They Shook Hands: Year Three (Original Version)

They Shook Hands : Year Three

An alternate (but realistic!) universe Harry Potter fic
by Dethryl

Chapter Nine - Grudge Match

When Professor Vector handed back their examinations the next morning, Harry looked at all the red ink with dismay. He'd done his best to sit up front and pay attention in Muggle school, having figured out early that the best way to escape Privet Drive would be through his education. His occasional magical accidents hadn't made him friends with the teachers though, so he'd still had a rough time of it.

"Ugh," he said, showing his parchment to Draco. "Thirty-seven."

"That's disgusting," his best mate replied.

Professor Vector was back at the front of the classroom now. "All in all, a dismal performance," she said deploringly. "With!" she added, "a few notable exceptions." She was now giving Harry a wide smile. "Fifteen points to Slytherin for Harry Potter's impressive knowledge of geometry. Fifteen points to Ravenclaw, Miss Turpin, for excellent use of short-hand division to save time and work on more questions."

"Wow!" Blaise exclaimed behind him. "Fifteen points, Harry!"

"But-" he said blankly, holding his parchment in one hand.

"Thirty-seven?" Tim whispered loudly. "How?"

Tim's paper had a large numeral twenty across the top. Blaise and Jenna scored in the low teens. Draco had barely scraped into double digits, and poor Pansy had a fat goose egg.

"What!" Terry Boot exclaimed, reaching for the parchment. "Inconceivable!" He read the score for himself, and began swearing under his breath in short, clipped words.

Nobody other than Tim and Terry had scored higher than sixteen. Both of the boys were giving Harry speculative looks now. Tim scratched his chin and considered Professor Vector, who was watching them closely.

The remainder of the class was spent going over the first few questions from the exam. Professor Vector laboured to explain the concept of angles to them, and Harry, who understood it well, earned more points for Slytherin.

Arithmancy wasn't nearly so exciting as Harry had expected. In truth, it was proving to be quite a bore. After seeing the cool things that could be done with Arithmancy, he was very impatient to get to the good stuff. Luckily, Ancient Runes seemed a bit more to his tastes. Professor Babbling's opening lecture on the origin of runes was fascinating.

"Odin, the Norse High God of the Aesir, hung from the world tree, Yggdrasil, impaled on his own spear, for nine days and nights in order to gain the knowledge of runes. When the runes appeared below him, he reached down and took them up, and the runic knowledge gave him power. He later passed on this knowledge to the Vanir goddess Freya. She, in turn, taught him the magic of seidr. Heimdall, the god who guarded the Rainbow Bridge, taught the runes to mankind.

"Each rune has a story attached to it, a relationship to a Norse God. Since ancient times, runes have been used for writing, divination, and magic. The word 'rune' actually means mystery, secret, or whisper. Each rune has esoteric meanings and properties associated with it, beyond its mundane meaning and phonetic value. Each translates into a word or a phrase signifying concepts important to the early peoples who used them, representing the forces of nature and mind.

"The runes can be used as an oracle, from which one seeks advice. Runic divination is not so-called fortune telling in the sense that one actually sees the future. Instead, runes give one a means of analysing the path that one is on and a likely outcome. The future is not fixed. It changes with everything one does. If one does not like the prediction, one can always change paths.

"The runes can also be used to cast magic or to enhance other magicks. We will deal with all of this in due course, I assure you. For today, though, we will start with learning the basics of the Elder Futhark."

Professor Babbling used a wooden pointer to indicate the first of many runes inscribed at the top of the blackboard. "Fehu, meaning domestic cattle or wealth."

And so it went on. On the whole, Harry was not impressed with his new classes. Far from being advanced classes where new and exciting magic was taught, it seemed as though his new professors were trying to bore them with mundaneness. Harry was resolved to tough it out, though. Though he admitted it only begrudgingly, he understood that he needed to learn to walk before he could run.

* * *

After dinner that evening, Harry and the others avoided all mention of school work. It seemed all anyone wanted to talk about was the Quidditch match planned for tomorrow morning between the third year Slytherins and Gryffindors.

"I can't wait to smash Weasley up!" Draco exclaimed. "You'll obviously be playing Seeker, Harry."

"Obviously," Harry agreed. "I think Crabbe and Goyle would be best suited for Beating."

"Flint did try to recruit us," Crabbe chimed in.

"Exactly," Tim nodded. "Draco and I will play Chaser, so that just leaves Millie and Jenna to fight over who gets stuck being Keeper."

"I'm going to Chase," Millie declared, in a tone that brooked no argument. "And I'm more than ready to thrash them all."

"I don't mind playing Keeper," Jenna said with a shrug. "It won't matter, so long as Harry catches that Snitch."

"I'll be there to cheer you on, Harry," Blaise smiled at him. "I can't wait to see how fast your new broom can go."

"Two-forty. In ten seconds."

"Wow."

The next morning, all the boys were up at the crack of dawn. When the alarm bell went off, Harry instantly slapped his hand down to silence it. His eyes snapped open as one word crossed his mind.

Quidditch.

Wordlessly, Harry grabbed his toothbrush and morning kit. Draco was moving slowly, but he was moving. Tim was rooting in his trunk for a towel. Even the great sleepers, Crabbe and Goyle, were rousing.

The Slytherin bathroom was supposedly the nicest at Hogwarts, aside from those baths off-limits to all but the prefects. The floor was tiled with a pattern of silver and green, the house colours. The long row of sinks mounted on the near wall had bright silver handles. The shower stalls that lined the far wall had highly decorated curtains with beautiful mythological scenes.

Ever so briefly Harry dipped his head under the spray. A dab of shampoo in his left hand was quickly scrubbed through the mop of black hair that lately had a mind of its own. When it had barely begun to lather, his head went back under the spray. He ignored the conditioner and ran the bar of soap lightly over his limbs. He certainly didn't get all his skin, but he at least followed the motions. Washing off quickly, he wrapped his towel around his waist and moved to the sink to brush his teeth.

He was just rinsing his mouth when Tim finished his shower and stepped up to the sink. Before he could say a word, though, the door opened and Draco came shambling in. He grunted vaguely at them and immediately moved towards the shower. Harry rolled his eyes, and Tim suppressed a quiet snort.

"Ready to humiliate Gryffindor?" Tim inquired.

"Absolutely. They've got nobody who can beat me as Seeker, so we win, hands-down. I have no idea why Parvati even agreed to this."

"She loves Quidditch," Tim shrugged. "I'd do the same, in her place, and fight my hardest despite the odds."

"You seemed to be getting on quite well with her at the show," Harry said slyly, throwing all kinds of suggestion into the sentence.

"We share a common hatred for Parkinson. It's strange to have things in common with a Gryffindor, but Patil's not too stupid."

"I'm sure she'd love to hear that," Harry said pointedly.

"Not what I mean. I mean she's not too annoyingly Gryffindorish for her own good. She knows how to have a good time. Did you see her moves at the show?"

"How could I have missed them?" Parvati's dancing had been absolutely wild. Several times it had seemed like she was dancing with Tim, but it was far too outrageous to be sure.

"I want to see if she's got the same moves in the air. Do you know what sort of broom she flies?"

"I don't," Harry admitted. "I know what her house team flies, but she's not on the team."

"She ought to be," Tim complemented in absentia. "I'm looking forward to facing her on the pitch."

Tim started brushing his teeth then, and Harry was finished with his ablutions. "I'll see you back in the dorm."

Harry passed Crabbe and Goyle on their way to the showers. Back in the dorm, he rummaged in his trunk for his gear. He felt his excitement building as he put on his Quidditch robes; he would be the only one on the pitch today wearing official robes. He pulled out his Firebolt and rubbed the polishing cloth over the brilliant handle to pass the time, knowing that it didn't really need shining.

After he'd gotten dressed, Tim cleared his throat. "Harry, I've got a favour to ask of you. It's pretty big to me, but I can't imagine that you'll be very concerned."

"What is it, Tim?"

"Can I borrow your old Nimbus?" Tim pleaded. "Draco's Comet is still a decent broom, but mine is just pathetic. It's a functional broom, not a racing broom. I'd rather go nick one of the Tinderblasts from the broom shed than use it. If you let me use the Nimbus, we'll have a much better chance of victory."

Victory over Gryffindor, and seeing Weasley probably cry about it; he'd buy Tim and the whole gang new brooms to see it happen. If only he'd thought of that beforehand. "Of course, Tim. Why didn't you say something earlier?"

Tim made a face. "I spent the whole summer trying to get my dad to buy me a new broom. He was always up in his laboratory, doing magic stuff. I like to work with my dad, but we spent three days up there, without food or water. I couldn't take it any more. He's really close to figuring out the applications of ten, and I couldn't drag him out of the house. I did my school shopping with my pocket change, but I couldn't afford a broom. I hate to ask for money, but-"

"Don't even think about it," Harry said at once. "Consider it yours."

Tim was suitably humble. "Thanks, Harry. You're a good friend."

"Just don't get a scratch on it. My Quidditch gear, my broom, what's next? My spot on the team?"

"I don't think I'd be good as Seeker," Tim replied, nonplused. "But when you're captain of the team, you can assign positions. I want to be a Chaser."

"It's going to be at least sixth year before I'm captain!"

"Yes, and sixth year before I get a spot," Tim groused. "Unless one of the others up and dies."

"Small chance there."

Harry sometimes forgot that he was the youngest Seeker that Hogwarts had seen in a century. Bole, Derrick, Bletchley, and all the rest were great lads, and they tended to be a rowdy bunch, but they weren't his mates. When the older boys had left school, Harry would be left to rebuild the team. He wanted to play with his mates, to fly high and claim glory for Slytherin. Harry Potter, Quidditch Captain. It had a nice ring to it.

"You'll have to prove your worth," Harry cautioned his friend. "I won't have players who can't pull their weight."

"I'll show you today," Tim promised.

Millie and Jenna were waiting for the boys in the common room. Though Jenna still looked sleepy, Harry was sure she'd be fine after a large cup of coffee. He could use one himself, actually. Everyone shouldered their brooms as they made the long trek upstairs to the Great Hall where breakfast awaited them.

Weasley and the other Gryffindors arrived shortly after. Thomas, Finnigan, and Brown all looked tired, but Weasley and Parvati were very alert. And to round out the team-

"Hey boys, reduced to playing with ickle kiddies?" Jenna sing-songed to the Weasley twins.

The two fifth-years flashed very unfriendly scowls towards the Slytherin table, but were apparently unwilling to start in this early. They sat down facing the Slytherins, eating their food in an almost grim manner. Harry imagined some strange juxtaposition, where the twins were trolls snacking on the bones of his fellow Slytherins, so awful were their expressions.

The door to the Great Hall opened again, this time admitting some Ravenclaws. Padma, Terry, and Mandy Brocklehurst all seemed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. That was normal, even for this awful hour. Mandy had told them last year that many in Ravenclaw didn't like to waste even an hour of the day and rose with the sun.

"What about when the sun doesn't rise until mid-day?" Jenna had asked.

"Then we study in darkness," had been Mandy's laughing reply.

Harry thought it quite sporting of their friends in Ravenclaw to turn out for the show. He waved his greeting, as his mouth was full of eggs.

Just then, a group of third-year Hufflepuffs wandered in. Harry's brow furrowed in confusion. Hufflepuffs had no business here this early. Now the second-year Slytherins were arriving too!

"Good morning, Harry," Laine said sweetly, as she sat down next to him.

"Good morning, Laine. I've never seen you up this early."

"Well, we had to come see you humiliate the Gryffindors. Last night, Ginny told us that her brother told her that Parvati Patil had sent an owl during the summer to inform him about a Quidditch match against those evil Slytherins. Naturally, he jumped at the chance."

"And then he spent the rest of the summer gloating about how he and the boys were going to smash you," Ginny added. "She just asked Fred and George to sign on during the train ride. It seems she couldn't fill a team from her own form."

"Our idea, actually," Harry told her. "We wanted a bit of sport."

"Well, word has rather spread," Ginny observed. "Look."

More students were coming through the double doors. Ravenclaws, Slytherins, Gryffindors, and Hufflepuffs, of every form. The house team had arrived, and Flint came swaggering up to Harry with a wide grin on his face.

"Well done, Potter! No better way to kick off the year than with a Quidditch match!"

Harry was feeling slightly alarmed at this point. "Does the whole school know about it?"

"Pretty much. Is it true that the Weasley twins are going to be playing?"

"Yes."

"That rumour is drawing a lot of them," Flint explained. "They're wicked with those bats, you know."

"I know," Harry nodded.

"Well, do your best flying. I don't suppose it much matters about the rest of the positions, so long as you catch that Snitch."

"The rest of the positions do so matter!" Tim said heatedly. "We're going to rack up the points against whoever thinks he can play Keeper!"

"That's the spirit!" Flint exclaimed. "I'll be watching!"

"Hear that, Tim? The captain of the team is going to be watching!" Harry was trying to be encouraging to a now anxious-looking Tim.

Despite his pallor, Tim's voice was strong. "I need to be impressive out there."

"We all do," Draco said. "But we're Slytherins."

"Up Slytherin!" they cheered together.

* * *

The stands were packed. Most of the school, and even some of the professors, had turned out of the castle to see this grudge match. It felt almost real -- no, it was real.

Harry, with his experience, had been unanimously chosen to act as captain of their squad. He waited in the centre of the Quidditch pitch for the Gryffindors to join them. At last Weasley, Finnigan, Thomas, and the twins came marching up, with Brown and Patil taking long strides to keep up. Weasley stepped forward, staring hard at Harry. Reluctantly, he offered his hand. Harry took it, squeezed it, tried to ignore Weasley attempting to break all the bones in his hand and do the same right back.

"That's enough, boys," Madam Hooch said curtly. She had been waiting for them on the pitch, telling them all in no uncertain terms that she would be officiating their little match.

"Mount your brooms!" She released the Golden Snitch, which buzzed by Harry's head before disappearing. "I'm releasing the Quaffle, now!"

And the game was on!

Somehow Weasley managed to get his hands on the Quaffle first. He snatched it away from Millie and tore off up the pitch. Tim, riding Harry's Nimbus 2000, easily outpaced him and intercepted the throw he made at the middle hoop. He flashed past the red-haired boy, who was cursing soundly. Tim manoeuvred neatly between Finnigan and Patil, sending the Quaffle soaring past Brown's outstretched hands through the left hoop.

"Ten to naught, Slytherin!" came the voice of Padma Patil from the announcer's booth. The regular commentator, Lee Jordan of Gryffindor, was sitting next to her and looking mightily put out that he'd been booted off of the megaphone. With this match not being official, officially, his job had been usurped. Harry was just as glad to have someone relatively neutral calling the plays.

Finnigan took the Quaffle from Brown and passed it to Weasley, who passed it back again. The two kept it away from Patil, who looked very irritated that the boys were being so selfish. Draco tucked in behind Weasley and sidled up between the two Gryffindors. With a hard check, he knocked Weasley aside and neatly caught Finnigan's toss. Draco brought the Quaffle back up the pitch to score again.

Harry cheered with the rest of his house as Padma calmly reported the score. "Brown sends the Quaffle out to Patil, Patil dodges a Bludger, dodges Weasley, who somehow thinks he's going to get the Quaffle after not passing to Patil at all on that last scoring attempt. Weasley gets hit with a Bludger -- hope it didn't hurt too much. Patil and Finnigan pass it back and forth -- oh! Intercepted by Nott! Nott to Malfoy, Malfoy to Bulstrode, back to Malfoy, back to Bulstrode, Slytherin scores! Keeper Brown just couldn't get there in time!"

So far, the third years were doing Slytherin proud.

Crabbe and Goyle had their hands full dealing with the Weasley twins. The boys were outmatched, that was clear. Instead of spreading out to cover the field effectively, the best mates drifted around in a loose formation. Harry had to dodge a Bludger that one of the pair should have been taking care of.

"Oi!" he shouted, flying closer. "Spread out! Goyle, get your arse down past mid-pitch!"

Draco had possession of the Quaffle, and he tried to get around Weasley for an easy shot on the hoop -- Brown was out of position again. Weasley, though, turned sharply and slammed his elbow into Draco's chest, causing him to drop the Quaffle. As it floated gently down, Weasley flipped over and scooped it into his arms.

Boos arose from the Slytherin section at the rough play. Harry thought it a mite hypocritical -- Slytherin certainly knew how to play dirty. He aimed his broom towards Weasley, dodged a Bludger, and began to loop around Weasley in a lazy spiral.

"Hi there, dung heap!" he called cheerily. "Off to throw the Quaffle, then? Good luck, sport!"

"Shut up, Potter!" Weasley shouted, and he took his eyes off the hoops to glare at Harry.

Crabbe made powerful contact with a Bludger, and Harry saw it out of the corner of his eye. He judged that he had a few seconds before it arrived. He moved to block Weasley's line of sight.

"It's only a game, Weasley!" Harry laughed, and he jerked the handle of his broom upward.

The Bludger he'd been masking slammed into Weasley's back with a meaty thunk. He dropped the Quaffle, and Harry lunged at it, spinning quickly and thwacking the red ball out into Tim's waiting hands.

Thirty, forty, fifty points Slytherin scored. Finally Weasley got it into his head to pass the Quaffle to Patil, and the three Chasers managed to get into some sort of rhythm. They brought the Quaffle down into scoring position for the first time. Finnigan got the shot off, and Jenna, faked out by Patil, missed the save.

"Gryffindor scores! Fifty-ten, Slytherin!"

Thomas, playing Seeker, was flying desperately all over the pitch. He apparently believed that his team's best chance to win was an early capture of the Snitch, a belief Harry shared. Reluctantly, he took his eyes off the main game and began to search for the Snitch.

"Thomas is tailing Potter now, obviously failing to find the Snitch on his own. I don't know how he thinks he'll ever beat Potter to it, though. For those who haven't heard, Potter is riding a prototype Firebolt!" The crowd made noises of collective amazement. "If you saw it on display in Diagon Alley, you know it has a top speed of two-forty in ten seconds. Come on, Potter! Show us what that broom can do!"

Harry flashed Padma a smile as he zoomed by the announcer's box. He arched into the sky and dove, like a hunting hawk. He applied the brake sharply, then sprang back, twisting in a tight corkscrew. The crowd was suitably impressed with these moves, and Harry played it up for them.

Jenna made two more saves, but several shots were getting by her, and Gryffindor was catching up. Tim must have taken offence at that, for he and Millie double-teamed Finnigan, guiding him not very gently into the wall. Gryffindor booed at this, but the Slytherins cheered loudly.

Finnigan managed to hang onto his broom, but he slid down the wall and landed in a heap on the grass. He shook it off, though, and kicked off back into the air. He caught the Quaffle as Patil passed it, and he dodged around Jenna to score again.

Weasley was not flying as fast as he had been. The hits he'd taken from Bludgers were taking their toll. Draco had been tagged several times, as had Millie. Tim was nimble enough on Harry's Nimbus to avoid everything sent his way.

"Look at that fine manoeuvring by Nott!" Padma exclaimed. "You don't see that sort of skill every day! And what's that he's riding? Why, it's a Nimbus 2000! Nimbus and Firebolt, the best brooms in the world! Do we really wonder why it's one-twenty to seventy, Slytherin?"

Tim, Draco, and Millie launched into one of the more insane attack patterns that Harry knew. He'd spent a lot of time showing his friends this trick from Flint's playbook and was rightly proud of the beauty of their form. The three were passing the Quaffle as they sped towards the far hoops in a rotating spiral. Harry saw Flint on his feet cheering as the Quaffle soared through the hoops again -- it was his own play.

Better teamwork on the part of the Slytherin Chasers was gradually widening the score. Harry looked for the Snitch as goal after goal was scored. He was enjoying this so much that he almost didn't want the match to end -- almost. He looked around again for the Snitch, which did not seem to want to come and play today.

It was easy enough to find the Snitch on a normal day, but when the sun was shining so bright and hot, Harry could spot the shimmer of gold that flashed around the pitch in mere minutes. So far, Harry had not seen it at all.

It happened so suddenly, that Harry wasn't sure how it started. It was so very odd. An eerie silence descended over the stadium. It was as though someone had magically turned off the sound, as if he had gone deaf. What the heck was going on?

Just then a horribly familiar wave of cold swept over him, inside him, just as he became aware of something moving on the field below. Harry looked and instantly wished he hadn't. At least a hundred dementors were moving onto the pitch, gliding along the ground as though they had no legs at all. It was as though freezing cold water were rising in his chest, cutting at his insides. And then he heard it again -- someone was screaming, a woman was screaming inside his head.

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside, now."

"Not Harry, please not, take me, kill me instead-"

Numbing, swirling white mist was filling Harry's brain. What was he doing? Why was he flying? He needed to help her. She was going to die -- be murdered!

He tipped and fell off his broom, and it seemed as though he were falling through an icy mist.

"Not Harry! Please! Have mercy! Have mercy!"

A shrill voice was laughing, the woman was screaming, and Harry knew no more.

* * *

"Lucky the ground was so soft."

"I thought he was dead for sure."

"But he didn't even break his glasses."

Harry could hear the voices whispering, but they made no sense whatsoever. He didn't have a clue where he was or how he'd gotten there or what he'd been doing before he got there. All he knew was that every inch of him was aching as though it had been beaten with a stick.

"That was the scariest thing I've ever seen in my life."

Scariest -- the scariest thing -- hooded black figures -- cold -- screaming!

Harry's eyes snapped open. He was lying in the hospital wing -- he recognized the pattern of cracks in the ceiling. All of his friends were crowded around the bed.

"Harry!" Blaise cried, squeezing his hand tightly. "Oh, thank Merlin!"

"Thank Madam Pomfrey," Tim corrected her, bowing to the matronly witch. "She's a miracle worker."

"I've patched this boy up a few times," the nurse said ruefully. "He doesn't learn from his experiences."

"Nothing could have prepared him for that," Tim said, blanching slightly.

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"The dementors stormed the pitch," Draco answered. "We were all able to get to the ground, but you just sort of fell off. I was looking right at you, and your eyes rolled back something awful. It was just like on the train."

"My broom?" Please, tell me nothing happened to my broom!

"I have it," Tim said, setting his mind at ease. "That broom is incredible. When it realized that there was no longer a rider, it just sank straight down to the ground and hovered."

"What about the dementors?"

"Oh, Dumbledore was furious!" Blaise said gleefully. "He ran right onto the pitch as you fell, waved his wand, and you sort of slowed down before you hit the ground. Then he whirled his wand at the dementors. Shot some of that silver stuff at them, just like Professor Lupin did on the train. They left the stadium right away, but Dumbledore hurried them along. Then he magicked up a stretcher and walked you up here personally. Harry, we all thought you were dead!"

"It takes more than a simple fall to kill me," Harry joked.

"Not if you go head first," Jenna observed. "Which you nearly did."

to be continued...