Les Potterables

Les Potterables

Act I

Harry Potter was awake, and he had a raging hunger. While the other occupants of Gryffindor Tower slept peacefully in their beds, he drummed his fingertips against his coverlet, biting his lips to hold back the tears.

The House Elves, you see, had switched the students to a - well, not a vegan diet. That just wasn't going to happen at Hogwarts. But last week a third year student named Edwin Bogggersworth had spontaneously combusted from lard intake in the Great Hall - and right in the middle of supper too - so concerns had been raised about the students' diets. Well, it had made quite a mess. Even more embarrassing, he had done it in front of those students from the foreign schools. So the decree had been passed from On High that Hogwarts would start serving more vegetables and fewer fried foods at mealtime.

Harry, for the life of him, couldn't see why he had to follow the decree. He had found the whole Boggersworth thing hilarious himself. But more to the point, vegetables upset his stomach; he was a strict pig eater. For an entire week, not a single pork chop had graced his plate. His stomach rumbled so loudly that he'd received detention in three different classes for disrupting the lesson.

Over to Harry's left, Ron snored thickly, grunted, and strained. He emitted a long, burbling stream of gas before he relaxed back to sleep. This new diet was not working wonders for Ron's digestive system either.

Harry smelled the fart and suddenly made up his mind. It was silly and pointless to go to bed hungry night after night. Not to mention unfair. He wasn't the one who had exploded. Lay the prohibition on Boggersworth - what was left of him anyway - but leave the rest of them out of it. Especially him. He was Harry Potter, after all. How did everyone expect him to save the world from Voldemort if he were undernourished?

Satisfied with his conclusions, Harry tossed back the bedcovers and got to his feet. He felt under his pillow for his trusty Invisibility Cloak - ah, yes! He had to keep a close eye on the thing or Fred and George would nick it.

Please note that Harry wasn't so convinced that he was doing the right thing that he was ready to go openly and unconcealed.

Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head and left the room just as Ron groaned and prepared to expel another fart. He paused just long enough to add his own contribution to the atmosphere before scurrying off, giggling under his breath.

The halls of Hogwarts were damp and somehow murky. Harry, who was no stranger to midnight expeditions, suspected that the professors kept it that way on purpose to discourage students from wandering around. As if, thought Harry smugly, reaching out to tickle the pear. His stomach was already purring at the thought of a slow-cooked pork loin. He wondered if any House Elves would be awake to prepare it for him. Ah, well, he'd wake them if they weren't. Serving wizards was why House Elves had been put on God's green earth in the first place.

All was silent in the kitchen. Harry's brow furrowed slightly as he realized he couldn't even find any elves to wake in the first place. Where could all the little bastards have gone? He didn't know and probably wasn't interested in learning that all elves ceased to exist between the hours of two-thirty and four o'clock. An odd fact, but quite true. It was precisely three o'clock in the morning and another hour before any elves re-materialized.

Well, so be it, decided Harry. He wasn't going to waste time standing about. He knew a few incendiary spells, which meant that all he had to do was light his wand and roast a few sausages himself in some deserted corridor. Hell, if Hagrid could do it, an earthworm probably could.

Harry skulked skillfully over to the icebox, opened the door, and felt around inside. His clever, educated fingers sensed carrots, leeks, turnips, sprouts, and other leafy garbage. He discarded them as soon as he touched them. But there was something more edible in the back. Something that set his mouth to watering at the merest sniff. All at once, his fingertips encountered something cold and smooth and just a little bit slick. Without knowing precisely what it was, he knew he'd struck gold. He tugged it loose from the deep recesses of the icebox.

It was a thick slice of cold ham. Someone had sequestered in back there, out of reach of the students, perhaps for a midnight snack. He wasn't even going to have to bother about cooking it, as it had already been baked with a honey glaze.

Harry could hardly believe his luck. But just as he was opening his mouth to take the first luscious, juicy bite he heard a noise. A noise very close at hand. The kind of noise that spelled trouble for a student caught breaking the school rules.

Panicking - well, the presence of pig was addling his brain - Harry attempted to bolt. Unfortunately, the door of the old icebox swung closed, catching a fold of the Invisibility Cloak as it went. The cloak slid off Harry's head, exposing him to the view of the entire world. Harry tugged spastically at the trapped cloak for about three seconds -- never once thinking about opening the door - before giving it up and dashing for the exit, the slice of ham still clenched in his fingers, the ominous sound growing ever closer. . .

"Aha!" came a cry of triumph. Harry nearly wet himself with fear. It was dark - he had to put out the light at the tip of his wand - and he'd forgotten exactly where the exit was. He knocked over a pitcher, which fell to the floor and smashed, tripped on a rug, and bashed into a wall, dazing himself. He hardly noticed when Filch's hand clamped down on his shoulder like the talons of an eagle. "You're fucking nicked, mate!" exclaimed Filch, forgetting that he had been warned not to cuss in front of the students rather frequently.

Harry may have let out a dizzy 'bah,' then. He wasn't sure, for his head was ringing. Nor did it clear for several minutes. By the time he came around, he discovered himself standing in front of a desk. Professor McGonagall was behind it, dressed in her nightgown - a frightening sight -- her eyes narrowed and her nostrils pinched. "Five hours," she was saying.

"Bah?" asked Harry confusedly. For the life of him, he couldn't understand what she was referring to.

"Five hours' detention," she clarified.

"Bah!" he cried, this time in understanding and indignation.

She glowered. "You were up out of bed after hours. You crept into the kitchen, which is off-limits to students, stole a slice of forbidden ham, and broke a pitcher! Five hours is lenient. Too lenient," she added thoughtfully, tapping her chin with a long forefinger as she studied him. She seemed to be taking this all rather personally, and Harry wondered if the purloined ham had been her intended midnight snack. She came to some decision in her own mind. "Yes. Too lenient by far. You will serve your detention with Professor Snape."

"Oh, but Professor McGonagall!" he wailed.

"There will be no appeal." She nodded to Filch. "Take him away."

Filch took him away in chains. Under other circumstances, that would have struck Harry as most peculiar, but he was too wrapped up in his own misery to care.

* * * * *

Snape watched him with cold, beady eyes. Harry could feel that gaze on the back of his neck all the while he was doing detention. This consisted of being taken to a barren clearing at the back of Hogwarts and smashing rock snails open with a heavy mallet - apparently the gooey insides were useful in some of Snape's slimier potions. Harry felt the sweat running down his back and under his arms to be sopped up by his manky red-and-white striped polo shirt. He panted in the heat - it was seventy-two degrees out - sweltering!

He paused to mop his forehead. At once Snape swatted him across the back with a rolled-up piece of parchment. "Who said you could take a break?" the fearsome Potions Master demanded.

"But I'm exhausted!" Harry whined.

"You're in detention," Snape corrected, doling out another swat. "Besides, you've only been at it for twelve minutes."

Twelve minutes! Surely the evil Snape was lying. Harry was quite certain he'd been cracking snails for at least two entire lifetimes. The fact that he'd only managed to crack two snails thus far didn't register with him.

There was no help for it, Harry decided then and there. He was going to have to escape somehow.

It must be said that Harry's first attempt at escape entirely lacked sophistication. Studying Snape out of the corner of his eye, he chose the moment when the Potions Master seemed vaguely distracted, dropped his mallet, and scurried for the shadow of the woods screeching 'bah!' all the way.

Snape didn't even bother to sigh. Focusing his energy, he pointed his wand at the fleeing boy. "Petrificus Totalis," he enunciated calmly.

Harry froze like a statue and toppled over, unable to so much as blink as Snape's dark form loomed over him.

"For this piece of nonsense," said Snape, "another three hours will be added to your detention."

Petrified, Harry could not so much as bah in misery.

* * * * *

Harry's second escape attempt was only slightly better planned out. "I have to wee," he announced, leaning on the handle of his mallet.

Snape glanced at his watch. "You can wait another half hour."

"No, I can't really." Harry tried to recall the steps of the potty dance and performed a fairly accurate representation thereof.

"Go back to work, Potter."

Harry tightened his abdomen and squeezed out a fart. "Oops. I think I have to do number two also."

The Potions Master was highly displeased. However, he didn't put it past Harry to mess his pants just to prove his point. "Very well. You have two minutes." He pointed to the outhouse. "Starting now."

Harry took off as if he had to go very, very badly. His heart thumped with exaltation when he reached the outhouse and shut himself safely inside. Aha! Now all he had to do was. . . was. . .

What was he going to do? Harry suddenly realized he didn't have an escape plan beyond getting into the outhouse. Confounded, he squatted on the wooden seat and tried to come up with something clever. What would Hermione do under such circumstances?

Well, Hermione wouldn't be in such circumstances to start. Hermione, the traitor, was quite pleased with the pork restrictions. "About time they considered a healthy diet," she'd said, and ignored all Harry's attempts to point out that what was a healthy diet for most people didn't work for him.

So he couldn't use Hermione for a model. What about Ron? No, that wouldn't work either. Ron would never have the guts to attempt to escape. He'd just serve his detention and then whine about it later. Harry was on his own. And he'd already used up one of his allotted minutes. He had no doubt that Snape meant it, down to the very last second. Perhaps Snape was even right outside the door, ticking off the time, watch in hand.

Panicked, Harry made some unpleasant digestive noises in the hopes of driving Snape off a pace or two. That ate further into his time. Only thirty seconds left. . . What to do? Maybe he could climb to the roof of the outhouse and. . . and. . .

If only he had a broom! He could fly away!

Twenty seconds left. He didn't have his wand. Accio Firebolt wasn't going to save him this time.

"Hurry up, Potter," came Snape's voice. "You still have six hours of detention to serve."

Six hours! Impossible. Harry was quite sure he would die before he could see it out. His frantically roving eye fell on the floor. Well, if he couldn't escape via the air, perhaps he could tunnel under the ground. . .

Muffled grunts and squeals were coming from the outhouse. Snape sighed. What was that wretched child up to now? Knowing that he wouldn't like the answer, the Potions Master stepped up to the door. "I'm coming in now, Potter," he announced, steeling his nerves for what lay ahead.

"I. . . I wouldn't," replied Harry's voice, sounding oddly hollow and echoing. "I'm in the middle of a big one. You wouldn't like it."

"I don't like anything about you, Potter." Snape opened the door and came in.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Harry had told the absolute truth. Snape did not like what he saw. But then who would appreciate the sight of a nerdy fourteen-year-old crouched in the dark, filthy pit beneath and outhouse, covered in poo, his huge green eyes goggling behind smeary glasses?

"Umm, I uh, lost my watch down here?" Harry offered feebly. Something squelched under his feet.

"Scourgify," said Snape coldly, and when Harry was somewhat clean added: "Another five hours will be added to your detention."

* * * * *

Harry was a little puddle of sweat by now. Well, not literally, or he would have just seeped into the ground and gotten away. But he was so wet he squished whenever he moved. Professor Snape stayed a sensible distance away, sipping a tall, cool glass of iced vinegar.

The sight of Snape drinking gave Harry the idea for his third escape attempt. He let his tongue loll out of the corner of his mouth, and Harry knew he could make his tongue look spectacularly red and huge. "I'm dying of thirst!" he whined. He wrung out a corner of his red and white shirt just to display all the moisture that had come out of his body. That made even Snape feel vaguely ill.

The Potions Master paused, considering. Much as he despised Harry, he suspected he wasn't allowed to let the twerp drop dead from dehydration. And Harry had been working for eight hours now, even if he'd only managed to crack seven snails and the big toe on his left foot in that time.

Still, it was a dilemma. Snape hadn't expected to be out here so long - he should have been back in the dungeons four hours ago. Yet Potter still needed to be punished and no one had come out to relieve him. For a moment Snape wavered, thinking maybe he could allow Harry to go inside and continue his detention the next day. But then the memory of Potter squatting in the shite returned to him and his resolve firmed. He raised his wand.

"Bah?" asked Harry, blinking stupidly. Then the world froze again. Harry could only watch, helplessly, as Snape stalked off. He didn't know how many minutes it was before the Potions Master returned, carrying a single small glass. The petrifaction spell was suddenly released. Harry allowed himself to flop limply to the ground.

"Get up, Potter," said Snape coldly. "I brought you water. Drink it all, because you're not getting any more."

Harry sprang to his feet and accepted the glass. He took a big swig and began to choke spectacularly. His face turned purple and his eyes bulged until it look as if they might pop out from behind his spectacles. Even Snape was impressed and slightly alarmed. Realizing he couldn't allow Harry to choke to death either, he stepped forward to pound the boy on the back.

This was the opportunity Harry had been waiting for. The instant Snape was in range, he sprayed his mouthful of water into Snape's eyes. It was a lot of liquid - it seemed to be more than Harry could possibly have gotten in his mouth -- and it was all mixed up with oily pig spit. It burned like acid. Snape fell back with a yell of pain and Harry took off. This time he was sure he was free.

"Bah! Bah! Bah!" he sang, flapping his arms as he ran. He felt as if he could fly. Snape was a long way behind him now, still trying to recover from the face-full of saliva. He had only a few steps to reach the safety of the woods. . . he reached it. . . and. . .

Harry abruptly stopped in the shade of the trees and began to scratch his head. Well, what was he supposed to do now? He was away from Snape, but he wasn't exactly free, was he? He had no place to go but back to Hogwarts. . . or Privet Drive. Harry wondered if ten more hours of detention would be worse than Privet Drive. Maybe he could just take the Knight Bus back to Diagon Alley and Cornelius Fudge would be there to meet him and tell him that everything was okay and he had done the right thing after all? Then he'd get free room and board and ice cream and sympathy - and, oh, yes, he'd be able to get some pork as well.

Cheered by the thought, Harry reached for his pocket only to realize - again - that his wand had been taken from him for the course of his detention. His spirits fell again. Now how could he summon the Knight Bus? Blast. Sighing heavily, Harry climbed a tree and tried to think of a way out of his predicament. Maybe he could hide until dark and then sneak into Hogwarts and mingle with the other students, just as if he had every right to be there. That might work. Dumbledore was always on his side anyway, so if Snape tried to claim that Harry hadn't fulfilled all his detention-time, Harry would protest that he had. Yes, that might work. Harry snuggled down against the branch, thinking he might take a little nap after all his hard exertion.

He had forgotten something else: red-and-white shows up very well against a canopy of green. Snape came walking into the woods not half a minute later and spotted Harry five seconds after that.

"Come out of the tree, Potter," said the Potions Master, his voice sour with hatred. "Don't make me have to petrify you again."

"Umm. . . " Harry thought fast. "Hoot! Hoot!" he cried, attempting to pass himself off as an unusual species of owl.

Snape growled and petrified him. "Six more hours," he told the frozen boy.

* * * * *

Now he had chains on his ankles and wrists. Now there was no end to the misery in sight. Now it was hammer away at snails with the heavy steel mallet and hope your back didn't break before you were through. Exhausted, miserable, and forlorn, Harry toiled under the hot sun.

"Look down, look down, detention never ends,

Look down, look down, I've been forgotten by my friends.

The sun is strong, it's -- "

A blow on the back recalled him to reality. "Stop singing and get on with your work, Potter," growled Snape.

Harry sulked. He felt he'd really been on to something there. It must be said that detention was making him sullen and sulky rather than repentant. Nineteen hours of cracking snails didn't seem like just retribution for stealing one lousy slice of ham. One tiny, wee little slice that he hadn't had so much as a lick of anyway. No, it wasn't fair at all. Harry's heart hardened and he determined to make society pay once he was set free.

If he were ever set free, that is. That was beginning to look unlikely to the increasingly hostile and embittered child. Harry pounded snails. His messy black hair fell over his eyes and stuck to his face, giving him a wild air. As the hours passed, one could almost believe that it was some ape-creature working in the clearing and not a human child at all. The light was beginning to fade from the sky when Snape suddenly approached Harry.

"Harry Potter, it's six o'clock. You know what that means?"

Harry straightened. "Yes, it means I'm free."

Snape scoffed. "No. It means you can quit for the day. Here's a ticket that says you still have seven hours of detention to serve. You're a delinquent -- "

"I stole a slice of ham!"

"You robbed the kitchen."

"I broke a water pitcher." Harry's eyes became misty. "My empty stomach was caving in, and I was starving -- "

"Stop singing, Potter!" demanded the annoyed Snape. "You still have seven hours to serve and that's final. Don't lose your ticket or you'll get more detention. Now go!"

Harry took off at once, bah-ing like a moron He splashed into a stream in the Forbidden Forest and began writhing in the cold water and mud. "Freedom is mine! The earth is still! I feel the wind! I breathe again and the -- "

"Stop that bloody singing, Potter!" thundered Snape's angry voice.

"Bah." Harry subsided sulkily.

"And get out of the Forbidden Forest. It's off limits to students!"

Harry picked himself out of the stream and trudged sulkily towards Hogwarts.

* * * * *

It was suppertime in the Great Hall. The walls echoed with conversation and laughter and the sound of knives and forks clinking against plates. It all fell silent, however, as the doors swung open to allow Harry Potter to step inside.

Those damn foreigners were still slumming around, noted Harry disapprovingly as he slouched down the aisle. Why couldn't they go back to bloody Wogland where they belonged? Probably their fault the plates were covered with spinach and carrots and other nasty vegetable junk. Of course the teachers were to blame for that too. And the students. Stupid Boggersworth, blowing up like that. On a seeming whim, Harry sat down at the Hufflepuff table, mooching in uncomfortably close to Cedric Diggory. Uncomfortable for Cedric, that is. Harry didn't seem to mind a bit.

"Umm, aren't you at the wrong table, Harry?" inquired Cedric politely. He really was a very nice boy, especially considering that Harry was moist, muddy, and very smelly.

Harry glowered moodily from behind round glasses. "I've been in detention all day."

"Yes, we heard," agreed Cedric tentatively. "Err, something about breaking a pitcher?"

Harry broke some wind. "I just wanted ham, is all." He eyes the plates on the Hufflepuffs' table. "Whot is that?"

"Chicken pot pie," answered Cedric. He lifted a ladle filled with tender meat, fluffy crust, and thick gravy. "Would you like some?"

"That's puke, that is. Ain't you got nothin' else?"

"Creamed spinach, applesauce, green beans -- "

Harry puked on the floor and stalked off. All around the Hufflepuff table, students began flashing their Potter Stinks badges.

"Yes, well. . . " said Cedric.

Harry targeted the Ravenclaw table next. Perhaps Cho Chang would notice him. He elbowed aside Padma Patil and thumped his butt on the bench. "Where's the pig?" he demanded.

Stunning Miss Fleur Delacour rolled her large blue eyes. "At Beauxbatons you would be punished for so rude a greeting," she sniffed.

"Oh, I don't want to talk with any of you. I just want pork." Harry glowered up and down the table, somewhat oblivious to that fact that this was not the best course for winning the affections of lady fair. Cho was wrinkling her nose. "You're not hiding it, are you?"

Fleur took a sip of her pheasant consommé and did not deign to reply. "We don't have any pork today, Harry," said Padma, trying to push the stinky boy away.

"You're lying!"

"I am not," replied Padma angrily.

"She isn't," said a pale-haired girl with a breathy voice and strangely protruding pale eyes. "Anyway, pig meat can carry the dreaded Coatostigamundi Virus. That's how Squibs get born, you know - from their parents eating contaminated pork."

Harry laughed in her face and trotted off to bother someone else. He'd completely forget having ever met Luna Lovegood by the time his next school year rolled around.

One would think, with all the bad blood between Slytherin House and Gryffindor House, that Harry could have foregone a visit to their table. But of course he didn't.

"Bah," he grunted, plopping himself virtually in Draco Malfoy's lap and serving himself an offering of something from a silver bowl. The Slytherins didn't wait until Harry was gone to begin flashing their Potter Stinks badges.

"What are you doing here -- "

Draco's indignant query was interrupted by Harry taking a mouthful of food, turning green, and sputtering it into Goyle's face. "God, what is this muck?" The-Boy-Who-Lived demanded, grabbing Draco's goblet of pumpkin juice and draining it.

"It's called paprikash," Draco told him, signaling for a fresh goblet. "The Durmstrangs seem to like it."

Harry scowled across the expanse of white tablecloth to where Viktor Krum sat with his fellow Durmstrangians. "Oh, so this is all your fault, is it?" he demanded.

Viktor practiced pretending that he didn't understand a word of English. No sirree, sorry mate, but not a single bloomin' word.

"Stupid bloody wog," grumbled Harry, standing and hiking up the seat of his pants. Sometimes, they betrayed an alarming tendency to fall off his rump.

"Are you going now?" asked Draco hopefully.

"Well, unless you bring out the pig -- "

"We don't have any pig, Potter. They haven't served any pig since Boggersworth exploded."

"Likely story," sneered Harry. Society was evil, he knew. They were probably just hiding all the lovely pig meat until he was gone. Them they'd devour it in secret, laughing behind his back. A tear or two formed in his eyes, but he set his chin and sucked up the pain. He was very brave and his heart was a stone.

Harry next set his course for the Gryffindor table, which is of course where he should have been headed all along. Hermione and Ron looked up, saw him coming, hesitated, and finally made space for him. He was too busy being stoic to notice their reluctance. "God, I hate this school!" he complained, even before his rump touched the seat. "Miserable old place."

"Detention was bad, then, Harry?" asked Ron, trying to be friendly. Harry exploded - albeit not in the same style as Boggersworth.

"OF COURSE IT WAS MISERABLE, YOU LOUT!" Harry screeched. "I SPENT NINETEEN HOURS CRACKING SNAILS UNDER SNAPE'S SUPERVISION!"

Ron cowered. Hermione bit her lip. "It couldn't possibly have been nineteen hours, Harry --"

"It bloody well was!"

"It couldn't have been. You were taken away at six in the morning and it's a bit past six in the evening now. That's twelve hours."

"They used a Time Turner on me," Harry lied sulkily.

"Harry, you have to apply to the Ministry for Time Turners," said Hermione impatiently. "And they certainly wouldn't be allowed to use one for something as frivolous as detention -- "

Harry was wounded to his very soul. He rose to his feet, bellowing: "Frivolous? My detention - frivolous?!"

Hermione realized that she had set her foot rather deeply into her throat, but, characteristically, refused to back down. "Well, you were caught out of bed," she reminded Harry. "They have every right to punish you."

"Punish me with days of back-breaking labor?" Harry roared. "Is that fair? Is that just?"

"It wasn't days," said Ron, trying to be consoling.

"You weren't there, mate." Harry stared out at the world from beneath a thatch of sweat-matted hair and breathed heavily. "You weren't there."

"Oh, go wash, Harry," Seamus urged. The pungent body aroma was putting him off his roast chicken and potatoes.

"This is the smell of injustice!" Harry cried, waving his arms over his head.

His words took a moment to sink in. Then a hearty gale of laughter built up at the Gryffindor table. Fred and George jumped onto their chairs and imitated Harry. "My pits stink of injustice!" they sniveled in falsetto tones, flopping about like a pair of rag dolls. Even Hermione and Ron had trouble keeping straight faces.

Harry turned on his heel and stalked off. There was no pig on the table anyway. He made it about ten steps before he fell on his knees, clenched his fists and looked to the sky (ceiling). "And now I know how freedom feels, no more piggy at my meals - it is the law! This piece of paper I must keep makes my friends behave like creeps - it is the law! Like a cur I walk the streets, the dirt beneath their feet!" He fell face-first to the floor and writhed on the stones.

An immense silence fell over the Great Hall as students and teachers alike watched Harry's bizarre performance. "Why is he singing?" Neville whispered to Dean, who was at a loss for an answer. At the teachers' table, Karkaroff wondered if it was time to take his star pupil back home to Durmstrang before he caught something from these English lunatics.

But before anyone could quite make up their minds what to do, there was the steady, certain tap-tap-tapping of a wooden foot against a stone floor. Harry glanced up to see a large, wrinkled hand extended in friendship.

"Come to my office, boy," said Mad-Eye Moody gravely. "We'll see what we can do for you there."

Harry, deep in his hatred for society, hesitated. But he had nowhere else to go really, so after the pause he accepted Moody's hand and followed him to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office. It was filled with all the usual spy-tracking paraphernalia that Harry had secretly coveted from the first moment he saw it. Mad-Eye Moody set a silver platter covered with a dome in front of Harry. Its top was engraved with imaged of fruit and grain and Harry was about to turn away in disgust when Moody said two words that caught his attention.

"Pork chops." And lo, Moody unlocked and lifted away the silver dome and there, beautifully steaming, sat a heap of thick, juicy pork chops.

"Go on, eat up," said Moody, pulling a silver goblet from a drawer. It began filling itself, not with mere pumpkin juice, but golden, creamy butterbeer.

Harry didn't require any urging. He seized a chop in either hand and took enormous, ravenous bites. When he had devoured them down to the bone, he paused to take several long swallows of butterbeer before grabbing two more. Moody watched silently, swigging from his hip flask from time to time.

"I expect you're feeling a bit better," said Moody presently, when Harry's appetite was sated.

"Oh, yes," Harry agreed. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." He turned away from his Defense Against the Dark Arts professor and cackled softly: "He let me eat my fill, I had the lion's share. This magic geegaw in my hand is I should have earned for all those nineteen hours; a lifetime of despair -- "

"Who are you singing to, Harry?" inquired Moody.

"Oh, er, no one." Harry sat staring at the tablecloth, then, in a swift and unexpected movement, grabbed up the silver platter and dome and took off screeching 'bah!' at the top of his lungs and knocking over several chairs as he fled.

Moody took a calm sip from his flask and remained in his chair. He could still hear Harry gallumphing down the halls.

Five minutes later Harry was back in his office. In the custody of Filch and Professor McGonagall. The-Boy-Who-Lived looked very sullen indeed as he hung between them. "I believe this Cornucopia belongs to you?" asked McGonagall, her thin nostrils flaring. She held out the silver platter and dome.

"It was mine, yes," answered Moody, "but as Mr. Potter here undoubtedly told you, I gave it to him."

Filch's jaw fell to the floor. Harry quickly stifled a 'bah' of surprise.

"But you forgot to take the goblet," Moody added, pushing it across the desktop. "Did you forget I gave that to you as well?"

McGonagall recovered her speech. "Professor Moody, you can't just hand out expensive gifts to the students -- "

"They belonged to James Potter," interrupted Moody, who knew that if that old dodge was good enough for Dumbledore it would work for him as well. "So I'm merely returning them. So take those restraints off Harry - he was telling the truth."

Filch looked as if he'd rather tear his own arm off than release Harry, but seeing no alternative, he capitulated. Professor McGonagall hesitated, as if there was something she wanted to say, but after a long pause she shrugged instead and moved off. "No more sneaking around at night, Mr. Potter," she said over one shoulder. "I'd hate to have to add to your detention."

Harry intended to say something reassuring like: 'Of course not, I've learned my lesson, professor,' but a huge pork burp came out instead.

"There you are, Harry," said Moody as Filch and McGonagall left. "Take up the Cornucopia and the Bottomless Goblet and enjoy them. But remember that in covering up for you, I have redeemed you from your bad behavior and rule breaking. You are now a model student!"

"Bah," said Harry, dizzily. His brain was still spinning.

"Now go back to your dorm and think it over," said Moody, rising and gently pushing Harry out the door. Once the boy was gone, he heaved a sigh of relief. Miserable little scut. That was a close one. If Harry acted up too badly, Dumbledore might have an excuse to kick him out of the Triwizard Tournament. Then he'd never reach the Triwizard Cup and get sent to the graveyard where Voldemort awaited resurrection.

Damn these elaborate plots, thought Mad-Eye Moody, a.k.a. Barty Crouch Jr. If the Dark Lord wasn't such a drama queen he could just have Harry touch a plate of spare ribs and get sent to the graveyard. That would be ever so much simpler.

* * * * *

Harry wandered the hallways, bemused. Too bemused to follow his teachers' advice and go back to Gryffindor Tower. He wanted to think, and for him, this was going to require time and effort.

He was also considering singing, but since he didn't have an audience he decided to give it a rest for now.

Professor Moody had let him escape. Why? And an even bigger why - why had he given away such precious magical items? Harry cuddled the Cornucopia and the Bottomless Goblet to his chest. Oh, there was no question that he deserved them, but so few teachers realized this sort of thing. So why had Moody taken his side on this particular occasion? One word of accusation and -

Harry shuddered at the image of himself cracking rock snails for the rest of his life. Oh, yes, it could have happened that way. So -

And then it burst upon Harry like a golden gleam of sunlight: God was on his side. Well, why shouldn't He be? Harry was the Boy-Who-Lived after all. He was the one who was going to have to fight Voldemort and vegetarians and wogs and all those other evil, evil enemies of Light. Yes, it made perfect sense now.

Harry felt awed and humbled by the dreadful responsibility that had been placed upon him. Lesser men would shrink and falter under the challenge, but Harry knew he had it in him to hold strong. He resolved to turn over a new life. Soberly, he made his way back to his dormitory, the Bottomless Goblet clutched to his chest like a holy relic.

* * * * *

"I'm the mayor of Gryffindor Tower, okay?" Harry announced.

He made this statement while standing in the common room, so there were many faces to look up in confusion. "Umm, what are you talking about, Harry?" asked Neville tentatively.

"Me, mayor." Harry flapped his arms. No particular reason.

"Well, okay," Neville went back to trying to puzzle out his Transfiguration homework. He knew a lost cause when he heard one.

Most others weren't so willing to capitulate. "What does that mean, you're mayor?" asked Ron, preparing to do a slow burn of jealousy. Ron had only recently gotten over the whole Triwizard Tournament envy, and he wasn't ready for Harry to grab more glory just yet.

"It means I'll watch over you and supervise you and stuff," said Harry, positioning himself on the overstuffed sofa liked he was preparing to dandle little children on his knee.

"We have prefects." Hermione thought the whole mayor business was rot and knew she should ignore it, but she just couldn't help herself.

"It's more than being a prefect." Harry's gaze was soft and misty. "I'll be more like your guardian angel."

"Oh!" Neville looked up again. "Does that mean you'll help me with my homework?"

"Uh, bah. . . " Harry began frantically searching for an explanation that would allow him to remain mayor without actually having to do any work.

"It does seem to fit the job description," prodded Hermione, enjoying Harry's discomfort.

Harry searched his conscience. Actually he had to search a while just to find his conscience. But once he located it, huddling in a dank and musty corner of his soul, it was forced to admit that helping with homework was exactly the sort of thing a beneficent, noble being like himself was supposed to do.

"Well, bah, all right," he conceded, sliding off the sofa.

Of course he didn't know what he was doing either and within half an hour had thoroughly botched Neville's assignment. But at least he felt the satisfaction of a challenge accepted.

"Well, there you go, Neville," said Harry sitting back and folding his arms behind his head. This exposed his pits. Harry still hadn't showered.

Neville stared sadly at the scribbles of black all over his homework. It looked as if an entire regiment of ants had stepped in ink and then performed an enthusiastic tap dance all over the parchment. "Thanks, Harry," he said sadly. He hoped McGonagall didn't give him another 'T.'

"It's what we mayors do." Harry leaned back and shut his eyes and basked in his accomplishment as Hermione quietly reached for Neville's work and did what she could to set it right.

Harry's peaceful reverie was suddenly broken by the sounds of a quarrel breaking out in the corner of the room. His eyes flew open. Fred and George were arguing over what looked like a piece of parchment with some kind of list printed on it. He jumped to his feet and charged the twins, bowling over Neville as he did so. "What is this fighting all about? Will someone tear these two apart? This is a dormitory, not a circus!" he scolded musically.

"Piss off, Harry," said Fred.

"And stop singing," added George. "It's really gay."

Harry stood his ground. "I am the mayor of this tower!" He located Hermione. "I look to you to sort this out and be as patient as you can, because, er, I have to go to the can!" Harry exited rather hastily, realizing there was something else he'd neglected to do all day.

Hermione exhaled noisily. She snatched the sheet of parchment from the twins and tore it in two. "Don't make me owl your mother," she said over their indignant squawks.

They exchanged a glance. Then Fred looked heavenward. "I dreamed a dream in days gone by of a joke shop that would be so funny -- "

"Don't start it," Hermione advised them. She looked ready to call for an owl, so Fred desisted.

"Everyone's a critic," he grumbled.

* * * * *

Harry exited the boy's bathroom feeling a couple pounds lighter. He felt lighter in the mind too, freer of soul, at peace with himself. Helping Neville had made him understand how fundamental he truly was to the daily life of Gryffindor Tower. Why had he ever railed against society? He chuckled at his own foolishness as he made his way upstairs to his dormitory, plumped up his pillows, eased between the sheets, and fell into a deep, delicious slumber. His belly, comfortably sated with thick, juicy pork chops, didn't let out so much as a peep to disturb his dreams.

Other Gryffindors were not so happy. "Harry still stinks," complained Seamus from his bed.

"Pull your hangings tighter," advised Dean wearily.

"I'm already about to suffocate."

"Me too," said Neville.

"Open a window."

They did, but the smell had been some time in building and was in no hurry to leave. It seemed to hang about the air, picking its teeth and whistling sadistically. "My sinuses are clogging up," whimpered Neville. His eyes were watering.

"We have to do something," decided Seamus.

"But what? We can't exactly give Harry a bath," said Dean.

"We could try Scourgify."

"Well. . . " Dean was dubious. "Just don't blame me if it doesn't improve things."

Seamus tried Scourgify. It wasn't a spell he had practiced a lot and in any case, the magic appeared to be helpless against Harry's tremendous sweaty pig stench. A few soapy bubbles came out of the end of Seamus's wand and seemed more inclined to retreat back into it than to get on with the task of cleansing.

"No good?" asked Neville.

Seamus put on his dressing gown. "No. But I'm not going to hang around here. I'll get sick if I have to smell him all night."

"It doesn't seem to be bothering Ron."

"Ron hangs around with Harry a lot more than we do." Seamus tied the knot on his robe. "Seriously, guys, we need to tell someone about this. I'm dying in here."

Harry farted, a long, luxuriant pig fart. He sighed happily in his sleep.

"Who are we going to tell?" asked Dean, surrendering. "I don't want to wake Professor McGonagall. She's a terror and she's still cranky about last night."

Seamus, Dean, and Neville considered. "How about Professor Snape?" asked Seamus.

Neville shuddered. "Oh, I don't think we should do that."

"But he stays up late," insisted Seamus. "I know because you can hear him playing the ukulele after midnight. And at least Harry takes him seriously. I mean, you know, he's scared of him a bit."

Neville shuddered again. "Not as scared as I am!"

"You can stay here and keep an eye on Harry if you like."

Harry farted again. Ron echoed him. "No thanks," said Neville, deciding that Snape at midnight wasn't as horrid a fate as being stuck in the Tower of Stench.

They trooped out of the room. Gryffindor Tower fell silent. Ron grunted, kicked and rolled over, exposing part of a bare foot. Cold air seeped in through the open window and Ron began to shiver. He sat up in bed.

Closing the window didn't seem to occur to him - maybe the smell was getting to him too. Instead, he rummaged around on the floor, finding a wooly cap his mother had made for him. It was black and old and unraveling but warm and he popped it on his head. His ears began to thaw and he was just about to curl up again when he decided that a jumper might feel nice in the chill.

Blame the dark, blame Ron's own sleepiness, but instead of putting on his maroon jumper, his searching fingers located a red-and-white striped one Mrs. Weasley had made for Harry. He pulled it over his head without a second thought and went flopped back over on his bed. Seconds later, he was snoring again.

Four minutes later, Harry awakened himself with an extra-strong fart. Whew! He sat up and flapped his bedclothes to air a little of the stink out. As he did so, he became aware of a breeze in the room. He poked his head out of the hangings and noticed the open window. His first impulse was to shut it. Then, feeling impish, he suddenly changed his mind. Why not go for a midnight flight on his Firebolt? After all, he'd worked so hard on the Accio spell. . .

Harry was never one to resist temptation for long. He grabbed up his dressing gown, wrapped it around himself, and was about to hop up on the windowsill when he paused. He was the mayor of Gryffindor Tower and people looked up to him. If they noticed that he wasn't in his bed, they might get worried, Harry reasoned. He couldn't allow that - it would weigh on his conscience far too heavily.

So he came up with a solution: he fashioned a dummy out of crumpled-up bits of parchment and Ron's wadded-up maroon jumper for a head. Now it looked as if someone was sleeping in his bed. Satisfied, Harry summoned up his trusty broomstick and stepped off into the night, screaming 'bah!' at the top of his lungs as he did so.

Two minutes later, muffled voices were heard outside the door. "I will deal with the problem," said one. It was Professor Snape's cold, reasoning voice speaking. "Afterwards, I will speak to you about wandering the halls after dark."

Seamus muttered a reply, but Snape wasn't listening. He opened the door a crack. A ray of wand light fell over the sleeping Ron as Snape stood in the doorway and gagged. He couldn't say that Seamus, Dean, and Neville had been exaggerating the situation. The stench had to be taken care of before it melted the carpets or seeped so deeply into the stone walls that it could never, never be removed. The Potions Master began hastily muttering spells. Bubbles flew out of his wand and began busily polishing every crevice. A fresh clean gust of air burst forth and chased all the stinks out the window. Meanwhile, Snape stalked to the bed where Ron lay sleeping. Snape, after all, had no idea where Harry slept at night, nor had he ever given any deep consideration to the thought. And in the dimness, wearing Harry's sweater and an unruly black woolen cap, it was an easy matter to mistake Ron for Harry. They smelled much the same.

"All right, Potter, it's off to more detention for you," snarled Snape, pinching the hapless Ron by the ear. Ron awoke, thoroughly disoriented, thinking that perhaps he was having a repeat of his nightmare about a giant spider trying to suck out his brain. He mewed and blubbered but failed to make a single coherent protest. Snape's lip curled. "Enough of this," he declared. "Come along." And he dragged the sniveling Ron out of the dormitory. "You will get off with only a warning tonight," he told Seamus, Dean, and Neville. "But don't do it again."

"Yessir!" they chorused, grateful for the reprieve. They scrambled back into the tower room, rejoicing in the clean, newly washed scent.

"That was scary," sighed Neville, sinking into bed and shutting his eyes.

"Yeah. But it was worth it," agreed Seamus. Now he could sleep without worrying about vomiting and drowning himself. He pulled back the covers.

Dean was the only one who hadn't headed right for his bed. He was standing next to Harry's, a crease between his eyes. "Um."

"What is it, mate?" yawned Seamus.

"Harry's still in bed. No, wait. . . " He reached out and prodded the dummy. "The hell. . . ?"

Seamus sat up. "What is it?"

Dean had pulled back the hangings of Ron's bed. "Ron isn't here and there's a dummy in Harry's bed."

Neville sat up as well. He was tired and his brain wasn't working its best, but a worrisome thought was getting through the sleepiness. "Do you think Professor Snape took Ron instead of Harry?"

"Oh, come on!" Now that the dorm was clean, Seamus just wanted to sleep. "They don't look anything alike. How could Snape make such a mistake?"

"Bah!" cried Harry, alighting with a triumphant thump on the windowsill. He'd left off his glasses and was wearing a red cap. At first glance, he could be mistaken for Ron. Dean groaned.

So did Seamus - after all, Harry's stench was still with him. "What were you doing?" he demanded of Harry.

"Oh, nothing," replied Harry with sly naughtiness. He casually stuffed his Firebolt down the back of his pants. Everyone noticed this, of course.

"You were out flying, weren't you?" Seamus accused.

"Me? Of course not." Harry's eyes were dewy and innocent as he limped, stiff-legged to his bed. "I'm already in trouble gosh darn it, and I wouldn't want to earn more detention." Harry pulled back the covers and was then struck with the problem of how to get the dummy out of his bed without it looking like he was guilty of something. He settled for chuckling loudly. "My goodness! I suppose I shouldn't try to do my homework in bed. Look at this mess!" He brushed the parchment to the floor and settled in. Dean and Seamus rolled their eyes. Neville, however, was worried.

"Harry, Professor Snape thought Ron was you and took him away," he said.

This information was enough to make Harry sit up and pay attention. "What? Why?"

"Snape found out you hadn't washed yet," said Seamus dryly.

"You can be punished for that?" asked Harry, astounded.

"If it gets disruptive, yes."

"But we're British! We're not supposed to like to bathe!"

Dean, Seamus, and Neville decided that one was just not worth commenting on. "Well, at any rate, Ron's in a spot of trouble because of you," said Dean.

Harry leapt out of bed and began to pace. He gesticulated agitatedly.

"He thinks that Ron is me! He knew him at a glance. This redhead he has bound, this boy could be my chance! Why should I save his hide? Why should I right this wrong when I have -- "

"Harry!" exclaimed Neville, translating Harry's theatrics with some difficulty, "You don't mean that you're not going to help Ron, do you?"

"No, no, no," said Harry patiently. "Just wait until the end of the song and you'll see that I decide to be noble and sacrifice myself."

"Well, since we know how it turns out now can you just go and do it?" Seamus asked.

Harry glared - this was one monologue he'd been just itching to get his teeth into - but drew himself up to his full, shrimpy height. "Who am I? I'm Harry Potter!" he shrieked, and ran out of the room.

"Good lord," sighed Seamus, leaning against the wall.

Ron ambled into the dorm, looking bemused. "Hi. Snape let me go. I'm confused. Was that Harry who just brushed against me in the hall?"