quietly sifting through a stack of parchment, paused and looked up with a thoughtful expression. A small smile played at the corners of her lips as she shook her head. "I think Dawn's discovery might have already answered that question," she said, her voice carrying a hint of weary determination. "It wouldn't surprise me if the Mystery Woman is some kind of Demon or a creature from another dimension. She might be trying to return to her own realm, or perhaps she's aiming to unleash an Apocalypse. Whatever her motives, we need to stop her before it's too late."
The weight of their task hung heavily in the air, each member of the group feeling the gravity of their situation. The library, usually a place of quiet study, now seemed to echo with the silent urgency of their mission. The pages they turned and the notes they scribbled were not just academic exercises but desperate attempts to stave off an impending catastrophe. The flicker of candlelight danced over their faces, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror the shadowy threat looming over them. As they continued their research, the resolve to protect their world and uncover the truth about the Key and the Mystery Woman grew ever stronger.