The Boy Who Lived I -- The Alchemist's Prize

Chapter Seven: Sheer Dumb Luck

Quidditch practice proved to be grueling exercise, even with the speedy Nimbus 2000 carrying Harry through it. According to school rules, no team could practice on the Quidditch pitch more than four hours every week, and Oliver usually used their precious hours there for scrimmages. On Saturday afternoon, the first team would play as a unit against the reserves. On Sunday morning, the reserve Chasers would swap out with the first team, so that Oliver, Fred, and George didn't grow sloppy from playing against second-line talent. Gryffindor lacked a reserve Seeker, however, so Harry would spend Saturday practice chasing the Snitch, avoiding Bludgers pelted at him by all four Beaters, and Sunday working on the Seeker's second duty.

"As you know," Oliver explained at Harry's first Sunday practice, "the Seeker is not permitted to touch the Quaffle. So you're not much good on offense, unless you can manage a lucky deflection with your broom. You can disrupt the other team's offense, however, by breaking up their formations or deflecting the Quaffle with your broom. I don't want you to ever let that take precedence over the Snitch, but I need you to be ready if you get the chance."

So Harry learned to read Chaser formations and disrupt them by diving through them at precisely the right moment. Finding that precise moment proved very challenging, and by the end of the first Sunday, Harry was certain he had as many bruises as he would if he'd taken a leisurely roll down the rocky side of a mountain. Breaking up the offensive formations wasn't the problem—avoiding getting clobbered in the process was.

Harry had expected Quidditch practice to begin and end with the weekend scrimmages, and so was quite surprised when Oliver appeared early Monday evening holding a broom. Oliver could hardly hold scrimmages away from the Quidditch pitch, with its enchantments for keeping the Snitch and the Bludgers contained. However, the weekly time limit did nothing to prevent him from taking the team to another part of the school grounds and making them run drills. Fred and George repeatedly batted Muggle racquetballs up against a wall to improve their hand-eye coordination, and the Chasers tossed a Quaffle around for their own improvement. The whole team ran constant broom races, though Harry proved so fast that Oliver quickly took to having him chase bolts Hagrid shot from his massive crossbow.

With Quidditch practice, homework, and occasional games of Exploding Snap with his dorm-mates and chess with Ron, Harry barely noticed that a week had gone by until he realized that he was in Snape's dungeon preparing to brew Wartaway Wash. The potion was simple, and Harry briefly entertained the idea that he would finish early and get some much-needed rest before Oliver kidnapped him for another practice session, but the hope was quashed a bare moment after Snape took his place at the front of the classroom.

"I have marked your essays," Snape announced, scowling as if he'd just stepped in some dead animal while wearing his best dress shoes, "and your performance has generally vindicated my extremely pessimistic assessment of your potential in this field." Faint groans echoed through the classroom, but the noise quickly died when Snape glared at the students. "Regrettably," he continued, beginning to pace at the front of the room, "I cannot expel any of you just for being astonishingly dense, but with any luck you will take the comments I have written on your papers into consideration the next time you feel compelled to pass off half-considered drivel as an essay."

He crossed the room to stand in front of his chalkboard. "Now," he snarled, "before I hand your papers back, I will try to inform you of the conclusion you should have reached. I shall enlist the services of your least incompetent classmates. Mr. Malfoy, what two kinds of ingredients do all blemish-removing potions have in common?"

Draco blushed slightly from the implied compliment, then answered, "Each potion has at least one ingredient that's associated with dirt, and one that is, or could be, very sharp."

"Excellent," Snape said, writing "Dirt" and "Sharp" on the board. "Each potion includes some part of an animal or plant closely associated with dirt," he continued, "earthworm intestines in the Wartaway Wash, bubotuber pus in the Anti-Acne Ointment, and so on. Perhaps you can tell me why that is, Miss Granger."

"I... I'm not sure," Hermione admitted. "I think it has something to do with the fact that dirt is to blame for the malady..."

"Close, Miss Granger," Snape said. "The earth-associated ingredients are intended to draw the dirt that is the root of the problem away from the blemish so that it may heal." Harry couldn't suppress a grin—he'd said almost that exact thing in his paper!

"So can anyone tell me the purpose of the sharp ingredients?" Snape asked, obviously not expecting an answer. Harry knew, or thought he did, but dared not raise his hand. "There's no denying they're present," Snape continued, "hedgehog quills in the Boilbanish Broth, crushed wood splinters in the Anti-Acne ointment, pulverized bee stings in Caldric's Corn Remover. Does anyone have an idea?" He turned his searing black eyes towards Harry's desk, and said, "Perhaps you, Mr. Weasley?"

Please remember what you wrote, thought Harry as Ron stammered unintelligibly for a moment.

"M-maybe to p-puncture the blemish?" Ron finally squeaked. Harry held his breath—this was the conclusion both he and Ron had reached, but he had no idea if it was correct.

Snape's lips twisted up in the sort of grin a person usually wore when someone he really hated had just died in a particularly gruesome way, and Harry immediately feared the worst. He was, therefore, very surprised when Snape said, "Quite right, Mr. Weasley, though I fear you'll soon be competing with Professor Quirrell for 'Most Pathetic Stutter'." Harry glared venomously at the greasy-haired man while Ron's ears turned red, though Snape seemed to notice neither boy's behavior. "The sharp components of the potions are intended to lance or disrupt the relevant blemish and enable the earth-attractive ingredients to draw the offending particle out of the skin. This simple logic is the foundation upon which these potions have been designed for centuries."

Snape drew himself up to his full height and glared down on at the class. "Those of you who bothered to glance at a medical text," he said, "may have noticed that disrupting blemishes and removing the offending filth are standard practices when suitable potions are unavailable, and that such barbarism is routinely practiced by Muggles. The ingredients of the potions are meant to mimic these behaviors. And if you understand why that is, you may one day manage to become a decent brewer of potions." He tossed the chalk back into its tray and returned to his usual position behind the front desk. "One or two of you," Snape added, glancing towards Draco with an expression startlingly akin to an honest smile, "might even have the potential for mastery."

Harry realized that his lips were twitching up into a grin. He'd gotten it all! The dirt-removal, the lancing, the medical connection—all of it had been in his essay. Even Snape couldn't help but have appreciated it!

"Professor," Aidan called, raising his hand, and Harry's lips forgot about grinning for the time being.

Snape's expression drifted back into its usual severity, and he said, "Yes, Mr. MacNair?"

"Why can't you just tell us why the potion ingredients have to mimic the medical treatment?"

Snape scowled, his voice very quiet and even as he said, "Because, Mr. MacNair, your pathetic little mind would never be able to accept the truth if I simply told it to you. Real revelations, the kind that lead to a deeper understanding of the world around you, cannot be found in books, nor do they fall from the lips of teachers. Revelations only have meaning if you come to them yourself. Not that many of you seem likely to experience a grand insight at any point in your lives, much less in this class."

With that, he began the lecture for the day, describing the simple Wartaway Wash and beginning them on their day's work. Quidditch practice had not affected Harry's preparation for class, so despite Snape's renewed hovering, he and Ron finished with an acceptable potion even before Hermione. Once they'd cleaned up their spot, Snape handed them their graded essays and dismissed them with a sneer.

Ron unrolled his parchment almost as soon as they got into the hall. It was covered with comments scrawled in dark green ink, most of them relating to Ron's substandard spelling and grammar. Nonetheless, Snape had circled a dark green "94" at the top of the essay, and appended a long note addressing Ron's conceptual errors at the bottom. "Wow," Ron said, "Hagrid could be right. Maybe Snape's just an..."

Harry, sensing that Ron was about to say something rather improper about a easily-angered man who could quite likely hear them, covered Ron's mouth with his hand and dragged him a bit further down the hallway.

"...arse in class. His notes seem really helpful," Ron concluded once they were a safe distance away. "Give yours a look."

"I'd just as soon not," Harry said, "I'm afraid of what I'll find."

"Come off it," Ron protested, "I borrowed more than half my paper from you, and I did fine. You couldn't possibly have done any worse than me!"

Harry refused, however—the brief moment of confidence he'd experienced in the Potions classroom had been effectively dispelled by Snape's hovering and scowling, and Harry expected the worst from his grade. The forest of comments on Ron's paper had done nothing to boost his confidence. Though they were in fact helpful suggestions, each little note had been phrased in the nastiest possible way. Remarks like, "Your penmanship puts me in mind of a drunken, dyslexic monkey," were quite common.

Harry's resolve not to open his essay and look at it lasted almost all the way through lunch. Ron's insistence, combined with the cajoling of Draco, Seamus, and Dean, proved almost too much to bear. When Fred and George threatened to steal his essay and post it in the common room, however, Harry decided to cut his losses. He laid out the scroll on the table, his eyes drifting to the small, dark green "92" in the top corner. It was the only thing Snape had written.

"I don't get it," Seamus said after a moment. "If he didn't make any comments, it must have been a perfect paper."

Ron, who had turned a very interesting shade of red, said, "It's bollocks is what it is! Harry wrote a great essay, much better than mine! Snape's just handing out biased grades, the lousy bastard! You should talk to McGonagall about it, Harry."

"It won't do any good," Draco said, shaking his head. "Look, ninety-two is the lowest score Snape can give that still qualifies as top-level marks. Even if Harry got a higher number, it wouldn't move him out of that tier. So Snape has the perfect defense."

"So why no comments?"

"He probably didn't have any he could write without getting into trouble," Harry said darkly, rolling up the scroll.

"And he doesn't want Harry to get any better in the class. So Snape won't correct any real errors," Draco said.

"What a jerk," Ron mumbled sullenly.

"Well, at least he hates MacNair," Harry said.

"Yeah, but then again, who doesn't?" Ron replied.

The next several weeks seemed to pass in a blur. Harry almost never had a moment of free time between schoolwork and Quidditch practice, only barely managing to squeeze in twice-weekly games of chess with Ron, and the occasional game of Exploding Snap with the other boys in his dorm. Oliver added weekly hour-long strategy discussions to the Gryffindor team's practice regimen, at which he covered a blackboard with intricate diagrams that he refused to let anyone copy down lest another team steal them. After each meeting he carefully erased the board, covered it with random scribbles, then erased it again so that his less-scrupulous counterparts in other houses would be unable to figure out what the Gryffindors had planned.

"He's off his nut, he is," Fred muttered as Harry followed the twins out of a classroom following one of the sessions.

"I'll say," George agreed, "He's gone totally mad with this secrecy kick."

"Well, he'll have something to fall back on, at least," Fred replied. "If he can't make it as a Quidditch player, maybe he can go work for the Department of Mysteries... they always need a bloke who can keep a secret."

"Ugh," George said. "The moment Oliver Wood becomes an Unspeakable, I'm emigrating to America."

Harry frowned at their conversation. Sure, Oliver's precautions were a little unusual, but he was the Quidditch Captain. It was his job to make sure that the team was ready, and that none of the other teams got an unfair advantage. The secrecy might seem excessive, but Harry was sure that Oliver was right to demand it. Frankly, Harry thought he was the best Captain in the school.

Still, he could not manage to say anything in Oliver's defense. Fred and George were Ron's brothers, and Harry feared they'd say something nasty about him to Ron if he made them mad. He had a horrible, momentary vision of Ron deciding not to like him anymore, and his stomach twisted savagely. So he bit his lip, promising himself that he would say something supportive to Oliver at the first opportunity, to make up for not opposing the Weasley twins' ridicule.

He had a chance the next day, when he found Oliver alone in a hallway after breakfast. "I just wanted to say thank you for all the hard work you put in," Harry said once he'd cornered the older boy. "I really appreciate your help, and I think you're the best Quidditch Captain in the whole world."

Oliver's tired face lit up with a broad smile. "Thanks, Harry," he said, "that really means a lot to me. I think you're something special, too."

Harry bashfully looked towards the floor, where his right foot was idly trying to dig a hole in the stone. He squeaked out a word of thanks, then realized he was blushing and hurried off towards Charms. The murmured words, "I've never seen more potential in a Seeker," drifted after him, half-heard.

Almost before Harry realized it, October was coming to an end, a fact that was brought to his attention while he was playing chess with Ron during their Monday free period.

"Can't wait 'till Thursday," Ron commented, sweeping the shattered remnants of Harry's queen off the board. A trail of dust remained behind, and the battered old piece took her time reassembling herself at the edge of the board.

"What's Thursday?" Harry said, grinning vindictively as his pawn destroyed Ron's knight.

"Samhain," Ron replied, grinning widely. Seeing the blank look on Harry's face, he added, "You know, Halloween? Little kids dressing up in silly masks, trying to scare people and begging for sweets?"

"Oh," Harry said, glumly watching his recently-victorious pawn fall prey to Ron's castle. "I've read about that..."

"'I've read about it,'" Ron mimicked, then said, "Honestly Harry, sometimes you sound so much like Hermione it's scary."

"Not just like her, I hope," Harry replied.

"No, not really," Ron said. "You should have heard her this morning in Charms. 'It's leviosa, not leviosa'," he continued, imitating Hermione's voice. "She's a bloody nightmare!"

"Easy for you to say," Harry countered, "I was paired with Draco. It took me a quarter of an hour to get all the soot off my glasses."

"Well, he might be dangerous, but at least he's not a self-righteous little know-it-all. I can't even begin to guess how she ever got Sorted into here."

"I'm sure the Sorting Hat had its reasons," Harry said quickly, remembering the raspy voice mulling over the possibility of placing him in Slytherin. He shuddered and moved his knight to threaten Ron's queen.

"So you've really never celebrated Halloween?" Ron asked after a moment.

"I... I'm not sure," Harry replied, "Maybe when I was really young... but not since my parents became Aurors. They didn't want me going out at night on my own, and it was hard for them to get time off just for a little holiday." He sighed, then added, "They tried, you know—they'd send some stuff for me, but I guess it isn't the same."

"Must have been nice to get your treats without all the effort of walking around. Fred and George used to steal half of mine. The past two years were bliss—having a whole bag of sweets without the 'twin tax'."

"It wasn't that nice for me," Harry said, "I think Mother mostly chose what they sent. She always bought these Muggle sweets—little rubbery things that I think were called 'gummy bears'. I hated them."

"Oh?"

"Sometimes, though," Harry continued, "Father would remember that I really like chocolate. He'd add some little chocolate drops called 'Kisses'. I used to save the wrappers."

"Was there something on them, like with Chocolate Frogs?" Ron asked, quietly adding, "Check."

Harry automatically moved his king before replying, "No, nothing on them. I... I just liked the way they looked, all pretty and silver." Mentally, he added, And they reminded me that Mother and Father cared, even when things didn't work out the way I wanted.

"Checkmate," Ron announced as Harry's king wobbled and fell over. "Well, you'll like the Halloween feast, at any rate," he added as he scooped up the pieces remaining on the board and deposited them in their little box. "My brothers told me about it. According to them—and this includes Percy—dinner's all right, if a bit heavy on pumpkin. The dessert course is to die for, though; more treats than you can imagine... sweets, mints, and chocolates as far as the eye can see."

Harry couldn't suppress a grin. "I hope you're right about the chocolate," he said, "That's my favorite."

Ron returned the smile, saying, "Well, if Percy said it, then it's probably true."

"I can't imagine he knows how to lie effectively."

"He's such a goody two-shoes. Bet he shacks up with Hermione someday."

"For your sake, I hope not."

Though the earlier part of the week had been sunny and warm, Thursday dawned dark and cold, with a thin smattering of snowflakes drifting down through the air from the heavy clouds. In the absence of sunlight, and with the bitter cold enticing him to remain snuggled in his blankets, Harry almost didn't make it out of bed in time for History of Magic. Once in class, though, the sharp chill kept Harry quite awake. Binns, being dead, never realized that the air in his classroom was freezing, and since he paid no more attention to his students than they typically gave him, did not notice their shivering.

Oddly enough, the class proved moderately interesting—the ominous rumbles of thunder from the low-hanging clouds provided a perfect counterpoint to Binns' lecture on the Troll War. Binns himself showed an unusual enthusiasm for the subject, his voice rising out of its usual monotone. Harry wondered briefly if the professor had made a special study of that war, back when he was alive.

"Though the trolls were ultimately defeated," Binns explained towards the end of class, "many questions still remain, most of which seem to have no answer. For instance, how did trolls from all over the world know to rise up at the same time? Obviously they communicated in some way, but how? Troll mages are few in number, and they haven't the intelligence for the complex charms such communication would require. Even if they could cast the spells, they'd need an even higher order of magic to translate their European dialects into the language of the American wendigo, or the Japanese red ogre. Many believe a dark wizard supplied the magic and the motivation for the global uprising, but to date no evidence has been found to support this conjecture."

"What's a wendigo?" Dean asked as they left the classroom. Apparently he, too, had been paying attention.

"I'm not sure," Harry admitted. "I've heard the word once or twice before, but I can't remember where."

"Well, I expect it's nasty, if it's cousin to a troll," Ron said.

"We could ask Quirrell this afternoon," Draco suggested. "I'll bet two sickles he pisses himself instantly. Any takers?"

Nobody spoke for a moment, then Seamus said, "You'll not have a nibble on that one, Draco. Everyone knows Quirrell's frightened of his own shadow."

"Not to mention incompetent," Ron grumbled. "I'll bet he knows nothing about them."

The boys decided to ask the Defense professor anyway, and elected Harry to pose the question. "You have to admit, Harry, that you're a bit of a runt," Seamus explained, "of all of us, you're the least likely to frighten him."

So after the Gryffindors had trundled into class from Herbology and opened their notebooks, Harry raised his hand and waited to be recognized.

"Y-yes, P-p-potter?" Quirrell asked timidly.

"Professor Binns mentioned something in class today I hadn't heard of, and I thought you might know... what's a wendigo?"

No sooner had the word left Harry's lips than Quirrell let out a blood-curdling shriek. His eyes rolled back in his head as the terrible noise continued to pour out of his mouth, only falling silent when he collapsed in a dead faint.

The classroom was silent for a moment, before Seamus quietly said, "I suppose I should have taken you up on that bet after all, Draco."

After a few moments, some of the students moved into action. One of the Ravenclaws pulled out a bottle of smelling salts, and Latifa went to open a window. Quirrell was quickly revived, muttering something that sounded like, "horrible, horrible..." He then clutched at his turban and demanded to know whether anyone had removed it. When the children said they had not, Quirrell heaved a great sigh of relief, stood up, and began to lecture the class again. He said nothing on the subject of wendigoes, and Harry couldn't muster up the courage to ask him again.

"I suppose you thought that was funny?" Hermione accused, collaring Harry as he left the classroom.

"What?" Harry asked, confused. She seemed to be talking about Quirrell's fainting spell, but he hadn't found anything funny about it, and wondered why she thought he had.

"You and your friends probably planned to make a fool of him, didn't you?" Hermione pressed, her voice getting higher and squeakier as her face got redder.

"Leave off, Hermione," Ron said, pulling Harry out of her grasp. "Harry didn't mean to do anything."

"A likely story," Hermione sniffed. "Well, you and your friends can't get away with your petty little pranks forever, Ron."

"'Least we've got friends to plan pranks with," Ron snapped back. "A bossy little know-it-all like yourself can't help but have noticed that nobody can stand to be around you."

Hermione stared at Ron for a moment, going very red in the face, then spun on her heel and ran off down the hall.

"That wasn't very nice, Ron," Harry chided.

"She deserved it," Ron said. "Anyone could see you nearly fainted yourself when Quirrell passed out."

Harry blushed and quietly followed Ron back to the Gryffindor common room. Due to the looming clouds, Oliver had informed Harry at lunch that drills were called off for the afternoon. This sat well with Harry, because it gave him a little extra time to prepare for the hell of the next Potions class—a plus, since he expected to have other things on his mind after a feast of sugary goodness.

Ron snorted at Harry's insistence on studying, pretending to check the smaller boy's hair to see if it had gone brown and frizzy. Draco backed Harry up, however; they were finally moving on from blemish-curing potions onto a much more difficult subject. The rest of the semester would be devoted to potions and salves intended to cure various burns and scalds. After a few more moments of resistance, Ron finally gave in and joined the other boys upstairs. Seamus and Dean were quite dismayed—now only the twins were interested in playing Exploding Snap with them, and nobody won against Fred and George.

The few hours before dinner passed quickly, helped along by the difficulty of the next day's lesson. The recipe for Samantha's Soother was complicated, and Harry couldn't really grasp the reasoning behind the inclusion of some of its ingredients. The weather didn't make things any easier—the heavy clouds were starting to thunder more frequently, and the wind had begun to howl around the tower, constantly drawing Harry's attention away from his books. He'd only just managed to memorize the recipe for the next day when the bell rang for dinner.

The meal was everything that had been promised. A hearty pumpkin soup was followed by a main course of beef roast accompanied by baked pumpkin, pumpkin casserole, pumpkin bread, and great pitchers of pumpkin juice. Harry thought he might have seen a bowl of field peas, but he couldn't be sure because the twins had seized and devoured it immediately. For himself, Harry avoided the baked pumpkin, but the casserole and bread were surprisingly good. He saved plenty of space, however—the important part was yet to come.

Harry bided his time by glancing up at the enchanted ceiling. Though he could not hear anything over the dull roar of the students talking in the Great Hall, it was evident that the clouds had decided to finally unleash a massive storm. Lightning crackled in the darkened heights, and what looked like an unpleasant mixture of rain and snow was pelting down towards the roof. Harry thanked his lucky stars that Oliver had seen reason and decided not to drill the team that night.

Finally, the half-empty dishes for the entree course vanished, and the real main course (as far as the children were concerned) appeared. The long tables filled with bowls of chocolates, trays of mints, and platters filled with endless numbers of biscuits, sweets, and, of course, pumpkin pies.

After a few minutes of stuffing his face, Harry finally noticed that someone was missing. "Where's Hermione?" he asked Draco, knowing Ron would only roll his eyes and mutter something rude under his breath.

Draco shrugged, but Parvati had apparently heard the question. "She's been in the third-floor girls' bathroom since this afternoon," the Indian girl said. "I think she's been crying."

Harry frowned at this, and glanced over at Ron, but the redhead only shrugged. "It's not my fault she's gotten on everyone's bad side," he said when he finally swallowed the immense mouthful of sugary goodness he'd been chewing.

Harry shook his head and grabbed another chocolate, but before he could bring it to his mouth, the doors of the great hall slammed open and Quirrell sprinted in, his turban askew and his robes damp with sweat. He stumbled towards the high table, tripping over the steps leading to the dais, and finally landing on his knees right in front of Dumbledore. Harry felt a sharp sting in his forehead, but ignored it as the jittery man said, "S-s-s-something's in the G-gallery... a m-monster... thought you ought to know..." Then, for the second time that day, Quirrell fell to the ground in a dead faint.

For a moment, the hall was silent, but then the students started to scream in panic. Granted, little enough was needed to make Quirrell faint, but it could not be doubted that the Defense teacher knew his Dark creatures—almost obsessively so. Nothing he called a monster would turn out to be a pixie. Harry dropped the chocolate and screamed along with the rest.

The tumult came to an abrupt end when Dumbledore launched a series of fireworks from the end of his wand, slender packets which exploded in bright purple bursts over the terrified children. "Silence!" he shouted, and the students obeyed. "Prefects will lead the students to their houses using the back passageways," he announced in a quieter voice, "Professors will follow me to the Tower Gallery to eliminate the intruder."

With a last, longing glance at a bowl of chocolates, Harry reluctantly stood up to follow Percy back to Gryffindor tower. Ron grabbed a handful and joined him.

"How d'you suppose a monster got into Hogwarts?" Ron asked, despite his full mouth.

"Probably Peeves let it in as a holiday prank," Draco replied, frowning. "Wish they'd do something about him."

"Eh, you just dislike him because he calls you 'Mal-Sorted Malfoy' all the time," Seamus commented. Peeves had evidently not forgotten the Howler Draco received at the beginning of the term, and took great delight in the reaction his nickname provoked from the blonde boy.

"Wonder what House he was in," Draco muttered angrily under his breath.

At that moment, Harry was struck by a terrible thought. "Hermione!" he gasped.

"Eh?"

"Hermione doesn't know about the monster!" Harry explained. "She's still in the third-floor bathroom!"

"I guess..." Draco said, "I guess we should go get her."

"Do we have to?" Ron asked.

"She may not be nice to us, Ron," Harry said, "but that doesn't mean we can just let her get killed."

Ron looked abashed, and said, "I guess not. Well, let's go."

So as Percy led the Gryffindors up one staircase, the three boys took another, hurrying up to the third floor. They had just turned onto the main corridor when Ron grabbed Harry and Draco and pulled them back up against the wall. "Listen," he hissed, and Harry could hear loud, ponderous footsteps echoing through the hall. They stopped for a moment, replaced by a low growl, then resumed, going off in a new direction.

Ron, Draco, and Harry quietly stepped forward, continuing on their way towards the girls' restroom. They were only a few feet away when they heard an ear-splitting scream. Harry knew immediately that it had come from Hermione. The three boys charged into the bathroom and stopped, dumbstruck.

Hermione was cowering under one of the sinks, cornered by a giant creature that looked like it had been stuck together from bits of several different animals. Its powerful arms resembled those of a bear, but its head more properly belonged on a great cat of some kind, except for the horns, which might have come from a bull. A shaggy wolf's tail stuck out from under the dirty loincloth the monster wore, brushing against legs that actually seemed to be those of a man, albeit an exceptionally hairy one. Several shattered stalls bore testament to the abomination's strength, and gouges in the ceramic sinks made the sharpness of its claws very clear.

"What is that?" Ron asked, and the beast turned its head towards the boys, snarling as it caught sight of them. Then one corner of the creature's mouth turned up in an almost human leer, revealing a row of distinctly inhuman razor-sharp teeth. With that, the monster turned its attention back to the girl cowering beneath it.

"We've got to get it away from her!" Harry said. "Distract it!" He grabbed a chunk of wood from the ground and tossed it at the back of the creature's head. It bounced off, but the monster turned and snarled at him again. Ron made use of the opportunity to toss a toilet seat at the beast's nose, scoring a direct hit.

"Let's not play around, boys," Draco muttered, digging in his robes. He pulled what looked like a small vial out and tossed it at the intruder's feet. The vial exploded, releasing a burst of smoke, and the monster jumped back.

"We'll keep it busy," Harry said to the blonde, "you go get Hermione and pull her out of here."

Draco nodded and dashed across the room, pausing as the creature lunged towards him. The monster reconsidered its course when Ron walloped it with a well-aimed toilet fixture, turning its attention back to the two boys near the door. Harry drew out his wand as he lobbed another hunk of wood at the bizarre creature. The thing seemed to get an idea from this, for it pulled one of the posts holding up the stalls out of the floor and threw it back at Harry. The small boy managed to dodge the projectile, but he stumbled on the littered floor, landing heavily on his side and skidding into a corner.

"Dammit girl, move!" Draco shouted at Hermione, who seemed utterly petrified with fear. The monster, apparently reminded that it had two less troublesome enemies behind it, turned around and began to advance on the pair, ignoring the bits of wood that Ron threw at it.

Harry staggered to his feet, catching sight of Draco's peril. Barely thinking, he leaped forward and yanked sharply on the creature’s tail. The beast howled in anger and tried to swipe at him with its long claws, but Harry stayed too close behind it, keeping a death grip on the mangy fur. Infuriated, the creature tried to shake Harry off, but had no success. Unfortunately, Draco wasn’t having much luck convincing Hermione to run either. This gave the beast time to come up with a new plan. Ignoring the pieces of wood Ron was still chucking at it, the monster backed up, obviously intending to crush Harry between it and the wall.

Fortunately, Harry still had his wand out. Realizing his danger, he focused his mind, pointed the wand at the creature’s tail, twitched it, and shouted, "Incendio!" Brilliant emerald-green sparks erupted from the tip and buried themselves in the matted fur. The tail did not catch fire, but the beast stopped in shock, allowing Harry enough time to duck between its legs and escape. Additionally, the monster howled in pain, giving Draco the perfect opportunity to toss one of his vials into the razor-toothed maw. The creature involuntarily bit down, then opened its mouth quickly again as another explosion echoed in the bathroom.

The monster staggered back, and Draco began to physically pull Hermione away from the corner in which she'd taken refuge. The evil creature shook off the effects of the explosion, and howled again in rage and pain. Harry stumbled forward to help Draco drag the girl to safety as the beast plunged its claws into the wall, ripping away a great chunk of stone which it raised above its head, apparently meaning to kill the three of them with one blow.

The creature swung its arms down, but Ron shouted "Leviosa!" and the stone stayed above the monster's head, hovering in the air. Harry glanced over and saw Ron trembling, his face screwed up in concentration. Without wasting another moment, Harry took hold of Hermione's arm and started dragging her with all his might, while the beast looked curiously up at the hovering stone. A moment later, Ron's spell gave out, and the rock came plummeting down onto the bizarre creature's head, breaking its wicked-looking horns. The beast's eyes rolled back in its head and it toppled to the ground, obliterating the remaining stalls in its fall.

A moment later, as they were all dusting themselves off, McGonagall arrived, flanked by Snape and Quirrell. "Potter! Weasley! Malfoy!" she barked, "what is the meaning of this? Why aren't you in your House?"

Harry gulped nervously. There wasn't going to be any good way to explain this...

"Professor McGonagall," Hermione said, stepping forward so that McGonagall could see her, "It's my fault."

"Miss Granger?"

"I wasn't at dinner," Hermione explained, "I wanted some time to myself, you see, and..."

"Miss Granger!" McGonagall interjected, "You mean to say you're responsible for this?"

"Yes," Hermione said, looking contrite. "Harry, Draco, and Ron came after me, but I was already trapped by... that. Harry grabbed its tail, Draco threw something explosive in its mouth, and Ron levitated its rock. They didn't have time to get anyone."

"Well," McGonagall said huffily, affixing a steely gaze on the three boys, "I suppose it all turned out for the best, though you should have notified an adult rather than going chasing after your housemate yourselves. I'm not sure what this creature is, but I assure you that any first year student facing it is lucky to have come out in one piece!"

"We're sorry, Professor," Harry said as sincerely as he could. Snape sneered at him over McGonagall's shoulder, obviously unconvinced by Harry's display.

"Doubtless you are," McGonagall said, her expression indicating that she wasn't convinced either. "Nonetheless, you have done a service to the school. I award Gryffindor ten points, for your sheer dumb luck. Now run along to your House... Quirrell, could you escort them?"

Quirrell, however, had fainted once again. McGonagall rolled her eyes and dismissed the children with an irritated wave of her hand. Hermione scampered out immediately, ever eager to please, while the boys followed at a more leisurely pace.

"What was that stuff you were throwing around, Draco?" Ron asked as the boys made their way up through the Tower Gallery.

"Remember that waterfire powder?" Draco asked, and the other two nodded. "Well, I kept it and made a few of these," he said, drawing a small vial out from his robe. "It has a bit of wax separating the powder from the water. When you break the vial, they mix. It's not much more than a bang and a bit of smoke, but I thought it might come in handy."

"Bloody brilliant!" Ron said, "Though I don't suppose it would be much fun if a professor caught you with those."

"Actually," Draco said, smiling, "Professor Snape gave me the idea. He told me he carries a bunch of defensive potions with him all the time."

"Amazing," Ron mused, "The slimy git's actually good for something."

They had reached the portrait hole, and entered it to find that some of the dessert trays had been brought up so that students could continue the feast. They also found that Hermione had been waiting next to the portal. She wrung her hands as the boys entered, then stopped them and said, "I shouldn't have yelled at you this afternoon. I'm sorry."

Ron blushed and replied, "I... I guess I shouldn't have said that about your not having any friends."

Hermione smiled, though she looked like she might also start crying again. "Why?" she asked, "It's true."

"It doesn't have to be," Harry said. He ignored the sharp looks Draco and Ron gave him, and continued, "I mean, we could, if you want..."

Hermione smiled, less tearily this time, and said, "Maybe." Then she turned and disappeared up the stairs to the girls' dorm.

"What have you gotten us into, Harry?" Ron asked a moment later. "We'll never be rid of her now!"

"It can't be all bad," Harry replied. "I'll bet she'd make a better potions partner for Draco than Lavender does."

"A flea-ridden monkey would make a better potions partner than Lavender," Draco retorted. "I'll bet you're just hoping Hermione will be your girlfriend."

Harry pretended to gag as he made his way over to a bowl of chocolates. He wondered if he'd find any Kisses.