No Fortress Is So Strong, Chapter 09
Title: No Fortress Is So Strong
Summary: In 1981, the two Potter sons had their fates switched, and Nicolas Potter became a famous face. But there are those who know the truth, that the real Chosen One was the younger child. The Slytherin. Now, two brothers share a destiny.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes & Caveats: This is a rewrite of the fanfiction story Slytherin Serpent. The premise was originally thought up in 2004, rewritten in 2006, and rewritten again in 2009. This is the only complete version.
This chapter is as yet unbeta’ed for spelling, grammar, and brit-picking. I apologize for this in advance. If you spot any error, no matter how small, please tell me in a review so that I can fix it.
Many thanks to Micah, who examined this story for plot and continuity errors.
“When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life.” ~Antisthenes
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Chapter Nine: The Three Headed Dog
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Potions was the last class of the week, to Harry’s intense relief. Stumbling out of the chilly dungeon classroom with the rest of his classmates, he felt the remaining adrenaline wear off and exhaustion settle in. They were all silent as they trekked wearily up the stairs and into the airy floors aboveground.
In the Great Hall, the first years separated. The Gryffindors peeled away and made a beeline for their table, while Slytherin headed towards the far end of the Hall. Harry followed the Gryffindors.
“Hi,” he mumbled, falling into a seat across from Nick and Jon.
“Hey Harry, how was class?” Nick asked, assembling a beef sandwich on his plate.
“Potions,” Harry replied. “It was…very strange.”
Nick paused in his motions at that, looking up at Harry with intense interest in his dark eyes.
“How did it go?” he wondered, blinking. “Did Snape favor you a lot?”
“Snape completely ignored me,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I don’t think he even looked at me once the entire class.”
“That’s strange,” Nick said, fiddling with his sandwich while he stared at his brother. “He must really want Slytherin to win the House Cup at the end of the year then, since I can’t imagine him liking someone related to me. He hates me.”
“He doesn’t like Gryffindors at all,” Harry confided. “He was awful to the Gryffindors in class.”
“That’s nothing, I’m sure,” Nick said, shrugging it off. “I would give my right arm to have Snape only treat me awful.”
“Snape’s a tyrant to Nick,” Jon whispered conspiratorially. “He’s pretty bad on the rest of us, but it’s nothing on how he is to Nick.”
“You’re lucky,” Nick told Harry glumly. “Do try not to get on Snape’s bad side Harry, will you? ‘Cause then I’d have to say something.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Harry said, equal parts amused, appreciative, and irritated. “I can certainly take care of myself.”
“Yeah, me too,” Nick said grumpily.
“Yes,” Harry sighed, and reached out to spoon some cold cuts onto his plate to make his own sandwich.
“Have flying lessons been scheduled yet, Harry?” Katie Bell asked, seated down the row on Harry’s side.
“Flying lessons?” Harry asked. “No, not yet. Why?”
“If your brother is any indication, you’ll be a natural,” Katie said, grinning. “Not that being a natural means he’s going to snag the Chaser position from me this year.”
“Dream on, Katie,” Nick laughed. “You’ll be stuck as next year’s Seeker and you know it.”
Katie stuck out her tongue playfully.
“Anyways, do you think you’d want to play when you’re older, Harry?” she continued, curious.
“I’d never really thought about it,” Harry said, a bit nonplussed. “I guess I’d have to see how I like flying, yes?”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll love it,” Katie assured him. “It’s the best sport in the world.”
“Here, here,” Nick and Jon said in unison.
“You have the afternoon off, don’t you Harry?” Katie asked, and Harry nodded.
“Better enjoy it while you have it,” Nick said glumly. “Second years don’t have Friday afternoons off.”
“Why not?” Harry asked, aghast. Just the thought of two more classes after lunch was enough to make his limbs feel like lead.
“We’re supposed to be accustomed to the class schedule by second year,” Jon said, just as glum as Nick. “Supposed to, being the operative words. We have classes after lunch. Ugh!”
Harry took a bite of his sandwich to keep the look of dismay off his face.
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Saturday morning dawned misty and cool, and Harry took the opportunity to slam a pillow down onto Draco Malfoy’s pale, sleeping face.
The soft morning silence was shattered by his scream, then again by his outraged yell.
“Potter!” he shouted furiously. “What is the meaning of this?!”
“Payback for having to put up with your spoiled self for an entire week!” Harry shot back, dancing out of reach as Malfoy made a grab for him.
“What the hell?” Zabini spat, emerging from his drapes with his eyes half asleep and his cheek creased.
“Potter hit me with a pillow!” Malfoy snarled angrily. “Right in the face when I was asleep!”
“Good for Potter,” Nott grumbled from his bed. He hadn’t even bothered to open his curtains to see what the problem was, and identical snoring from the remaining two beds in the dorm announced that Crabbe and Goyle hadn’t even woken up for it.
At Nott’s words, Malfoy gave a short scream of rage and grabbed his wand. Harry yelped and ducked as the other boy sprayed fierce looking green sparks at him, but the sparks stung only slightly and left no mark on skin or robe. Harry looked at his arm, then back at Malfoy, grinning.
“Well Malfoy, I must say I expected something a bit more…um…”
“Noteworthy?” Zabini provided dryly.
“And useful,” Harry said, nodding his head. Malfoy flushed a pale pink, the equivalent of blood-red on anyone else, and threw his pillow at Harry, who laughed and ducked aside. Before he could retaliate and start a serious pillow fight, there was a knock on the door.
“What are you guys doing?” Pansy grumbled, peeking through the door. Zabini swiftly retreated into his bed to preserve his modesty. “You’ve woken the whole dungeon by now!”
“Sorry, Pansy,” Harry said apologetically. “It was Malfoy though - he’s the one who was screaming.”
“I didn’t scream, Potter,” Malfoy spat, his voice cracking furiously on the word. “And it was you who hit me with a pillow!
“At any rate,” Pansy said, looking slightly less annoyed, “I’ve been in the common room - trying to get away from the noise you guys were making, I might add - and I saw the notice board. The flying lessons schedule is posted, Draco.”
“Finally,” Malfoy said, kicking his way free of his blankets. “I’ve been waiting and waiting - when are they scheduled for?”
Pansy rolled her eyes.
“Someone’s shouting distracted me from looking,” she said waspishly. “I barely got a glance anyways - the board’s surrounded by people. Quidditch trial dates were posted too.”
Malfoy suddenly moved faster, snatching his bag of toiletries as he rushed to his trunk to pull out a hanger with an immaculate robe on it, then hurried to the showers. Nott finally yanked open his drapes and glared out at them all, mussed and foul-tempered.
Harry found himself curious as to what all the fuss was, and hurried to the showers. If Malfoy spent time on his hair and skin like he usually did, Harry would be finished showering and over in the common room while the other boy was still spreading gel into his hair.
And that was exactly what happened. Despite Malfoy’s rush, Harry was finished long before him and strolled unhurriedly into the common room, where a milling group of students huddled around the notice board.
Harry’s lack of physical stature held him in good stead in situations like these. Tucking his shoulders and head, he burrowed through the crowd towards the board, where two long pieces of parchment presided. One was labeled with Quidditch Trials, and the other, First-Year Flying Lessons. The latter’s first meet was scheduled for Thursday at three-thirty in the afternoon, taking the place of Thursday Potions. Harry rather thought that would irritate Snape.
Breakfast discussions were composed entirely of Quidditch talk. Malfoy regaled them all with tale after tale of his flying exploits, all of which seemed to end with him narrowly escaping a lethal collision with a Muggle helicopter. He complained endlessly about the rules preventing first years from having their own broom, and later bragged about how he was a sure bet for Seeker next year, when Higgs graduated.
Malfoy wasn’t the only one. Zabini was quite pleased to tell them about his own flying experiences, which had been performed behind his mother’s back. At least there were some variations to his stories, to Harry’s relief. Unlike Malfoy’s.
At the Gryffindor table, the carrot-topped boy was prattling about the time he’d nearly hit a hang-glider. Harry looked around in bewildered exasperation. Was Quidditch really that good?
He had to wait until Thursday to find out, when the first year Slytherin and Gryffindors broke away from their afternoon classes after the bell and filtered in twos and threes through the corridors and down the stairs, and out into the bright sunshine.
There were twenty brooms on the ground, even though there were two open spots in Gryffindor House. Eighteen students gathered around, gleefully anticipating.
Madam Hooch’s voice preceded her, calling across the green lawn. They all turned to watch her stride briskly across the grass to them; a tall, hard-looking woman with short, iron-grey hair and eyes like nothing Harry had ever seen before. They were almost yellow.
“Well?” she asked briskly, when she was close enough that they could hear without her having to shout. “What are you waiting for? All of you, stand by a broomstick.”
Harry moved with the others, trying to find a broom with the least amount of bent bristles and frightening looking splinters. After a moment, they all stopped milling, and the two saddest looking brooms laid on the ground with no one beside them.
Harry stood between Malfoy and Nott, with Zabini on Nott’s other side. Across the way, one of the Patil twins stood opposite him.
“Now,” Hooch began, “put your right hand over your broom, and say ‘Up!’”
“Up!” the class chorused, and Harry’s broom smacked firmly into his hand with a light whoosh.
His was one of the only ones. Even Malfoy had to say it twice, and some just rolled over or didn’t even move at all.
When everyone eventually had a broom in their hands, Madam Hooch came around to check their grips, and Harry had to suppress a wicked smile when she told Malfoy, the braggart, that he’d been doing it wrong for years.
That done, she instructed them on how to mount, pacing up and down the rows while Harry got more and more irritated at the slow pace. The broom seemed to buzz beneath him, as eager to get into the air as Harry himself was.
“There now,” she said, finally coming to a stop at the head of the row. “Now, on my whistle, you will kick off hard from the ground, hover for a moment by keeping the broom steady, then sink back down to the ground by pushing down slightly. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, Madam,” the class chorused. Harry fought to keep his lip from curling.
“Three, two, one,” Madam Hooch said, then blew her whistle. The plump-faced boy that Harry would always remember as the one who’d run off with the Sorting Hat shot straight into the air, considerably higher than the few feet Hooch had specified, and kept climbing.
“Come back, boy!” Hooch shouted, but The-Boy-Who-Ran-Off-With-The-Sorting-Hat was out of control. His broom shot higher and higher, and Harry saw the other boy’s white face peer dizzily down, grow disoriented, and slip sideways.
The entire class cringed at the sickening crack that sounded when Longbottom hit the ground, a heap of limbs and tangled black robes. He moaned as Hooch ran to him, the tone of his voice high pitched and cracking with pain.
“It’s a broken wrist,” Hooch muttered, helping him to his feet. Her yellow eyes darted over to them, fierce. “You’re to keep your feet on the ground, all of you,” she said firmly, “while I take this boy to the Hospital Wing. If any of you so much as touch a bristle on one of the brooms you’ll be out of this school before you can say Quidditch.”
“Yes, Madam Hooch,” the class said, subdued, and they all watched as Hooch led Longbottom away, supporting his wrist.
Harry let out a hard sigh, irritated. This was yet another thing to make this class go even slower.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a glint of reflected sunlight. He turned his head, but Malfoy was ahead of him. There was a flutter of black robes as Malfoy darted over and snatched the thing up in his hand.
“Well, well, well,” he said, smirking. “It’s Longbottom’s Remembrall.”
“Give it here, Malfoy,” the Weasley boy said, and the previously murmuring class went silent.
“I don’t think so,” Malfoy said, grey eyes alight with mischief. “I think I’ll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find…perhaps in a tree, or maybe atop the castle battlements.”
“Give it HERE!” Weasley shouted, his face flushing a deep red, but Malfoy had already snagged a broom, lightning quick, and leapt into the air. He really could fly well, Harry noted in disappointment. He had clearly received lessons; he floated effortlessly through the air as though he were an eagle.
One of the Gryffindor girls shouted something, bringing Harry’s attention from the boy on the broom. Weasley was enraged, face matching his fiery hair, too angry to listen to reason as he grabbed another broom. His face looked up into the blue sky, where Malfoy was just a darkly-clad blot against the sunlight, then he swung his leg over the broom and kicked off from the ground.
He too was an able flier, Harry thought grumpily. While not as slender and compact as Malfoy, he handled himself on a broom with surprising grace as he shot up into the air. Harry sighed and hoped Hooch would get back soon.
“Give it here, Malfoy, or I’ll knock you off that broom!” Weasley’s voice called, carried down to them on the wind. Malfoy’s reply was quieter and out of hearing, but he turned and flew away, hand out to the side and clenched around the ball…taunting.
Weasley shot forward before Malfoy got very far, sending them both wobbling badly as he caught Malfoy’s broom’s tail. Malfoy turned and shouted something angrily, and Weasley renewed his threat. Malfoy raised his hand, yelled something incomprehensible…and threw it.
It fell from the sky and hit the ground, breaking into thousands of tiny glass shards.
Weasley howled in rage and flung his broom forward, colliding with the other boy, who was slightly too slow to get out of the way. With a yell, they tangled together and dropped like a stones.
But they didn’t hit the ground. Ten feet above the grass they slowed to a halt, hovering, both of them with their mouths stretched wide in silent screams.
“MR. WEASLEY! MR. MALFOY!”
“Uh oh,” Harry said, containing a grin. This was even better than he’d hoped - it wasn’t Madam Hooch who returned, but the tall, imposing figure of the Gryffindor Head of House.
“I think there’s going to some expulsions today-ay,” Harry said under his breath. His lips stretched wide in a mischievous smile.
By then both boys were on the ground again, let down from whatever spell kept them in the air. They scrambled to their feet at once. Weasley was beet red in the face, staring at the ground, but Malfoy opened his mouth as soon as his robes were straight.
“Professor, Weasley here chased me right off the ground! It wasn’t my fault at all, Professor, he’s the one who taunted and insulted me so much I just got on a broom to get away from him - ”
“That’s not true at all!” Weasley erupted angrily. “Malfoy took Neville’s Remembrall, Professor, and said he was going to leave it on the battlements for him to find, and - ”
“Weasley tried to knock me off my broom!” Malfoy protested loudly. “He nearly got me killed!”
“ - and then he threw Neville’s Remembrall, Professor, and it broke on the ground!”
“He’s insane, and my father will hear about this!”
“Silence, both of you,” McGonagall snapped, and Harry thought he’d never seen anyone so angry in his life. Malfoy and Weasley both seemed to agree, and they instantly fell silent. She reached out and grabbed them both by an ear. “A more foolish, idiotic stunt I’ve never seen in my life,” she spat as she dragged them away. “You both could have been killed!”
Her voice faded out of hearing range as she stalked away, Malfoy and Weasley bobbing around on her hands, whimpering and yelping in pain.
Harry cackled with laughter.
“Their faces,” he choked, clutching his ribs. The class started chuckling nervously, beginning to see the amusement in the entire incident. Pansy looked torn between anger and a desire to join in. The Gryffindors looked alternately angry and delighted; angry that their house mate was in trouble, delighted that Slytherin was in the same situation.
Up by the castle doors, McGonagall paused as Hooch stepped out onto the grass. They talked for a moment, and Hooch put her hands on her hips and glared at the boys, then nodded. McGonagall pushed open the door and dragged Malfoy and Weasley inside, while Hooch continued towards the class, for whatever time they had remaining to them.
“All right,” she said briskly. “Now that that’s over with, we’ll try this again. Everyone mount up, that’s right, and on my whistle now…three, two, one…”
Harry kicked off from the ground. In an instant, he understood the mentality surrounding Quidditch. With a rush of pure joy and delight, he realized that this was something he could do without being taught. This was as easy and natural as breathing. Every shift of his weight made the broom respond, every tilt of his shoulders or movement of his hands. Around him were delighted and nervous yelps and cheers, and laughter as people wobbled and dropped and turned around slowly, but all that was distant. Harry’s kick had carried him out of their range.
He saw Madam Hooch tilt her head back and shield her eyes to watch him, but he didn’t care. With a soft huff of laughter, Harry shifted his weight - just a fraction - and shot forward. He let the broom fly straight for a split second, in which he flew fifty yards easily, then another shift had the broom stopping and spinning on a dime. He dove and skimmed the grass with his toes, then rose again. Other fliers swirled around him now, giving him room, watching him. Harry pointed the broom straight up and shot into the sky, spiraling tightly. When he reached the apex of his climb he slowed and felt weightless, then turned. The broom rotated gently to point nose-down, and he let it drop again, having to cling to the broom to be sure he didn’t fly off into space since the broom was dragging him down faster than he could fall.
The entire thing took mere seconds, from kickoff to straight dive. He pulled up just short of the ground, laughing breathlessly and unreservedly. When the sound of rushing wind died away, he heard the other first years laughing with him; laughing and cheering. Hooch was grinning broadly, looking so thrilled she could hardly stand still.
“That was amazing, Potter,” she said, eyes aglow. “A true natural, I’d say, just like your father.”
“My father,” Harry gasped, still breathless. Hooch nodded, smiling.
Class didn’t last much longer. Within moments Hooch was calling them all down to the ground. It took all of Harry’s strength to let go of the broom and swing his leg over. Then he stood looking at his forlornly, aching to be in the air again. He felt heavy and ungainly all of a sudden, as though standing on the ground was unnatural, something he’d been trained to do, like a dog trained to stand on two legs.
Hooch praised them all and dismissed them to go to dinner. They trickled across the lawn in twos and threes, chattering about their lesson. A pair of Gryffindor girls could be heard worrying loudly about Longbottom, while the topics of choice were Malfoy and Weasley’s incident and, oddly enough, Harry’s flying skills. This last was discussed in softer tones, accompanied by odd looks. Harry’s house mates looked especially smug.
When they filed into the Great Hall Harry peeled away towards the Gryffindor table, which was starting to fill as dinner hour got under way. Harry plopped down beside Weasley’s older twin brothers, Fred and George, and started piling food onto his plate.
“Why, it’s the littlest Potter!” one of the twins said, a wide smile spreading across his face. Harry frowned slightly at that.
“So I see, my dear Fred,” said the other, apparently George although Harry wasn’t going to take their word on it. “What’s the Slytherin Potter doing at the Gryffindor table, I wonder?”
“Waiting for his brother,” Harry said airily.
“Waiting for his brother,” George mock muttered into his brother’s ear. “Waiting for his brother, he says.”
“Aye,” Fred said, nodding sagely. “Waiting for his brother.”
“Sod off, you two,” Nick’s voice said from a few feet down the table. “You sound like utter berks.”
“It’s the biggest Potter!” Fred beamed. “Come down from on high to fraternize with us mortals!”
“Give it up,” Nick rolled his eyes, grinning. “Hey Harry, how was the flying lesson?”
“Neville Longbottom broke a wrist, Malfoy and Weasley got into a fight and might have gotten expelled, and Madam Hooch said I fly as good as Dad did,” Harry recited. Nick blinked.
“Hooch said that?” he asked, a smile stretching his mouth.
“Ron did what?” Fred asked, aghast.
“Longbottom dropped something when he fell,” Harry started to explain. “It was something like a Rememball?”
“A Remembrall,” Nick corrected, eyes alight in interest. “His Gran sent it to him.”
“A Remembrall,” Harry nodded. “He dropped it in the grass when he fell, and Malfoy picked it up. Weasley demanded it back and Malfoy grabbed a broom and flew off, and Weasley followed. I couldn’t hear it all, but Weasley was shouting at him to give it back or he was going to knock Malfoy off his broom.”
Fred and George both groaned in unison, an eerie sound.
“Then he almost did knock Malfoy off his broom, so Malfoy threw the Remembrall and it broke in the grass, and Weasley ran into him and knocked them both out of the air. Professor McGonagall caught them before they hit the ground. I don’t know what happened to them.”
“McGonagall found them?” George asked in dismay. “Oh, he’s done for now.”
“Drat,” Fred agreed gloomily. “She’s going to be watching the rest of us like hawks now.”
“Who?” Harry asked curiously.
“Our mother,” they said dully.
Then, before Harry could say anything to that, the doors to the Hall opened and Snape and McGonagall entered, each escorting a first year boy. Down the table, the fourth Weasley boy, Percy, rose to his feet, face a thundercloud of disapproval. McGonagall dragged Weasley over to the table, her mouth tight with anger.
“One toe out of line, Mr. Weasley,” she threatened, then turned and stalked off towards the staff table.
Weasley was pale and looked shaken, and he sat down slowly, as if uncertain the seat would hold him.
“You’re not expelled then?” Fred said abruptly.
“No,” Weasley replied, scowling. “Just a month’s detention.”
“And points?” George asked pointedly, and his younger brother looked down, shamefaced.
“Forty,” he mumbled, and there was a collective sigh from the table.
“Could be worse,” someone murmured. “Could have been a lot worse.”
“What about Malfoy?” Harry asked avidly, leaning forward.
“Same,” Ron mumbled.
“Even better,” George said, leaning back.
Harry looked over towards the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting between his goons looking much the same as always. He stared hatefully at Weasley’s back between conversing with the other Slytherins.
Harry turned away and scooped up a few slices of roast chicken.
For a while, the subject turned to Quidditch trials, which would take place that Saturday. Harry planned to be in attendance to watch his brother make the team. Harry knew that Nick wanted the remaining Chaser position, which Katie Bell also wanted. Harry didn’t doubt that Nick would get the position, but he also knew Katie had experience in being a Seeker and so wouldn’t be out of a position entirely.
Then there was a ripple of movement across the hall, and Harry turned to look. It was Malfoy, coming to make trouble and flanked by his bodyguards.
“Hanging with the riffraff, Potter?” he sneered when he got close enough. “Always knew you weren’t a true Slytherin. Why don’t you just change Houses and get out of our way, since you’re not wanted in Slytherin?”
Nick leapt to his feet, turning scarlet with rage.
“Why you mangy little prat,” Nick rasped, hoarse with fury. “Don’t you dare talk about my brother that way, or I’ll - ”
“Funny that, Malfoy,” Harry said loudly, trying to head Nick off. “Considering that the House nearly fell over itself to welcome me, when you got a lukewarm round of applause at best.”
“And we’re not riffraff, Malfoy,” Ron Weasley spoke up angrily, and a bit lamely.
“Oooh,” Malfoy said, smirking.
Up at the staff table, McGonagall was rising to her feet.
“McGonagall’s coming,” Harry hissed warningly. Malfoy looked around quickly, then back at them with glittering eyes.
“Wizard’s duel then,” he whispered. “A Triad; me, Potter, and Weasley. The trophy room at midnight. Be there, if you’re brave enough.”
With that, he turned and walked away, back towards the Slytherin table.
Nick let out an explosive huff of air and sat back down, scowling.
“Smarmy little git,” Fred muttered irritably.
“What’s a Triad, then?” Nick growled.
“It’s a version of a Wizard’s Duel,” said a fourth year Gryffindor, scooting down towards them. “Instead of two wizards or witches dueling each other with seconds waiting on the sidelines, it’s a more vicious version with three combatants, all enemies, with only one winner. There aren’t any seconds, and it usually goes one of three ways. Either it’s a free-for-all and everyone’s going for everyone and the winner probably wins by luck, or someone sits out while the other two fight, then steps in and finishes the winner off, or two team up against the third, then turn on each other.”
“It’s a vicious fight, when it’s between three powerful wizards who are all enemies,” George picked up the explanation, “but this isn’t that sort of thing. The most you’ll be able to do is fling sparks at each other, maybe.”
-----
Back at the Slytherin common room, Malfoy was holding court in the corner furthest from the fire. Harry came in to raucous laughter from the group of first years, and a glimpse of smug victory on Malfoy’s face when he turned to smirk at Harry. He didn’t look at all worried, or even tense. In fact, he looked relaxed and content, as if he would be snug in his bed all night.
A trickle of suspicion wriggled in Harry’s stomach as he pulled out his homework.
He wasn’t wrong. At ten-o-clock Malfoy loudly proclaimed he was going upstairs to get dressed, staring right at Harry as he did it, then came back down at eleven-thirty. Harry was standing by the portrait, waiting.
“Oh, go on, Potter,” Malfoy said airily, waving a hand. “You’ll need the extra time to get to the trophy room - I know a short cut.”
“As if, Malfoy,” Harry said, not fooled for an instant. “After you…or are you too coward, like I’ve always thought? The little rich boy, hiding behind his father’s skirts?”
There was some cackling laughter in the common room, older students watching the confrontation and snickering about it.
“Don’t call me rich boy,” Malfoy spat furiously, “or coward, and don’t say my father wears skirts!”
“Then don’t give me cause to,” Harry retorted. “After you!”
Malfoy hesitated, wavering. Conflict raged behind his eyes, and Harry knew his suspicions had been correct - Malfoy had planned to stay behind. A second suspicion started to make itself known in Harry’s chest, but Malfoy gave before it was fully developed.
“Fine,” he spat, and stalked through the doors. Harry followed, noting that the prefects watched without saying anything. Instead, they smirked openly, anticipating either a victory or expulsion.
Harry ducked out of the common room, a strange foreboding making his skin crawl.
Malfoy was already far ahead, leather-soled boots clicking on the flagstones loudly. Harry hung back, grateful for his worn, black Muggle trainers and their silent rubber soles.
They reached the trophy room without incident, and Weasley was already there. He had brought an entourage - the other Gryffindor boys, Dean Thomas, Neville Longbottom and Seamus Finnigan…and Nick.
“Nicolas,” Harry grinned when he saw his brother. Nick grinned back.
“I’m referee,” Nick whispered back. “Meant to keep everything under control.”
“We should make this quick,” Malfoy said, and he looked more nervous than Harry thought appropriate - in fact, he looked almost terrified.
“Why?” Weasley demanded, just a bit too loud. “Scared, Malfoy?”
“As if,” Malfoy retorted, face contorting. “You think you scare me? I’ll have you know I’ve had dueling lessons my whole life!”
“That’s enough,” Nick said, scowling at Malfoy. All right, positions here, here, and here, backs to each other. All right? Ready, one, two - ”
“Shh!” Harry hissed frantically, and grabbed Nick’s arm, for he had heard something. Something low-toned and indistinct, like a deep male voice. It grew rapidly clearer, forming into understandable words.
“Sniff around, my sweet,” the voice said querulously. “They might be lurking in a corner.”
It was Filch, the nauseating caretaker, speaking to his corpse-like cat, Mrs. Norris. Harry whipped his head around, that dim suspicion flaring to life. Malfoy looked nauseous and terrified but oddly unsurprised.
Harry beckoned madly to Nick and fled towards the door, away from the voice. Malfoy crowded against him, scrambling as fast as he could. The other four Gryffindors had barely made it out when they heard Filch enter the trophy room, still murmuring to his cat.
Harry waved again, feeling his breath catch in his chest. Weasley looked positively green in the dim torchlight. Together, the seven students tiptoed down the corridor, dodging suits of armour; and then the inevitable happened. Longbottom let out a frightened squeak and took off at a run, tripped, fell into Weasley, and the pair of them toppled over into a suit of armour. The crashing and clanging could have woke the whole castle.
Harry bolted with Malfoy on his heels, leaving the Gryffindors to extract themselves. He glanced behind to see Nick skid to a stop and go back. Harry groaned under his breath and slid to a halt, turning to watch his brother shove bits of armour off the other two boys and heave them to their feet, and then pick up a run. Harry took off again, leading them down one corridor and then another, through a hidden passageway and then to the corridor near the Charms classroom, miles from the trophy room. Harry slowed to a stop and doubled over, panting. He noticed right away that Malfoy was gone.
“Where’s Malfoy?” he gasped, hands on his knees, but no one knew. Harry thought he remembered that Malfoy had kept going when Harry had stopped for Nick.
“We’ve got to get back to Gryffindor,” Weasley gasped, clutching a stitch in his chest. “Quickly, come on.”
Nick looked at Harry, clearly torn, but there wasn’t enough time for Harry to reassure him and send him on his way.
Peeves the Poltergeist zoomed out of an unused classroom. Harry knew at once who it was, Flint’s words at the Sorting Feast returning to him abruptly when Peeves gave a squeal of utter, malicious delight.
“Shut up, Peeves - please - you’ll get us thrown out,” Nick entreated, but Peeves only cackled.
“Wandering around at midnight, Ickle Firsties? Tut tut - oh!”
“What?” Harry asked dumbly, looking around himself to see what had caught Peeves’ attention. He turned back to the poltergeist, who still stared directly at Harry with a horrified, fascinated expression on his wide, wicked face.
“IT’S THE SPEAKER!” Peeves bellowed, wheeling around and shooting away down the corridor. “MAKE WAY FOR THE SPEAKER!”
The noise Peeves made was tremendous, almost instantly there was the distant bang of a slamming door and loud, hurried footsteps. They ran for their lives, right to the end of the corridor where they slammed into a heavy, locked door.
“Oh, this is it,” Weasley gasped, pushing at the door hopelessly. “We’re done for.”
“Get out of the way,” Nick snarled, shoving the other redhead over. He snatched out his wand and tapped it lightly against the door, whispering “Alohomora!” The door clicked and opened, and they all rushed in and slammed it shut behind them. On the other side, they heard Filch arrive, out of breath.
“Did you see students out of bed, Peeves?” he demanded. “Which way did they go?”
“Say ‘please.’”
“Don’t mess with me, Peeves, now where did they go!”
“I shan’t say nothing unless you say please!”
“All right - please!”
“NOTHING!! Ha haa! I told you I wouldn’t say nothing if you didn’t say please! Ha haaa!” And then there was the sound of Peeves zooming away and Filch cursing in rage.
“He thinks this door is locked,” Harry whispered to his brother, who was also leaning against the door to listen.
“Yeah, I think we’ll be okay, and what the hell was that? What’s a speaker? And - get off Neville…what?”
Harry and Nick turned, and understood immediately. The room wasn’t empty like they’d thought. In fact, Harry realized with a rush of terror, it was the forbidden corridor on the third floor, and Harry abruptly knew exactly why it was forbidden.
It was a vast, three-headed dog. Three pairs of dark eyes stared in their direction, three noses sniffed the air, and three enormous, fang-filled mouths dribbled saliva onto the floor.
Thunderous growls began to well up from the dog’s chest, and Harry fumbled behind him for the door. Filch versus gigantic three-headed dog that could swallow him whole? An easy decision, really. When you thought about it.
Harry and Nick fell backward, each dragging another student with them. The others shot out like cannons from a gun, and Harry shoved Thomas away from him and leapt for the door. Nick lunged to help him shove it closed, and then they ran down the halls until they came to a junction at the stairs. Thomas, Weasley, Finnigan, Longbottom, and Nick turned to go up, and Harry paused for one wild moment.
“Tomorrow,” he gasped, and Nick nodded, his eyes so wide the whites could be seen around the entire dark iris, then Harry turned and leapt down the stairs like a gazelle, too wired to go slowly or quietly. Within moments, he was skidding to a stop outside the Slytherin common room and gasping out the password.
He stumbled into a nearly empty room. Only Malfoy was there, collapsed bonelessly on the sofa, slack-faced. Harry doubled over, trying to catch his breath, his legs trembling from a mixture of terror, adrenaline, and exhaustion.
“Where have you been?” Malfoy asked finally.
“Met Peeves,” Harry gulped.
It took him several long moments for him to catch his breath, then that suspicion reared its head again, and Harry turned to look at Malfoy with narrowed, angry eyes.
“You tipped him off, didn’t you,” he said slowly, but Malfoy only lifted his chin defiantly, and didn’t answer. But Harry already knew. “You - you,” he struggled, feeling his own face flush in anger. “You fucking idiot!Malfoy’s jaw dropped, and Harry whirled around and stalked away towards the dormitories. On the way, his fierce anger faded away enough for him to remember the strange happenings he’d seen; Peeves’ utterly bizarre behavior, and the surprise in the corridor on the third floor…a small square door beneath the dog’s feet.
Chapter Ten