Al Potter and the Plague of Frogs

"All--all right... Children?" Professor Terwit's voice rose shakily above the classroom noise. She was cowering in front of her desk, hands held up before her chest, placating. From her expression of abject terror, she might have been confronting a pack of wolves, rather than her eleven-year-old students.

Al sighed. He had so been looking forward to Transfiguration, but he was beginning to give up hope on the class--Terwit was just as petrified of them as she had been last week.

"Now, all right..." Locating her wand, Terwit rapped it smartly on the side of her desk, jumping slightly at the sudden noise. Beside him, Ana covered her mouth, shaking with laughter.

"Everyone pipe down!" hollered Peter, with better results than Terwit. The professor smiled at him gratefully, if twitchily, as the classroom quieted.

"Thank you, Mr. Bones," she said. Behind him, Al heard Paul snigger.

"Thank you, Mr. Bones," echoed Matthias quietly, voice high and mawkish. Al winced, noticing a nerve jump on Terwit's face.

"Class? If you would please--" She coughed, clearing her throat. "Please open your books to page twenty-three. We'll be continuing the lesson on metals to woods..." Turning away to spell something on the board, and she instantly relaxed, speaking more freely. Al wondered if she had ever considered teaching blindfolded--he was sure she'd have a much easier time of it.

Ana was taking notes, but Al did not follow suit. He had skimmed the metals to woods chapter on the train, and Terwit had a tendency of butchering her source material. His notes from their first class had been complete nonsense upon rereading. Instead, sliding his bookbag in front of him as a shield, he flipped over the Famous Wizard's Card Daisy Zeller had given him that morning.

Kirley Duke was lounging in a tattered easy chair, boots propped on an equally worn ottoman. He was grinning at nothing in particular, eyes puffy and vacant. Al snickered under his breath--here was the lead guitarist of the most prolific wizarding band ever, and this was the image on his Chocolate Frogs Card? Although, he supposed, the card might have been made after the Weird Sisters disbanded. Duke, he'd heard, had taken their breakup the hardest.

Al was uncertain whether he trusted the dazed guitarist to tell him the riddle quietly. Maybe if Terwit stepped out for something... Stowing the card in his pocket, he felt the sharp corner of an envelope, and drew out the letter he had received that morning during breakfast.

The handwriting was small and spiky, written with glinting purple ink.

Al!

Hope you feel properly special being the FIRST Potter/Weasley to receive a letter from me this term. I expect you to strut around the rest of the day with it in your pocket, maybe brag to your friends about hearing from your older and very cool friend Theodore Lupin, Auror-in-Training.

Which is why I'm writing, actually. Second year of this Auror program is turning out to be even more hectic than the first--so if I want to, say, visit a certain god-brother of mine, I've got to sort it out well in advance. See, I meant to give you something at King's Cross before you chugged away, but I got to talking, which you know is what I do best, and completely forgot (something I also do quite well--but don't despair, young Albus! With practice, you too can be as good at forgetting things!).

Where was I...? Visiting! And gift-giving, though what I have is rightfully yours, so I'm not so much gifting as delivering. How's the 8th October? You're pretty much trapped there, but I thought I'd be polite and ask--showing up unannounced definitely had its appeal, though. I could have told my Stealth Instructor I was perfecting my sneak attack!

Was hoping I could make it to the Quidditch match next week, but I've got a dueling demonstration. It's Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff, yeah? And I heard from your dad James has made Seeker! Give him my congrats--or a swift kick, whichever you think best. Can't let this go to his head, can we?

Hoping to hear back from you,

Teddy

P.S.

Maybe drop your Mum an owl soon? You know she doesn't want to seem like she's babying, so you'll probably not hear from her first, but she's dying for a letter. And James never writes--you've got to pick up the slack, Al!

Chin in his palm, Al hid a smile behind his fingers. Needless to say, he could not wait for October. He kept going over possible things Teddy might deem 'rightfully' his. Was it something that had belonged to Al's father--a family heirloom of some sort? Or was it something already belonging to Al that Teddy had taken, for some reason? Al didn't recall ever lending him anything...

"It's a bit difficult to explain... I--I think I'd better show you, instead." Professor Terwit looked around, patting her pockets. "But where is my...?"

"Not again," muttered Ana, slouching to rest her cheek on her hands. Terwit was searching her desktop, peering under books and spare bits of parchment. "That's at least once every class. How can you be a witch and lose your wand this often?"

Terwit's face was bright as a tomato. "Has anyone seen...?" She choked, eyes bulging. "I'll--be right back. Must have left it--" Stumbling sideways to the door, she disappeared. Immediately, the class broke out in whispers and muffled laughter.

"Merlin!" exclaimed Scor from the desk beside them. Argil was shaking his head, overwhelmed. "Flobberworms for a brain, that one--frightened flobberworms!"

"Leave her alone," said Peter, in the desk directly in front of Scor. "We make her nervous, is all."

"Breathing makes her nervous, I reckon," sneered Scor. Al suspected it was not Terwit Scor really disliked, but Peter, who had presented an open target in fast becoming teacher's pet.

He tuned them out as Peter fired something back. Folding up the letter, Al took out Kirley Duke, who was gazing at his own fingers with fascination.

"Erm, Mr. Duke?" asked Al. Slowly, Duke's focus shifted beyond his hands. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for sound to emerge--and when it did, it was lazy and slurred.

"Hark," he said. "That was my father... He's not here..."

"Kirley?" Al tried.

"I'm here."

"Yes," said Al. "You are. Could you tell me the riddle, Kirley?"

Kirley nodded earnestly. "Yeah..." Nods trailing off, he turned his head, distracted by something out of frame.

"Say it, maybe?" prompted Al.

"It's a process, little lad..." Kirley looked down at his foot, which began to tap an even beat on the floor. He bobbed his head in time, closing his eyes, and chanted:

John gave his brother James a box:

About it there were many locks.

James woke and said it gave him pain,

So gave it back to John again.

The box was not with lid supplied,

Yet caused two lids to open wide;

And all these locks had never a key--

What kind of box, then, could it be?

Kirley ended with a flourish, drumming his palms against his thighs, and collapsed backward in his chair, spent. "That's... it."

Al stared at him, perplexed. "Sorry, but could you--erm--" He hesitated in asking Kirley to repeat the riddle, when clearly the guitarist had overextended himself saying it the first time.

"No need, Al," said Ana, pushing a parchment at him. "I think I got it down."

"You did?" Al pulled the parchment closer and saw the riddle shining up at him, the ink still wet. "Thanks!"

"Figured I'd better," said Ana dryly. "Since you haven't bothered taking out a quill."

"It's just--Terwit..." Al said, waving his hand ineffectually.

"I know," said Ana, patting his arm.

The classroom door swung open and Terwit blustered in. "I--I just don't see where it could've--" She stopped, eyes riveted to the base of her desk. Emitting a short, exasperated grunt, she dropped to her knees, feeling around under the desk with her hand. "Aha!" she cried, clambering to her feet. One hand gripped her dusty wand as the other self-consciously tugged the front of her robe. Her hair was askew, coming loose from its pins. "Must--must have fallen, and rolled..."

Matthias coughed, badly covering a laugh. Scor and Peter, who had been sniping quietly at each other all along, grudgingly ceased their bickering.

"Right," said Terwit. "Right, where were we?"

"You were about to transfigure a tin cup into turnip, Professor," said Ana, hand raised.

"Oh, yes--of course," said Terwit, reaching for the small, dented cup by her inkwell. "Thank you, Miss--Miss Ana."

Shaking his head, Al returned to the riddle. Kirley was snoring, passed out in his chair. As Terwit haltingly explained the spell she was about to perform, Al read what Ana had transcribed.

...A box with many locks that causes pain? Sounds like a cursed box, Al thought, but discarded the theory. The riddles he had answered so far all had mundane solutions--that was what made them riddles, wasn't it? Otherwise, there was no point--almost anything could be explained away with magic.

... And all these locks had never a key...

That bit reminded him of the river riddle, where the common words had more than one meaning... Al dug around in his bag for a quill, starting a list on Ana's parchment.

Locks--what sort of locks didn't have keys? There were lochs, he supposed, glancing out the window at the lake shimmering below. And things could be interlocked, or landlocked. Chewing his lip, he looked around the classroom for ideas.

Everyone else was watching Terwit--everyone except for Scor, who was glaring at the back of Peter's head. Ana was studying the professor's jerky movements carefully, twisting the end of a braid around her finger, as the object on the professor's desk morphed back and forth between a tin cup and a sickly-looking turnip.

Ana tugged on the braid, pulled the other one over her shoulder to wrap the loose end about her pinky. Al looked down at the list.

Locks... of hair? He wasn't sure that worked, either, but scribbled it down anyway.

The box was not with lid supplied,

Yet caused two lids to open wide...

So, maybe not a lid to a container... Hats and caps were sometimes called lids, though. And there were eyelids, he realized excitedly. That one even made sense, as two lids opening wide could mean two eyes opening wide! He circled eyelids, and did the same for locks of hair, figuring these were his best guesses, as both were body parts.

He reread the riddle, substituting his new words for the old ones, and slumped in his seat. It made no sense. And what other meanings were there for 'box' besides...a box?

Professor Longbottom had talked about a box tree during Herbology on Monday--it was a small sort of evergreen whose wood was used for magical instruments and even wandmaking... Uncle Dudley sometimes called the telly 'the box,' but just as the answers were never purely magical, he felt that neither were they likely to be uniquely Muggle.

What, then?

Al was still deep in thought when Terwit dismissed them, sagging against her desk with relief. According to the hourglass on her desk--which was falsely named, as it actually ran for an hour and a half--ten minutes remained to the period, but no one said anything.

Out in the hall, Al was just telling Daisy he would hopefully have solved the riddle by Double Herbology that afternoon, when a sharp cry sounded behind him. Whipping around, he saw Peter covered in boils, which, coupled with his already unfortunate complexion, made for a doubly gruesome sight.

"MALFOY!" he hollered.

"I don't know," said Scor, touching his chin thoughtfully. "Is there anyone else you've insulted today?"

"Undo it!" demanded Peter, teeth clenched in pain. "Undo it NOW!"

"If you're self-conscious--you really don't look any different," said Scor kindly. "I wonder if this is one of those things you were telling me about--you know, stuff you inherit from your parents. Was your mother horribly spotty as well?"

With a roar, Peter launched himself at Scor, who readily pocketed his wand, raising his fists--it seemed he had only been waiting for an excuse.

"Don't talk about my mother!" bellowed Peter, raining punches. Scor was doing his best to block to them, but Peter landed a few sharp hooks to his side. Around them, the first year Hufflepuff and Slytherins stared--Al suspected many of them had never seen a fist fight before. "UNDO IT, YOU RAT!"

"I'll undo it--" said Scor. Spotting an opening, he swung at Peter's head. "--when you take back what you said!"

Where were the teachers? If Terwit was the only one within hearing, he guessed they were on their own--she had probably barricaded the door.

"What?" scoffed Peter, ducking so that Scor skimmed his jaw. "That your family is scum and should've been locked up with the rest of the Death Eaters?" He aimed a punch to Scor's side, allowing Scor to clip his ear. "Why should I? It's true!"

"It's not," snarled Scor, sending a vicious jab at Peter's stomach. "It's not--I hate you, you stupid--" Matthias grabbed Scor by the back of his robe, yanking him back. "What're you--? Let go!" He swung again at Peter's face, but was out of reach. Taking advantage, Peter reached out, smacking Scor on the side of his head. Archie Smith lunged forward to restrain his housemate.

"This is most unwizardly!" exclaimed Argil, stepping between them once he was sure the fighters were tethered. "What are you, brawling Muggles?"

"Or BOXING Muggles!" exclaimed Al, eyes flying wide. "That's it!" Fumbling to unfold Ana's parchment, he scanned the riddle. It all fit. "He boxed him on the head!"

"Woo-hoo, little lad," said a muffled voice from his pocket. He took out Kirley Duke, who was twirling a languid finger in celebration. Glancing up, Al saw everyone staring at him, bewildered. Flushing, he turned to Daisy, holding out the card.

"The--er... the answer is--John gave his brother a box... on the head."

"Oh," she said, caught off guard. "Erm... thanks."

"The little lad's word is helpless," said Kirley, swaying slightly. "And the next card is Cyprian Youdle--rhymes with noodle--"

"Thanks very much," said Daisy, embarrassed. She hurriedly slid Kirley into her bag, out of sight. There was a moment of tense stillness, then Ana cleared throat.

"We--we should probably go," she said. "We'll be late for Charms..."

"Yeah," said Smith. "Astronomy next, for us..."

And the group went their separate ways, frog marching Scor and Peter to their next classes.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

By lunch, Scor was still in foul mood, though as this only consisted of him being uncharacteristically quiet, no one but Al seemed to notice. With the Flying Lesson that afternoon looming closer, Ana more than made up for Scor's silence.

"But--but what if I can't hold on tightly enough, and slide sideways so I'm hanging upside down? Or what if I slide backward--oh, Merlin..." She grimaced at her empty plate, her face pale.

"You'll be fine," said Al, for what seemed like the thousandth. "Coach Wood probably won't let us a metre off the ground."

"How do you do that, though?" said Ana. "How do you tell the broom where you want to go?"

"You just--you sort of guide the handle up or down, right or left..." Al trailed off, not really knowing how to describe broom function. He had been so young when he learned, he could not really remember how he had been taught.

"But what if I--"

"Just stop worrying, Ana," muttered Scor. "Or stop worrying aloud, at least--you'll jinx yourself."

"Never fear, Ana," said Argil, shooting a grin at Abbey, who grudgingly smiled in return. "If you fall, Abbey will catch you!"

"She's not going to fall," Al protested.

"All this talk's making me nervous," grumbled Scor, prodding at the steamed vegetables. He pushed away the plate, resting his head on his folded arms. "I feel sick."

"Ana, see what you've done?" said Argil jokingly.

"Are you okay?" Ana asked Scor. He nodded, face hidden the crook of his elbow. "I didn't mean to make you nervous as well. I just--I think I may even be scared of heights. I get woozy looking out of high windows and everything."

"Why don't you take the Besen broom, then?" Al asked her quietly. He had only told Ana about James' tip, though Scor also knew about it, as he had been sitting on Al's other side during supper that evening.

"I don't know," Ana replied. "I think I'd feel better on the slower brooms." She shook head, chuckling weakly. "Plus, maybe no one will notice what an awful flyer I am if I'm on a really awful broom."

"You'll be fine," Al repeated.

"So there we were, almost at the summit," Argil was saying. "And my Breathing Bubble pops--" He snapped his fingers. "Just like that, no more air! Felt like my lungs were turning inside out--"

"How did you stay on your broom?" asked Danica, wide-eyed. Argil ducked his head, as though she had caught him in lie.

"Well, I--I wasn't exactly riding the broom myself, you see... I was only about six when we visited the Himalayas, so I was pretty well secured to my father's back--"

"But still," said Danica gravely.

"Yeah," said Argil, encouraged. "Yeah, it was pretty scary, you know. The tour guide saw me in time, recast the charm and everything, but I had nightmares for ages--waking up thinking I couldn't breathe..."

Argil had been regaling them all with his flying adventures since Saturday. Abbey and Matthias were equally eager to share their stories, though theirs tended to be more conventional than Argil's.

"Mum couldn't afford much, raising me on her own--but she made her presents count," Matthias had said Monday, during breakfast. "Bought me an Asteroid 2k when I was seven, and I lived on that broom. Flew all over, dodging trees and spooking Muggles." He smiled reminiscently.

Abbey, it seemed, was the only one of them with any formal training. "Dad was set on me keeping up with my brothers," she had said, tightening her ponytail. "I was doing loop-the-loops around them by the time I was nine."

Al hadn't said much on the subject, out of consideration for Ana, aside from answering the odd question that came his way--what broom he used, how often he flew at home, what team he supported.

"The Harpies, of course," Al said, when Argil had asked the latter. "Mum would throw me out, otherwise."

"She flew for them, didn't she?" said Abbey, impressed. At Al's nod, Argil whistled.

"Bet you know you're way around a Quidditch pitch, then," he said.

Al had shrugged. Both of his parents taught he and James to fly around the same time--when he was five, James six. He barely remembered those first lessons, though he recalled knowing early on that he and his brother were very different flyers. As they'd grown, their parents were always careful to claim they were both naturals on a broom--something that seemed to frustrate James to no end. He had eventually resorted to the specific approach--forcing Al into races, for instance--so their father would have to admit that James was faster, prompting their mother to point out Al had better control.

When it came to death defying antics on a broomstick, he had no problem handing the medal to James. Al did not care to know for sure how long he could hold a dive, pulling up at the last millisecond to leave the grass cowering in fright below. By most standards, his brother was better--and stupider. Al had yet to break any bones in flying-related accidents, while James could boast--and did--of an assortment of gruesome injuries.

Their parents said Al was just cautious. James said Al was just a pansy. When Al was on his broom, he did not much care what any of them said--he was flying.

"Three and half hours 'til we're off the ground!" said Argil, checking his watch. Much to Sarah-May's horror, Abbey giggled. Al fought to smother a grin, as it rather conflicted with the commiserating look he was sending Ana.

"It's fine," she said, her tone that of martyr. "I know you're secretly excited."

"Sorry," said Al, a smiling breaking across his face.

---- ---- ---- ---- ----

Double Herbology seemed to go on forever that afternoon, the Slytherins glancing every few minutes at the front lawn through the glass walls of the greenhouse. Professor Longbottom had set them to identifying an endless array of herbs, sticking the correct name-posts in each. It was not the most exhilarating of tasks, and by the time he dismissed the class, Al and his housemates were the first out the door, hurrying to the dorms to drop off their bags. Al hastily waved to the professor as he left, Ana trailing reluctantly behind.

The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first years gathered in front of school well before four thirty, watching as Coach Wood levitated a collection of dusty, cobwebbed broomsticks from the Quidditch shed to where they stood.

"Those are filthy," muttered Argil, wrinkling his nose.

"Right, then," said Coach Wood, calling for their attention. "Good to see such eager flyers! I'm Coach Wood, and I'm assuming you're Slytherin and Ravenclaw?" At their nods of agreement, he clapped his hands. "Well! If everyone's here already, why don't we start early?"

"Yeah!" they chorused.

"Excellent. Here are the brooms--they're old, but they fly well enough. If you'll all just grab one from the pile..."

Hesitantly, they crowded around the grimy brooms. No one seemed overly enthusiastic about touching the things. Scanning the handles, Al spotted one with Besen written in wide letters along the side, and dislodged it from the heap. He hefted the broom in his hand, pleased--it wasn't nearly as dirty as some of the others.

As Wood arranged them in a large circle around him, Al noticed other students streaming out of the school to enjoy the mild autumn weather. A group was clustering by the steps, observing the Flying Lesson.

"Everyone's brooms on the ground? Right--hold out your hand, and on three, everyone say, 'UP!'" When they were all standing as directed, Wood counted: "One... two...three!"

"Up!" everyone said. About half the broom did as they were told, flying up into the students' hands. Some twitched and rolled over. Others, like Al's, did not respond at all.

"If yours is a bit hard of hearing, pick it up yourself," said Wood. "Now, everyone mount your brooms!" He went around the circle, checking forms and grips. Arrayed about the lawn, the older students were watching them curiously.

"I recognize this stance!" said Wood, moving from Scor to Al. "How is your old Dad?"

"He's good," said Al.

"Good as your grip, I hope!" said Wood, going on to Ana. Satisfied, he returned to the center. "On three, I want to push off the ground--" Crouching, he leapt high to demonstrate. "--rise a bit by angling the handle up, then tilt in down to descend. Keep it simple to start, yeah?"

Abbey rolled her eyes.

"Ready? One... two..."

Al bent his knees.

"Three!"

He jumped, launching himself into the air. Al felt the familiar, brief moment of weightlessness in his stomach, and tucked his legs under, ready for the broom to take over.

Only the brief moment lasted longer than it should have--his heart shot into his throat and he was falling, sinking backward, his hands having pulled the handle too far up, anticipating flight. Yanking the broom to him in desperation, the handle stuck his forehead with a dull thunk, and he hit the ground hard.

Dazed, flat on his back, he saw distant faces peering down at him from the air. Untangling himself from the broom, he heard a strange noise rolling across the lawn, and looked round to see James, doubled over in hysterics, standing in front the laughing students by the front steps.

Two dull thuds on either side, then Ana and Scor were there, blocking his view of the stairs. Staring up at them, he felt his eyes prickling--it was just--his head really hurt, and--Al blinked furiously, nostrils flared, a sharp panic rising in his chest. He couldn't cry, not on top of every--

Vision swimming, Al thought he saw a wand directed at his face, heard Scor mumble something--and suddenly his eyes were bone dry. The burning beneath his lids had disappeared, and Ana was gripping his elbow, helping him stand.

"What happened here?" said Wood, voice loud in Al's ears. "You all right, Potter?"

Taking a deep breath, Al relaxed his face and turned around, nodding. The rest of the class was descending to the ground, landing with varying levels of grace. They were all watching Wood, as the Flying Instructor examined Al's broom.

"What's this?" Wood exclaimed, tapping at the Besen label with his wand. "A Sticking Charm!" Murmuring, he ran his wand over the handle. "This is nothing but a Muggle broom! You wait here, Potter, I'll fetch you another--don't know how this could've..."

As Wood jogged to the pile of remaining brooms, Al eyed his classmates with trepidation. No one seemed amused by the situation, though--not even the Ravenclaws, who were glancing with bemusement between Al and the front of the school, where Al figured James and his friends were assembled.

He didn't know for sure, as he forbid himself from looking.

"Don't--don't worry, Al," muttered Ana. Her hand, tight on his elbow, was shaking. "We'll get him. We'll get him so bad he won't know what--" She broke off, growling under her breath.

Al, still a bit in shock, did not know quite what to make of this new, feral Ana. Patting her hand, he blinked a few times. His eyes were uncomfortably dry.

"Scor," he said. Scor was standing a bit behind him, but Al couldn't turn around or he would see his brother. Whether Scor knew this or not, he came round to Al's front. "What was--? I mean, thanks, but--"

"Er, don't thank me yet," said Scor, laughing nervously. "I've never done that spell before--I only saw Father once do it for Mother when we were visiting my grandparents this summer, because he knows she hates looking weak in front of Grandfather--"

"What'd you do?" asked Al.

"I--erm... I dehydrated your tear ducts, I think," Scor blurted. "It should wear off in a while--it did for Mother!"

"Here's a broom, Potter," said Wood, handing him something old and rickety. Al glimpsed a spider dangling off the end. "You ready to try flying?"

"I--yeah," said Al shortly. He didn't need to try flying--he could fly. He was very good at flying. Stupid, sodding James...

"Right--everyone! Back in position," called Wood.

As Al mounted the ancient broom, he felt a sliver of fear slice his gut, and thought he might've cried again if Scor hadn't turned his eyes to parchment. Viciously, he shoved the memory of falling aside. He'd never been afraid of flying. He wasn't afraid of flying.

Stupid James.

Al hated him.