Chapter Text
From that day on, Theodore Nott became his friend. There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and helping each other and running screaming from a three-headed dog is one of them.
Daphne didn't bat an eye when Theo, rather jerkily, sat down next to them at Harry's invitation the next morning. She just kept right on talking. Blaise raised his eyebrows at the newcomer but didn't comment on it, which Harry was grateful for, since Theo looked about ready to flee any second.
He wondered what had made him like this, so afraid of everyone and everything, always drawn into himself, not speaking to anyone.
Right before their first class that day, Harry filled Ron in about his adventure with the dog last night – which Ron was incredibly jealous of – and about the package that seemed to have been moved from Gringotts to Hogwarts. They spent a lot of time wondering what could possibly need such heavy protection.
"It's either really valuable or really dangerous," Ron decided.
"Or both," Harry suggested.
But as all they knew for sure about the mysterious object was that it was about three inches long, they didn't have much chance of guessing what it was without further clues.
Theo didn't show the slightest interest in what lay underneath the dog and the trapdoor. All he cared about was never going near the monster again. Harry was glad his other Slytherin friends had accepted Theo, but he and Ron didn't seem to get on much. Or at least, they didn't interact at all, even when hanging out with the same group. Harry supposed he'd never met two people less likely to become friends.
Daphne, who happened to be listening to Ron and Harry's conversation about the Stone, was willing to listen to their theories and contribute plenty of her own, each wilder and less likely than the next.
Apparently, they were talking loudly enough that Hermione Granger, the bossy know-it-all Gryffindor who always raised her hand in Potions and who Ron complained about constantly, stalked over to them. “Do you mean to say you all went into the forbidden third-floor corridor last night?” She asked in that I-know-better-than-you voice of hers.
“What's it to you?” snapped Ron at the same time Daphne huffed, “None of your business.”
Hermione scowled. “I think it is too my business, doing dangerous things like that! I ought to go tell Professor Snape, Harry.”
“It was an accident! He was nearly killed!” Ron said, outraged.
“He was only back there because he was helping Theo out. It wasn't his fault,” added Daphne.
“Yes, he could've been killed but –”
“Oh, let me guess,” Ron snarled. “Rather die than be expelled, is that your motto?”
Hermione glared at them all, then spun on her heel and stalked away. Ron grinned at her retreating back and Harry stifled a laugh. For the rest of the week, she refused to speak to any of them, which they saw as a great success.
The main attraction of the day was what happened during the delivery of the post. Last week, Daphne and Ron had helped Harry pick out a broom from a magazine called Which Broomstick. Harry's fortune from his parents allowed him to get a rather good one – a Nimbus Two Thousand, which Ron assured him was top of the line. As the owls flooded into the Great Hall as usual this morning, everyone's attention was caught at once by a long, thin package carried by six large screech owls. Harry was just as interested as everyone else to see what was in this large parcel and was thrilled when the owls soared down and dropped it right in front of him, knocking his bacon to the floor.
“It's your broom, Harry!” Daphne cried excitedly.
Harry grinned and started to rip the package open. He was interrupted by Malfoy stalking over and staring at the package with a mixture of jealousy and spite on his face.
"That's a broomstick," he said, "You'll be in for it this time, Potter, first-years aren't allowed them."
“Haven't you heard?” Daphne said gleefully. “He's on the Quidditch team!”
“No way,” Malfoy scoffed. “That's just a rumour. First-years aren’t allowed on the team.”
“It's true!” shouted Ron, hurrying over to the Slytherin table. He couldn't resist it. “And it's not just any old broomstick," he continued, "It's a Nimbus Two Thousand! What did you say you’ve got at home, Malfoy, a Comet Two Sixty?" Ron grinned at Harry. "Comets look flashy, but they're not in the same league as the Nimbus."
"What would you know about it, Weasley, you couldn't afford half the handle," Malfoy snapped back. "I suppose you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig."
Before Ron could answer, Professor Flitwick appeared at Malfoy's elbow. "Not arguing, I hope, boys?" he squeaked.
"Potter's been sent a broomstick, Professor," said Malfoy quickly.
"Yes, yes, that's right," said Professor Flitwick, beaming at Harry. “I was told all about the special circumstances, Mr Potter. And what model is it?"
"A Nimbus Two Thousand, sir," said Harry, fighting not to laugh at the look of horror on Malfoy's face. "And it's really thanks to Malfoy here that I've got it," he added.
Harry and Ron headed downstairs with the broom, smothering their laughter at Malfoy's obvious rage and confusion.
"Well, it's true," Harry chortled as they reached the dungeons. "If he hadn't stolen Neville's Remembrall, I wouldn't be on the team…"
Harry had a lot of trouble keeping his mind on his lessons that day. It kept wandering up to the dormitory, where his new broomstick was lying under his bed, or straying off to the Quidditch pitch where he'd be learning to play that night – Flint had invited him down to practice at half past seven. He bolted down his dinner that evening without noticing what he was eating and then rushed downstairs to admire his Nimbus Two Thousand once more.
Even Harry, who knew nothing about the different brooms, thought it looked wonderful. Sleek and shiny, with a mahogany handle, it had a long tail of neat, straight twigs and Nimbus Two Thousand written in gold near the top. Grinning ear to ear, Harry grabbed it and set off towards the Quidditch pitch in the dusk. He'd been inside the stadium for Phys Ed before, but now he truly looked around. Hundreds of seats were raised in stands around the pitch so that the spectators were high enough to see what was going on. At either end of the pitch were three golden poles with hoops on the end. They reminded Harry of the little plastic sticks Muggle children blew bubbles through, except that they were fifty feet high.
Too eager to fly again to wait for Flint, Harry mounted his broomstick and kicked off from the ground. What a feeling – he swooped in and out of the goalposts and then sped up and down the pitch. The Nimbus Two Thousand turned wherever he wanted at his lightest touch.
"Hey, Potter, get down here!"
Marcus Flint had arrived. He was carrying a large wooden crate under his arm. Harry landed next to him.
“Nice," said Flint, his eyes glinting. "I see what Snape meant … you really are a natural. You said you don’t know how to play?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t believe it, really, everyone should know how to play Quidditch.” Flint shook his head. “Right, well, I'm just gonna teach you the rules this evening, then you'll be joining team practice three times a week."
He opened the crate. Inside were four different-sized balls.
"Right," said Flint. "Now, Quidditch is easy enough to understand, even if it's not that easy to play. There are seven players on each side. Three of ‘em are called Chasers."
"Three Chasers," Harry repeated, as Flint took out a bright red ball about the size of a football.
"This ball's called the Quaffle," said Flint, throwing it up in the air and catching it. "The Chasers throw the Quaffle to each other and try to get it through one of the hoops to score a goal. Ten points every time the Quaffle goes through a hoop. I'm one of our Chasers, along with Graham Montague and Adrian Pucey. Got it?"
"The Chasers throw the Quaffle and put it through the hoops to score," Harry recited. “So – that's sort of like basketball on broomsticks with six hoops, isn't it?"
“The hell's basketball?" asked Flint, bewildered.
"Never mind," said Harry quickly.
"Now, there's another player on each side who's called the Keeper – Miles Bletchley is Keeper for us. He’s got to fly about our hoops and stop the other Chasers from getting the ball through."
"Three Chasers, one Keeper," said Harry, who was determined to remember it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, makes sense. So what are they for?" He pointed at the three balls left inside the box.
"I'll show you," said Flint. "Here, take this." He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a rounders bat. "I'm gonna show you what the Bludgers do," Flint said. "These two are the Bludgers." He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the thick straps holding them inside the box. “Stand back," Flint warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the Bludgers.
At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it breaking his nose and sent it zig-zagging away into the air – it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Flint, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground.
“Nice hit," Flint panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "You’d make a good Beater, Potter. The Bludgers rocket round, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you got two Beaters on each team. Derrick and Bole are ours – it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock ‘em towards the other team. So – think you’ve got all that?"
"Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goalposts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off.
“Right, good," said Flint. “God, Potter, can’t believe you didn’t know anything about Quidditch before today.”
"Er – have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand.
“Uh, don't think so. We’ve had a couple of broken jaws or cracked skulls, but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers –"
"– unless they crack my head open."
“Eh, don't worry, Derrick and Bole are great at their job. Got ‘em on last year."
Flint reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings.
"This," said Flint, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of ‘em all. It's real hard to catch because it's so fast and difficult to see. The Seeker – which is you – has to catch it. You’ve gotta weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages. Well, I guess that's it – questions?"
Harry shook his head. He understood what he had to do all right; it was doing it that was going to be the problem.
"We won't practise with the Snitch yet," said Flint, carefully shutting it back inside the crate. "It's too dark, might lose it. Let's try you out with a few of these.”
He pulled a bag of ordinary golf balls out of his pocket, and a few minutes later, he and Harry were up in the air, Flint throwing the golf balls as hard as he could in every direction for Harry to catch. Harry didn't miss a single one, and Flint was grinning by the end of it. After half an hour, night had really fallen, and they couldn't carry on.
"That Quidditch Cup'll have our name on it again this year," said Flint gleefully as they trudged back up to the castle – Flint toward their common room and Harry toward Snape’s detention. “Wood – Gryffindor captain – is not gonna be happy about this at all.”
*
Perhaps it was because he was now so busy, what with Quidditch practice three evenings a week on top of all his homework, but Harry could hardly believe it when he realised that he'd already been at Hogwarts two months. The castle felt more like home to him than Privet Drive had ever done. His lessons, too, were becoming more and more interesting now that they had mastered the basics.
Before lunch on Hallowe’en day, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly, something they had all been dying to try since they'd seen him make objects zoom about the classroom. Professor Flitwick put the class into pairs to practise. Harry's partner was Theo, who was speaking to him more every day and now sat with Harry, Daphne, and Blaise once a day and took the rest of his meals to the library. Daphne was to be working with Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise with Malfoy.
"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practising!" squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too – never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest."
It was very difficult, but he was pleased to see that Malfoy wasn't having any luck either. Sophie Roper accidentally made hers explode. Pansy’s feather wasn’t moving at all.
“This is impossible!” She complained.
“Can I have a new feather, Professor?” Sophie asked, staring at the ashes on her desk. Her partner, Tracey, inched away from her.
Harry swished and flicked, but the feather he was supposed to be sending skywards just lay on the desktop. Theo watched him carefully and said quietly, "You're saying it wrong. It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa. Here, let me show you.” He rolled up the sleeves of his robes, flicked his wand and said, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Their feather rose off the desk and hovered about four feet above their heads.
"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Mr Nott's done it!"
Theo's lips twitched in a would-be smile, but he quickly jerked his head back down. Harry followed Theo’s advice and, after a few more tries, managed to get it up in the air too, making him the second person to have achieved this. “Well done, Harry,” said Ernie Macmillan, who was working next to Harry and Theo with his partner, Justin.
“Good job,” whispered Theo to Harry.
“Thanks for your help,” said Harry, smiling widely.
Ron apparently had the same class as Harry had later that day, only it hadn’t gone well for him at all. He stormed up to Harry sometime after lunch, complaining loudly. According to him, Hermione Granger had made him look like a fool and shown off all class, and he was now in a very bad temper.
"It's no wonder no one can stand her," Ron growled to Harry as they pushed their way through the crowded corridor. “She’s a nightmare, honestly."
Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione. Harry caught a glimpse of her face – and was startled to see that she was in tears.
"I think she heard you."
“So?" said Ron, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. “She must’ve noticed she hasn’t got any friends."
Hermione didn't turn up for Study Hall or Phys Ed and wasn't seen all evening. On their way down to the Great Hall for the Hallowe’en feast, Harry and Ron overheard Gryffindor Parvati Patil telling her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' toilets and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked still more awkward at this, but a moment later, they had entered the Great Hall, where the Hallowe’en decorations put Hermione out of their minds.
A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet. Harry was just helping himself to a jacket potato when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the Hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore's chair, slumped against the table and gasped, "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know."
He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.
There was an uproar of total panic. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore's wand to bring silence. "Prefects," he rumbled, "lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
Everyone stood. The Slytherins remained sitting, looking terrified.
“Don't they realise,” said Blaise slowly, voice rising steadily with each panicked word. “That Slytherin dormitories are in the dungeons?!”
Gemma Farley leapt to her feet. “First years, follow me! We're going to our dormitories. Don't worry; the dungeons are huge, and I know the safest way to our common room. We’ll be fine! This way, follow me! Don’t lag, now, hurry up!”
"How could a troll get in?" Harry asked as they went down the stairs.
“No idea,” said Daphne, shrugging. “I thought they were really stupid.”
“Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke.”
They passed different groups of people hurrying in various directions. As they jostled their way through a crowd of panicking Ravenclaws, Harry suddenly remembered something that made him smack himself in the forehead. "I've just thought – Hermione."
“Huh?” Theo was the only one close enough to hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Who?”
“Hermione Granger! She doesn't know about the troll."
Theo blinked in confusion. “Why not?”
“Because she's in the toilets! Come on, we’ve got to go warn her!”
“The troll's in the dungeons, Harry,” Daphne called over her shoulder, inserting herself into the conversation. She did that a lot. “If anyone's in danger, it's us. Granger's fine.”
“But–”
“We’ve got to go, Harry, now!” Daphne said impatiently, but he stopped short in the middle of the hall. He didn’t follow the others down the stairs. He couldn’t. Ducking down, he hurried back up the steps just before they moved, slipped down a deserted side corridor, and hurried off towards the girls' toilets, hoping against hope that no one had seen him. He had just turned the corner when he heard quick footsteps behind him.
Harry, afraid that it was a Prefect or teacher coming to get him in trouble, ducked behind the nearest suit of armour. Peering around it, he saw that the newcomer was Snape. He crossed the corridor and disappeared from view.
"What's he doing?" Harry whispered to himself. "Why isn't he down in the dungeons with the rest of the teachers?"
“Do you think I care?” hissed the suit of armour’s loud, echoing voice in his ear. “Get out of here!”
Harry jumped, startled, and backed up out of the way. Moving as quietly as possible, he listened for Snape’s fading footsteps. Why was he heading for the third floor?
Suddenly, a foul stench reached his nostrils – a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean. Harry choked, reaching up with his sleeve to cover his mouth and nose. And then he heard it – a low grunting and the shuffling foot-falls of gigantic feet. At the end of a passage to the left, something huge was moving towards him. Harry shrank back into the shadows and watched as it emerged into a patch of moonlight.
It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite grey; its great lumpy body resembled a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long. Harry was petrified in place with fright.
The hideous creature stopped next to a doorway and peered inside. It waggled its long ears, making up its tiny mind, then slouched slowly into the room.
The key's in the lock, Harry thought to himself. I could lock it in.
He edged towards the open door, finding it hard to swallow, praying that the troll wasn't about to come out of it. With one great leap, Harry managed to grab the key, slam the door and lock it. "Yes!"
Flushed with his victory, he started to run back up the passage, but as soon as he reached the corner, Harry heard something that nearly made his heart stop – a high, petrified scream – and it was coming from the chamber he’d just locked up.
“No, ohnonono,” Harry breathed. That was the girls’ toilets. Where Hermione was. He’d just locked the troll in with her!
It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do, but what choice did he have? Wheeling around, Harry sprinted back to the door and turned the key, fumbling in his panic – Harry yanked the door open and ran inside.
Hermione Granger was leaning against the wall opposite, looking as if she was about to faint. The troll was advancing on her, knocking the sinks off the walls as it went. Desperately, Harry did something very stupid and yelled, “Hey, ugly!”
The troll stopped a few feet from Hermione. It lumbered around, blinking stupidly, to see what had made the noise. Its mean little eyes saw Harry. It hesitated, then made for him instead, lifting its club as it went. Harry ducked left toward the cubicles, and the troll’s club swung right where his head had been, hitting open air instead.
“Run for it!” Harry yelled at Hermione, but she wouldn’t move; she was still flat against the wall, her mouth open with terror. “Come on, Hermione, we’ve got to go!”
The troll lumbered after him again, but Harry ran toward the sinks and yanked hard on Hermione’s arm. She was still frozen with shock.
“HERMIONE! GET UP AND MOVE, PLEASE, COME ON!”
The shouting and the echoes seemed to be driving the troll into a berserk rage. It roared and started towards them. They jumped aside just as its club crashed into the sinks, spraying water and tile everywhere.
Harry then did something that was both very brave and very stupid: He ran forward and dropped to his knees, sliding across the water-slick floor and between the troll’s legs. The troll roared again and smashed his club into the tile, where it got stuck. Now close to the door and with a clear exit route, Harry yelled once again for Hermione to follow him. This time, she did, with trembling legs, crawling on her hands and knees around the troll, who was trying to pry his club out of the ground.
“Come on, come on!” Harry shouted desperately.
Hermione reached him, he pulled her to her feet, and they ran out the door just as the troll pulled its club free. Together, they slammed the door and turned the key. There was a loud thud as the club slammed into the door, splintering the wood. They both yelped and stumbled back.
“Run,” Harry said.
They both tore off down the corridor. Footsteps were approaching from the other direction, probably teachers coming to check what all the racket was about. Somehow, they managed to make it to the Entrance Hall without being seen. Hermione clutched a stitch in her side, and Harry leaned on his knees, breathing heavily.
“We’d better go,” she gasped. “Before…before…someone…sees us.”
“Right.” Harry headed toward the stairs leading down to the dungeons, but stopped when she called, “Wait!”
Harry turned and found Hermione staring at the ceiling, not looking at him, very pink in the face. “Th-thanks,” she mumbled, embarrassed.
“Don’t mention it,” Harry said and started off again. She’d better not mention it, because both Ron and his Slytherin friends would make fun of him nonstop if she did. But Harry didn’t regret going to help her. He didn’t care if no one else cared. She’d been in trouble, so he’d helped.
He hadn’t even really had to think about it.