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

Chapter Eight: Bludgers and Balustrades

Much to Harry's relief, little more was said about the incident with the bizarre monster in the girl's bathroom. McGonagall's only comment on the matter came when she appeared in the Gryffindor common room around ten that same evening to inform her charges that the intruder had been dealt with and that they should be off to bed as soon as possible. She mentioned nothing of the role of the four Gryffindor first-years in defeating the monster, which suited Harry just fine, as he had no desire for any more notoriety.

Ron and Draco were less enthusiastic about keeping the secret, but a stern glare from McGonagall during her short speech had made it clear that they were not to go bragging about what they'd done. Draco therefore deflected Seamus' and Dean's queries about their late arrival to Gryffindor tower by claiming that they had gotten caught up in a group of Ravenclaws and been unable to extricate themselves until they were halfway across the castle. The two first-years accepted the story, but Fred and George proved somewhat more skeptical. Only when Ron threatened to sic Percy on them did the twins cease their persistent questioning.

Surprisingly enough, the only further discussion of the incident came from Hermione. The next morning, as Harry, Ron and Draco left breakfast early to return to Gryffindor tower and collect their books for Potions, Hermione caught up with them in the hall. "I did some reading last night," she began once they had stopped.

"There's a surprise," Ron muttered, and Hermione glared at him. The four children began walking back towards the tower together as she started over.

"As I was saying," Hermione said, "I was doing some reading last night, and I think I know what that monster was."

"Really?" Harry asked, somewhat intrigued. After all, the creature had been rather bizarre; Harry was curious to find out what sort of magic might have created it.

"I checked an extra book out of the library to read up on the Troll Wars," Hermione explained, pulling a thick, somewhat dusty volume out of her schoolbag. Harry idly wondered whether she'd enchanted the bag to be larger inside than out, just for the purpose of holding extra books. Hermione flipped through it for a moment, then handed it over to Harry. "Read," she said, pointing to a particular passage.

"'European readers may not be familiar with the wendigo, long a scourge of the American magical community,'" Harry read aloud, dividing his attention between the book and the staircase. "'These creatures are related to our common trolls, but are far more fearsome. Wendigoes are born looking like humans, save for their great size, unusual hairiness, and sharp teeth. As they go through life, however, wendigoes take on the attributes of creatures they kill. Each wendigo therefore has a unique appearance, and the older ones will often possess features of over a hundred different species. They are craftier than common trolls, though still far less intelligent than a human being. Wendigoes eat meat exclusively, and willingly devour any animal. Nonetheless, they prefer human flesh above all others, particularly that of young children and virgins.'"

"Ugh," Ron said, "No wonder Quirrell fainted. I might have too, if I'd known we were facing that."

"It's odd, though," Draco said as they approached the portrait hole. "If wendigoes live in America, how did one come to be wandering around Hogwarts?"

"It might have been the storm," Hermione replied. "A little further down it says that wendigoes love cold and bad weather, and that they often appear after winter storms and blizzards."

"Still, that doesn't explain how it got inside," Draco protested, "or how it came to be in the Gallery instead of the Entrance Hall or the Dungeons."

"I see your point," Harry said, still skimming through the passage, "In here it says that wendigoes really hate buildings, and won't enter metal structures at all. So something must have coaxed it in."

"Try the smell of a thousand or so kids," Hermione replied. "Something that big has to get hungry pretty often. McGonagall was right; we did get lucky. We might have ended up as its dinner."

"Ah, who cares!" Ron interjected. "Draco had it right last night: Peeves probably let the thing in on a lark. It was plenty frightening, but nobody got hurt, so let's hurry along and get to Potions before Snape docks us a dozen points each just for spite."

As the children picked up the pace, Draco said, "Bet you two Galleons Quirrell's a virgin."

"Draco!"

"What?"

Potions, as usual, was an unpleasant experience. Snape seemed incensed that Harry had actually earned points for Gryffindor, and practically growled when he entered the room. As a special "pop quiz", the greasy-haired professor forced Harry to recite the entire potion protocol from memory. Though Harry managed to get everything right, his nervous stuttering provided Snape plenty of ammunition for ridicule--and Snape used ordnance quickly.

"An adequate recitation," Snape sneered when the ordeal was finally over. "I might suggest, however, that you start bringing smelling salts to class with you, Potter. What with the stuttering and your clumsiness, it seems you've taken after our young Professor Quirrell. No doubt you'll soon be fainting all over the place, so it's best to be prepared." The Slytherins all snickered, while the Gryffindors glared.

"Professor?" Aidan asked, still chortling, "Should we catch Potter when he swoons, or should we just let him drop?"

Snape's lip curled up nastily as he snarled, "Shut up, you fool boy! Keep your mind on the subject!" MacNair sank back into his seat, looking almost frightened, and the room was deadly silent for a moment. Then Snape smiled unpleasantly, quietly adding, "We mustn't let Mr. Potter bang his head on these cold stone floors, children--after all, such a feeble brain can hardly take much more of a pounding before it shatters completely."

This provoked outright laughter from most of the Slytherins, and looks of outrage from the Gryffindors. Ron started muttering something under his breath that Harry couldn't properly hear, but the words "kill", "greasy", and "git" were all prominently featured.

Despicable as he was, however, Snape was a stickler for his lesson plan, so the ridicule could only last so long. Harry almost sighed with relief when the professor ordered the students to begin mixing their potions. Snape would still be making fun of him, no doubt, but at least it wouldn't be audible to everyone else. Harry concentrated on following the protocol he had studied the previous evening, hoping that if he kept his mind occupied with the potion he wouldn't notice Snape as much.

At first, Harry thought his plan had worked, but it turned out that he wasn't hearing Snape's snide comments for a completely different reason. The ill-tempered professor had inexplicably remained behind his desk, choosing to glare at the students from the front of the classroom rather than walk out amongst them. Harry almost dropped his spoon in shock, but a sharp tug from Ron reminded him that staring at Snape was probably not a wise thing to do. Harry shook off his confusion and turned back to the potion, but could not resist stealing a few glances to see if Snape had moved.

The Potions Master remained seated the entire lesson.

"Really, Harry, it's gone far enough," Ron said as the Gryffindors sat down to lunch. "He's out of his mind, and I'm starting to worry..."

"I know," Harry groaned, assembling yet another monstrous sandwich. "I can't imagine six more years of this."

"You should complain to Professor McGonagall," Hermione suggested. "I'm sure she can make him see reason. She is the Deputy Headmistress, after all."

"And if she doesn't?" Harry asked. "Can you imagine the sorts of things Snape will say if I run to McGonagall and he just ignores her? I'll never hear the end of it!"

"And Professor Snape really doesn't seem the sort of person to bow down to anybody," Draco pointed out. "He might smile and nod while McGonagall talks to him, but I've no doubt he'll do what he wants to do, regardless of what she says."

"Well, perhaps she can make him behave," Hermione protested.

"Maybe," Ron replied, "but if Harry goes to her and it turns out that all she can do is talk to Snape, then Harry's in for it. And McGonagall won't let it alone if Harry complains--she takes her job too seriously."

"Well, maybe you could ask her about it without telling her about it," Draco said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just ask McGonagall whether she could do something about it if you were having personal problems with a teacher," the blonde explained. "That way, if she says no, then you can just pretend it was a hypothetical question, and Snape never has to find out."

Ron nodded. "Sound idea, Draco. Want to give it a shot, Harry?"

Harry glanced down at the remains of his sandwich. "I'm not sure," he said. "It can't be a secret that Snape doesn't like me. What if she figures it out?"

"I'll go," Hermione suggested.

"What?"

"I don't have problems with any teachers," Hermione said, quite truthfully, "and Professor McGonagall knows I ask hypothetical questions all the time. She won't suspect a thing, so there's no chance it will get back to Snape."

"Very clever," Draco said, smiling.

"You're sure you wouldn't mind?" Harry asked.

"Not at all," Hermione said. "Besides, I think I owe you a favor after last night."

Harry shook his head, thinking of the night when the three boys had nearly gotten her killed by the giant, three-headed dog. Hermione didn't notice, however, and gathered up her books. "I'll go ask right now," she said, "Professor McGonagall's sure to be in her classroom or the staff room."

"Thanks," Harry said as she departed the table.

Ron and Draco left a moment later, on their way to flying practice with Madam Hooch. Both of them had vowed to earn their way onto the Quidditch team next year, hoping to become Chasers. It was their only hope, really--Fred and George were two of the best Beaters in recent memory, and neither boy had any hope of unseating Oliver Wood as Keeper. Harry had suggested that they aim for Seeker, since he was unproven, but to his secret delight both of them had insisted that he was bound to be the best Seeker Gryffindor ever had.

Even getting a spot as Chaser would be a task. Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson, and Katie Bell were three of the better Chasers in the school, and worked extremely well together. Draco and Ron would have to be absolutely stunning flyers and players if they wanted to take one of those spots. Realizing this, both boys had been attending Hooch's flying lessons religiously, keen on taking any chance they got to hop on the ratty school brooms and take to the air. When he wasn't busy practicing himself, Harry gladly let them fly on his Nimbus 2000, eager to help his friends achieve their dreams.

After another sandwich, an apple, and two bananas, Harry finally left the lunch table and returned to Gryffindor tower. He felt no need to attend the flying lessons, given that he seemed to spend more time on his broom than off it. Instead, he spent the free afternoon time studying his Transfiguration text, hoping to gain more insight into his most recent task of transfiguring a toothpick into a pencil. Harry had almost gotten it right, but his eraser had unexpectedly splintered at the end of class.

Harry had just settled down in front of the fire with his textbook when the portrait banged open and Hermione clambered through, looking somewhat shaken. She crossed the room, carelessly tossing her bag onto the floor as she dropped onto the couch.

"What happened?" Harry asked. "What did McGonagall say?"

"I didn't get to ask her," Hermione said. "Something more important came up."

"Oh?" Harry asked sharply, feeling somewhat miffed that Hermione had discarded the errand so easily. Then he remembered that she was doing him a favor, and blushed in embarrassment.

"I went to the Staff Room to find Professor McGonagall," Hermione explained, "Only, she wasn't there. Snape was, though."

Harry felt the blood draining from his face. "You... you didn't ask him to lay off me, did you?" he asked in a horrified whisper.

"I didn't have a chance. Snape had his trouser leg up, and I could see some scabs on his calf. He was complaining to Professor Flitwick about something, but the moment he saw me he screamed at me to get out. He swore at me!"

Harry blinked for a moment. This hardly seemed out of character for Snape, though the behavior was a bit extreme for a teacher. "I don't understand what's so strange," he said after a moment.

"It's what Snape was saying to Professor Flitwick that was so strange," Hermione replied. "I distinctly heard him saying something about having to watch three heads at once."

"What?"

"That dog, Harry! Snape got bitten by the three-headed dog we saw that night!"

"I guess that explains why he stayed at his desk during class," Harry mused. "But why would the dog bite him?"

"What if Peeves didn't let that wendigo in?" Hermione asked. "What if somebody let it in as a diversion so he could get to whatever the dog is guarding? Snape must have gone down to protect against that!"

"Or maybe he was the one who let that thing in, and he was trying to get to the trapdoor when the dog bit him," Harry countered. "I'd not put it past Snape."

"I hardly think a Hogwarts professor would need a diversion to get into that room," Hermione said. "After all, Snape is free to walk around the school any time he wants."

"Yeah, but so are the other professors--that means one of them could catch him," Harry replied, "Besides, whoever let the wendigo in must have been inside the castle, so it has to have been either a professor or a student. And we know Snape wouldn't mind if it ate a few of us."

"I just can't believe that a professor would do such a thing," Hermione replied, "not even Snape." She opened her bag and pulled out a book. "There's nothing we can do about it right now, anyway," she said. "The other professors know Snape was down there--they'll keep an eye on him."

"Unless he lets another wendigo in," Harry replied darkly.

The next day dawned bright, crisp, and cold--Oliver proclaimed it "perfect Quidditch weather" when he roused Harry just after sunup for a quick workout before breakfast. "I find it helps loosen me up if I work out early in the morning before a game," he explained as he led his groggy young Seeker to an open area of the grounds. "Nothing too strenuous, mind you," he continued as he mounted his broom, "after all, you want to save your energy for when it counts. Still, I think it's always good to do a bit of exercise to wake yourself up."

Harry nodded dully, mounting his own broom. "Why aren't any of the others here?" he asked around a yawn.

"Well, most of them don't agree with me," Oliver admitted, grinning. "Still, I thought it best to make sure you tried it at least once."

Harry nodded again, then nearly fell off his broom as his sleep-dulled mind finally realized that today was the first Quidditch match of the season. The Gryffindor team would be playing Slytherin in less than eight hours. Then he realized that he was practicing alone with Oliver, and the rest of what the Captain had said finally filtered through his brain. "Well," Harry said, his face suddenly much warmer than it had been, "if you think it will help..."

"You won't need much help," Oliver said, grinning. "You're a natural. I can't wait to see the look on Flint's face!"

After that, the morning cold seemed to matter less as Harry and Oliver flew zig-zag patterns over the dew-laden grass, going just fast enough to make their robes billow impressively behind them. Harry also did some straight-line dashes while Oliver practiced tight loops and flips. After a little over fifteen minutes, the older boy waved Harry back to the ground. "So what did you think?" Oliver asked, looking somewhat uncertain.

"It was great," Harry said, and Oliver beamed in response. Harry suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, so he clasped both of them around his broom, almost unconsciously clenching his fingers.

Oliver must have noticed this, because he said, "Don't be nervous, Harry... you'll do famously." He reached out to ruffle the smaller boy's already-messy hair, and Harry felt his face heat up precipitously. It was only a moment's touch, though, and all too soon it had ended and both boys were on their way back to the broom shed.

Despite Oliver's reassurances, Harry found he couldn't eat a bite. At breakfast, he simply didn't feel hungry. Then he spent all morning thinking about game plans and his potential for receiving serious injury, getting so worked up that by lunchtime he was too jittery to hold a knife, and nearly spilled pumpkin juice all over himself. The other first-year boys tried to give him a pep-talk about an hour before the game, but Harry was so distracted he barely heard a word until Draco suggested that they leave Harry to change in peace. Harry shot the blonde a grateful smile, then pulled on his robes and made his way down to the Quidditch pitch.

Despite Harry's dread, the Quidditch match was short and relatively uneventful. The game began with Madam Hooch sharply admonishing both teams to play a clean game. Oliver agreed cheerfully, but Marcus Flint, the captain of the Slytherin team, responded only with an unintelligible grunt. This was hardly a surprise--with his hulking build, flat face, and gigantic yellowed teeth, Flint looked like he'd been fathered by a troll. He had a troll's sense of honor, too--less than a minute into the match he tried to knock Harry off his broom. That first time, he caught Harry by surprise and sent the smaller boy careening over the stands. After that, he had no further luck.

Following another blatant attempted ramming by Flint, Harry spotted the Snitch a few feet away, straight ahead of him. He also spotted a Bludger coming at him from the same direction. Without hesitation, Harry dove towards the small, golden ball. As the Bludger came hissing towards him, Harry turned a tight spiral, putting himself on the opposite side of his broom from the vicious ball. He felt it brush against his fingers, then slam into Flint, who was just pulling out of his ramming attempt.

Harry realized then that he had miscalculated. He was still in his spiral, so he needed to keep both hands on the broom. At the same time, he was almost upon the Snitch, and if it went by he might not have another chance at it. So he did the only thing he could.

"How did it taste?" Fred asked as Harry landed in the middle of the pitch. The smaller boy had no chance to answer, however, as he was almost immediately mobbed by his fellow Gryffindors.

"Brilliant, Harry!" Ron said, enthusiastically thumping him on the back. "Bloody brilliant!"

"You should have seen the look on MacNair's face!" Draco added. "He looked like he'd swallowed a slug!"

Harry had only a moment to grin at that before he was bear-hugged by Oliver. The burly boy nearly crushed the young Seeker in his arms, shouting something Harry couldn't hear. The smaller boy felt a strange sensation of weightlessness and relaxation in the Quidditch Captain's embrace--all the tension and energy flowed out of him as if someone had opened a tap. Once released, he staggered back from Oliver, and would have fallen to the ground if the pressing crowd hadn't propped him up.

Oliver, in turn, was quickly embraced by a girl from the crowd, who kissed him firmly on the lips. Harry felt something twist in his stomach, but had little time to consider it before the flow of the crowd carried him away from the Quidditch Captain. It was several minutes before Draco, Ron and Hermione managed to pull him out of the seething mass of people and lead him down to Hagrid's cottage.

"It'll be famous, that will," Hagrid said as he filled the giant teacups, "'Arry Potter, catchin' the Snitch in 'is mouth!" Harry blushed furiously and hid behind his cup. "You've been 'avin' quite the adventure in yer first year, eh?" Hagrid continued. "What with catchin' that wendigo and all."

"So it was a wendigo!" Hermione exclaimed proudly. "I knew it!"

"It were indeed," Hagrid said. "Almost a pity ter put it down... don' think I'll get a chance ter see another..."

"You killed it?" Hermione asked, somewhat shocked.

Hagrid nodded his head, a remorseful frown on his face. "Nothin' else ter do," he explained. "It knew how ter get into the castle... we might not 'ave caught it the next time. Best fer everyone that it be killed." He paused, then smiled and added, "I'm preservin' the head, though... when you're older, ye can mount it on yer wall."

Harry shuddered. "No thank you," he replied, "it would give my kids nightmares."

"Probably give you some, too," Draco said, smirking. Harry glared at him.

"Sure did cause a lot o' trouble," Hagrid continued quietly, almost speaking to himself. "Ol' Filch was in a state over that bathroom, and Snape gettin' 'imself bit by Fluffy..."

"Fluffy?" Ron asked.

"You mean that... that thing has a name?" Hermione asked at the same time.

"Well o' course 'e's got a name," Hagrid replied, apparently mystified by their reactions. "I almost gave 'im three," he added, then took a sip of tea. He lowered his cup slowly to reveal narrowed eyes. "'Ow'd you find out about Fluffy?" he asked suspiciously.

"We took a wrong turn on a staircase," Draco said dryly. "It didn't seem particularly fluffy, though."

"E's fluffy enough when 'e's 'ad a bath," Hagrid replied, sipping at his tea again. "It's just 'ard to get a big enough tub in that hall. But, we can't have people gettin' at the stone."

"The stone?" Harry asked. "It's guarding a stone?"

"E's guarding the Spellstone," Hagrid explained, "Snape went down to check on 'im but 'e fergot ter play the..." He stopped. "Not supposed ter tell you that," he said sagely, then took another sip of tea.

"What's the Spellstone?" Harry asked.

"I know, I've read all about it in Hogwarts, a History," Hermione began, but Draco cut her off.

"It's a big column with all kinds of unique spells inscribed on it," the blonde said, waving a hand nonchalantly. "I can't imagine that anyone would steal it, though..."

"Can't be too sure," Hagrid said, "things don't seem as safe anymore, what with Mr. Flamel's vault bein' broke into an' all." He sipped his tea, then smiled broadly at the four children. "Don' you worry about it none, though," he added reassuringly, "'Eadmaster Dumbledore 'as everythin' under control."

Though Hermione loudly agreed, Harry was unable to stop worrying. As he slipped into his bed that night, his head practically boiled over with thoughts of the Spellstone, Snape, the dog, and the wendigo. Completely convinced now that the monster’s attack had not been an accident, Harry found that everything else had become less certain. Who wanted to get at the Spellstone, and why? Was Snape the culprit, an accomplice, or an ally? What did Flamel have to do with anything, and why would a theft of gold from Gringott's cause Dumbledore to be concerned about a practically immobile artifact? What had Snape forgotten to play? The questions whirled around in his mind, yet every time Harry tried to concentrate on picking one apart he found himself inexplicably fixated on the image of the unknown girl kissing Oliver Wood.

Sleep proved late in coming that evening, and it was only with a great effort that Harry managed to pull himself out of bed before noon the next morning. Oliver had given the team the week off, which gave Harry extra time to do his schoolwork. He needed it too--the workload for the week was not unusual, but Harry's mind was still awhirl with the revelations of the past few days. It took him hours to finish a rather simple Herbology report, and he managed only a half-hearted effort at his History of Magic essay. His chess game with Ron was a total disaster; he lost in a mere ten moves.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Ron asked. "You usually put up a better fight than that."

"I'm just distracted, that's all," Harry explained. "I can't stop thinking about what Hagrid told us."

Ron shook his head. "Much as I hate to admit it," he said, "Hermione's right about this one. You should just let the Headmaster do the worrying."

"I'd like to," Harry replied, "but my brain just won't let it alone." He said nothing about Oliver and the mystery girl.

To Harry's great relief, sleep came quickly that evening--the previous late night and a timely drink of warm milk put his mind at ease enough that he drifted off almost as soon as his head hit the pillows. Harry barely had time to consider how indignant Snape would be that he'd chosen warm milk over an appropriate potion before darkness descended on him.

It was only after half the week had passed that Harry realized just what he had set himself up for with Snape. The Potions Master already hated him, and the man's behavior in class the previous Friday had made it clear that Snape did not react well when Harry had any kind of success. Harry could barely imagine how bad things might be when he'd not only had a really stunning success, but also had achieved it at the expense of Slytherin, Snape's old house and the one he wanted to head. As each day went by, Harry grew increasingly nervous about the horrors in store for him Friday morning.

Distressingly, Snape treated him with perfect decency. He didn't make Harry recite the potion from memory or work with somebody else's ingredients. He didn't direct a single nasty comment Harry's way, nor did he go out of his way to insult Ron (though a comment about orangutans slipped out). Snape's displeasure only manifested as an icy glare he gave Harry at every opportunity, an evil stare that promised torments to come. Harry found the absence of spiteful comments so unnerving that he nearly caused an explosion--only the fact that Ron had bothered to learn the lesson for once prevented an embarrassing accident.

"You know, it's almost worse than if he'd been outright nasty to you," Ron commented as the four Gryffindors left the Great Hall after lunch. "At least when he's cruel in class you know it's over as soon as we go to lunch. Now we're going to be looking over our shoulders for a week, waiting for him to spring whatever nasty trap he's setting."

"Maybe he isn't planning anything," Hermione said. "Dumbledore might have heard about his behavior and given him a talking-to, you know."

"Not bloody likely," Ron sniffed. "According to my brothers, Snape has always done this sort of thing. No reason for Dumbledore to get so uptight now..."

"Well, maybe it's..." Draco said, glancing at Harry's forehead when he trailed off.

Harry scowled, blood rushing to his face. "I'd rather deal with Snape than have him lay off because of that."

"Well, I'm off to the Library wing," Hermione said. "I want to get that Transfiguration essay properly started before the weekend."

"Hermione, it's not due for two weeks!" Ron protested. "Why don't you come to flying practice with us instead?"

"Flying practice?" Hermione asked, "Ugh! No offense, but I'd rather not spend any more time on a broom than absolutely necessary."

"Suit yourself," Draco said as she headed off down the hall.

"I'll go with you," Harry said, grinning. "I want to see how my future teammates are coming along with their flying skills."

"I'm doing fine," Draco said. "Alas, poor Weasley here doesn't know one end of his broomstick from the other."

"I'll show you a broomstick, you little..."

"Easy, guys!" Harry interjected, laughing. "Just show me."

"Sure," Draco replied. "Let's go drop our stuff off at the Tower, though--I borrowed a book from Hermione, and she'll have my head if it gets a spot of mud on it."

"And which head would that be?" Ron asked. Harry glanced at him, uncertain what the larger boy meant.

"The pretty one," Draco replied.

"Oh, so Hermione already knows how to get into your pants?" Ron asked. "Won't Harry be jealous?"

"She is not my girlfriend!" Harry said indignantly. Draco only glared at Ron.

"Right... you just read about things together," Ron replied, grinning broadly. Harry scowled, then followed the redhead into the Tower Gallery.

The next class period was some ten minutes away still, so the staircases were not completely packed with students. Since most of them still had classes to attend, the majority of people were on the first few levels, where most of the classrooms were located. As soon as the three boys climbed above the third floor, the stairs were mostly deserted.

As he was approaching a fourth-floor landing, Harry felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He paused, his hand on the banister, and turned around to see Snape glaring at him from a balcony on the other side of the Gallery. The man's scowl intensified for a moment, then he turned with a flourish of robes and disappeared down the darkened corridor. Harry stared after him for a moment, then shrugged and tried to step onto the landing, but found his path blocked by a railing that hadn't been there a moment before.

No sooner had Harry noticed this than he felt the staircase disappear out from under his feet. Harry's stomach took a quick trip towards his lungs as he started to fall. He automatically reached out and wrapped his arms around one of the posts of the railing, keeping himself from falling, and a moment later felt a sharp, painful tug on his legs. Looking down, he saw that Ron had grabbed hold of him. Draco, who had reached the landing a moment before Harry, turned when he heard Harry's cry of pain.

"Bloody hell!" the blonde shouted, and suddenly the Gallery got very loud. Harry heard dozens of voices shouting, and several sharp screams. One of them sounded like it might belong to Quirrell.

"Go get Flitwick!" Harry called to Draco, "His office is on this floor!" The blonde nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Harry hoped the professor would be in; with the disappearance of the one he'd been on, that particular landing had only one staircase leading to it--and that one led up, away from most of the school's population.

Several of the other students had started casting spells; unfortunately, none of them had very good aim. Nearly half of the posts in the balustrade had floated away before Filch screamed at the children to put their "bloody thrice-damned wands" back in their robes. The post Harry was still clinging to groaned under the combined weight of the two boys.

"Harry," Ron said quietly, "it won't hold us both."

"Shut up."

"It won't Harry, and you know it. I... I'll just let go. You'll be safe, at least."

"No!" Harry replied. He took a deep breath, then said, "If you let go, Ron, I will too. I'm not coming out of this without you."

"Harry..."

"If you want to get your weight off this post," Harry said, "climb up me and onto the landing. Otherwise, we’re falling off together."

"You sure?"

"Well, I can hardly pull us both up," Harry replied.

"Okay," Ron said. After a moment, Harry felt the other boy tighten one arm around his legs. Then he felt a hand grabbing hold a little higher on his robes. Slowly, carefully, Ron pulled himself up, clinging tightly to Harry every inch of the way. "Where the hell is Draco?" the redhead muttered as he reached Harry's waist.

"He's probably still searching for Flitwick," Harry answered, finding it harder to breathe with Ron's arms around his midriff. Harry's robes were drenched in sweat, and his arms were starting to ache from holding him up against the railing. Though he wished Ron would speed things up, he held his tongue, knowing that extra pressure would only make his friend more nervous and likely to fall by accident.

Finally, after several minutes of careful climbing, Ron grabbed hold of another post and heaved himself onto the landing. He lay there gasping for a few moments before rolling over and reaching towards Harry to pull the smaller boy up, too.

It was at that moment that the overtaxed balustrade gave way. Harry felt a curious sensation of weightlessness when the post snapped, a strange feeling that made the moment seem unreal, dreamlike. Ron reached out for him in slow motion, his fingertips just brushing the fluttering edge of Harry's robes as they retreated from his grasp. Ron's face, frozen in an expression of horror, grew gradually smaller.

Then someone shouted, "Catch, Harry!" and time returned to normal. Harry turned his head towards the source of the words, his hand snapping out automatically to snatch the red blur that sped towards him. Thanking his Seeker reflexes, Harry glanced at his catch, instantly recognizing the small, red ball.

Neville's Bouncer.

Harry closed his hand over the ball and clasped it to his chest. The gallery seemed to be getting darker now; Harry realized that he must be falling through the dungeons. The end of his fall was only a few moments away, now. Harry wondered whether the landing would hurt.

It did. The bouncer kept Harry from getting injured by his impact, but it did nothing to block the incredible pain caused by his high-speed collision with the flagstones. Even more unpleasantly, it launched him back up into the air, sending him towards the skylight with nearly the same speed as he'd had approaching the floor. Harry had a sudden, horrifying vision of himself bouncing for days inside the Gallery stairwell until he finally lost enough momentum to stop.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that, because as Harry rose past the ground floor a large, rough hand reached out and grabbed his robes, hauling him onto the landing. "Always somethin' new, eh, Harry?" Hagrid asked as he set the boy down.

Harry, woozy from pain, managed a lopsided smile. "Guess so," he replied, and promptly passed out.