GRYFFINDOR HOUSE
Spring was here at last but it did little to improve Harry’s mood, and not just because it was a very gray, drizzly sort of spring.
Harry had taken to spending most of his time out of his common room: in the library, at Hagrid’s, or just wandering the school. Sometimes he wore the cloak, sometimes he just roamed. He always had it with him, though, both in case he ever got caught out after hours and because he didn’t want to be separated from it again.
His dad, at least, couldn’t ever let him down.
Harry morbidly supposed that that was one good thing about being dead: you stayed cool and awesome forever, and nothing could ever change that. You couldn’t hurt your friends or betray people who’d trusted you if you were dead.
That thought didn’t do anything to cheer him up, either.
Harry knew he was being grumpy and moody but he didn’t care. The only people he was spending time with these days were Hagrid, who was too stubbornly cheerful himself (and too busy with his duties, which he let Harry help with sometimes) to let Harry get away with moping, and Hermione, who was terse and cross herself because she was so focused on their upcoming exams.
Harry didn’t see why she was stressed about it. As far as he could tell, she knew everything already, so what was she worrying about?
But worry she did, and seemed to be spending every spare moment in the library, which was where Harry kept running into her. With their exams slowly drawing nearer the place was growing a little more crowded than usual as the other students slowly joined the few regulars, like Hermione and all those Ravenclaws, to get in some early studying of their own.
Usually whenever Harry turned up, most of the tables were already occupied, but Hermione almost always sat alone and never minded if he joined her. She didn’t seem to have any friends, just like Harry.
Well, that wasn’t strictly true: Harry
had friends. They were always pestering him, too obtuse to get the hint that he wanted to be left alone and no, he wasn’t interested in playing gobstones, or exploding snap, or chess, or sneaking stink beetles into Gryffindors’ school bags when they weren’t looking, or trying to trick a professor into writing them a note so they could go fool around on the school brooms, or any of the hundred other activities that Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and sometimes even Nott came up with to while away their few hours between assignments, or slack off with when they didn't feel like doing their work.
Not that Harry had much option there, he found, at least on the days when he hung out with Hermione in the library. His study habits and homework practices horrified her, and she had quickly drawn up a schedule for him so that he could keep everything organized and get it all done on time. Harry had just as promptly lost it in the cavernous depths of his school bag, the bottom of which was already a shifting mess of broken quills, crumpled papers, bits of dried ink, and mysterious detritus that had once been plants or potion ingredients. Nothing ever emerged intact from that pit, and Harry figured Hermione's schedule didn't stand a chance.
She still made him do his homework far earlier than he thought was necessary, though. But her nagging beat being alone, most days.
It wasn’t as nice as spending time with Hagrid, but Hagrid, too, was preoccupied these days. There was something wrong, although he wouldn’t tell Harry what; just made lots of vague, grumbled comments and shot the Forbidden Forest dark glances from time to time. Harry asked him, once, if it was something to do with Fluffy and the You-Know-What, but even the mysterious package from Vault 713 couldn’t hold Harry’s interest these days and when Hagrid wouldn’t answer, Harry didn’t bother to press further.
Very few students went home for the two-week break between terms this time, although they all still had to sign up on the list, just like at Christmas. Harry thought it would have made more sense to make a list for the students who weren’t staying at Hogwarts. The only Slytherin students in his year who went home were Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass.
Harry was quite pleased to see Blaise go.
At first he was confused by the crowded castle, but then he figured out that if everyone else had as much homework as he did, they’d be lucky to even have time outside of the library, and it was no wonder they weren’t leaving school. The teachers, it seemed, thought along the same lines as Hermione, and the rest of the students didn’t have any choice but to follow her lead in seeking out the brimming bookshelves, not if they wanted to pass.
Harry wouldn’t have minded if a few less of them had been concerned for their academics. The library wasn’t much of a refuge if it was crowded with all the people he was avoiding.
“Ew,” a shrill voice suddenly interrupted Harry’s valiant attempt to memorize the twelve uses of dragon blood. “We can’t sit back here, look who it is!”
Harry looked up to see Pansy Parkinson pointing at him—no, past him, at Hermione Granger. Hermione stiffened but didn’t look up at the cluster of first year Slytherin girls sneering at her over Pansy’s shoulder. “Ick, Potter,” Pansy continued, “what are
you doing there?” Harry shrugged. “I am
sure,” Pansy said in an exaggeratedly scandalized tone, “that
someone else would be
glad to budge up and share their table with you, to save you having to sit with—with
that.” Hermione made a noise like an angry tea kettle but still didn’t look up from her book. She had, however, stopped turning the pages.
“I’m fine here, thanks,” Harry said.
Pansy smirked. “Aw, has Potter got a girlfriend?” she giggled, and her friends giggled with her. “Potter, that’s so tragic! You’re a Slytherin, you know,” she chided him cheerfully, “you have standards to maintain. The reputation of our house—”
“Shut-up, Pansy.”
Everyone turned around to look at Draco Malfoy, who had just come around the corner of the shelves. He was glaring at Pansy, whose jaw dropped in hurt surprise. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, shuffled along behind Draco. They looked, for once, no more confused than anyone else.
“But—but, Draco, she’s a Mu—”
“Annoying, insufferable know-it-all,” Draco interrupted, sneering, “so I’d wager that Harry’s got nothing to worry about on his exams. But from what Professor Snape has said,
you could do with some more effort in Potions, at least, so why don’t you go look into that?”
Everybody stared at Draco. He crossed his arms coolly and stared right back at the flustered girl in front of him. Tracey Davis snickered and Pansy turned around to shoot her a look of stark betrayal. “Sorry,” Tracey muttered, sounding gleeful.
Pansy pouted affrontedly and flounced off, the other girls trailing her. Draco’s gaze flickered sideways to Harry and Hermione, then he quickly left as well. Crabbe and Goyle, of course, followed him. Harry pointedly turned around and did not watch them go. The last person he wanted helping him out right now was Draco Malfoy.
“Hmph,” was all Hermione said, and she shoved her nose back even more deeply into her book.
It wasn’t until quite a few minutes later that it occurred to Harry that if Draco hadn’t interrupted Pansy, she probably would have called Hermione a Mudblood, right in front of everybody. He wondered, fleetingly, if Draco had stopped her on purpose.
Not that
annoying, insufferable know-it-all was a nice thing to call someone, but it certainly beat
Mudblood.
Harry shifted uncomfortably and tried to focus on the blood uses he was supposed to be learning, but soon gave it up as a bad job. “See you later,” he muttered to Hermione, who just grunted in response, buried deep in her book. Harry shoved his things in his bag and slipped quietly out of the library.
He was halfway back to his common room when he stopped at the sound of a familiar voice. It was Pansy again, and she was right around the corner. Harry really didn’t want to deal with any more teasing right now, and looked around for an escape route.
Then another voice joined the first, cutting Pansy’s words off, and Harry froze.
It was Draco.
“Because it’s disgusting, that’s why,” he said. “Pairing Potter with
her, what’s wrong with you? The very idea is repulsive.”
“Then he shouldn’t be hanging out with her, I guess,” Pansy snapped back.
“Don’t see why it’s any business of yours who he hangs out with,” Draco replied sharply.
“Well, I don’t see why it’s any business of
yours what I say to him, then.”
“Because he’s my friend, that’s why, and I won’t have you saying things about him and some filthy Mudblood.”
Harry stomped off in disgust. Maybe Hagrid needed help de-sliming some slugs or something. Better that than stay here and listen to this.
Harry decided to skip the library the next day. It wasn’t because he was afraid of Pansy, or what she’d say, or because he cared that Hermione was a Mudblood. It was just that this was the first really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of summer coming. He couldn’t possibly spend it inside, cooped up in the library, staring at books.
Harry sauntered down to Hagrid’s, enjoying the break from all the drizzle. Slytherin would be playing their final match against Hufflepuff in a few weeks, and Harry hoped that the weather would hold out until then. It was, he figured, just about a perfect day for flying.
For a moment he thought about heading back up to the castle and finding Draco. With weather like this, the other boy would probably be trying to find a way to get some illicit flying in, and if any first year could wheedle his way onto a broom unsupervised, Harry knew it would be Draco Malfoy. He probably wouldn’t even have to try very hard, even: just ask Snape—although Snape had been in a really bad mood lately, one foul enough that he’d even snapped at Draco last class for not paying attention, although of course he hadn’t taken any points for it. And he would probably still give him permission to open the broomshed, and the weather was excellent…
But, Harry reminded himself firmly, he didn’t want to see Draco right now, and he certainly didn’t want to go flying with him. Draco, Harry repeated silently, was not his friend. He didn’t want anything to do with him.
Harry stomped determinedly down to Hagrid’s, refusing to glance over his shoulder at the castle, just in case there were any students out on brooms—and just in case any of them happened to be very pale and blond. Harry didn’t want to know. It was easier to be resolute when you didn’t know for sure what you were missing.
He knocked on the door to Hagrid’s hut, but there was no answer, not even from Fang. “Hello?” Harry shouted, but still nothing. He walked around, frowning at the tightly shuttered windows and smoking chimney. It must be absolutely sweltering inside. Harry couldn’t understand it. Was Hagrid sick?
He peered into the garden, but aside from vegetables the only occupants were Fang, sprawled miserably in the middle of Hagrid’s tomatoes, and a handful of bored-looking chickens. Harry spent a few minutes scratching Fang’s belly and got an enthusiastic bath in return, but the boardhound couldn’t tell him where his master was any more than the chickens could.
Harry walked back to the front of the hut and tried the door again.
“Hey, Hagrid! It’s me, Harry! Are you there?” Harry waited, but there was still no response. He kicked a rock and watched it rattle off into the pumpkin patch.
Where was Hagrid? Surely he wouldn’t be out doing anything on the grounds, not without Fang, and certainly not with his chimney smoking like that. The fire must be positively roaring, quite unseasonably. Harry scratched at the nearest window but it was latched tight and he only succeeded in giving himself a splinter.
Sucking at the sliver of wood in his finger, Harry scowled at the silent hut. What on earth was Hagrid doing?
After a few long, unproductive minutes, Harry gave up. He kicked another rock, grumpily, and stomped back to the castle. He saw a few brooms flash by overhead but resisted the urge to look up. Someone was flying, but Harry didn’t want to know who.
He kicked stones the whole way up the lawn, practicing football skills that, thanks to Dudley’s gang, he rarely got the chance to do much of anything with in gym class. Not that football compared to Quidditch in any way, of course…
Harry couldn’t help it, he sneaked a glance at the flying students, but they were just a few dark blurs against the sky. He wondered if one of the teams was out practicing, and what it would be like to be on it. Harry grinned, imagining himself swooping towards a goal hoop, diving after the snitch, dodging Bludgers…
“Hey! Watch it!”
Harry jerked out of his reverie just in time to stop himself from kicking what turned out to be not a rock at all, but a fat, warty toad.
“Sorry!” he said quickly, pulling his foot back. Plump hands darted in and snatched the toad out of harm’s way and Harry looked up to see who he had nearly run into.
The round, scowling face of Neville Longbottom looked back at him.
“Sorry,” Harry said again. “Didn’t see him there.”
“Y-yeah, I’ll bet,” Longbottom muttered, hunching in protectively around his toad. He looked around, as if expecting an ambush.
“I didn’t,” Harry said, frowning. “I don’t just go around kicking people’s toads.”
“Right,” snorted Longbottom. He looked nervous.
“I don’t!” Harry protested.
“Well, I guess you don’t have to. You have
those two around to do that stuff for you, don’t you?” Longbottom backed away from Harry slowly. Harry followed, frowning harder.
“What, you mean Crabbe and Goyle?” he asked. “Why would I have them do anything?”
“Y-you hang out with Draco Malfoy,” Longbottom said, as if that explained everything.
“So?” said Harry, not wanting to admit to the fact that his friends were all liars and nobody really liked him at all.
Longbottom shrugged.
“Listen, what does it matter who I hang out with, or don’t?” Harry demanded.
“You’ll...you’ll make fun of me, or, or do something f-funny,” Longbottom said fearfully. “That’s what, um, what they always do and, and you’re their friend, so...” His eyes were darting around the courtyard so quickly now that Harry was getting dizzy just watching him.
“I will not,” Harry snapped, losing patience with the stuttering Gryffindor. “And I’m not so sure I want to be Draco’s friend, anyway.”
Longbottom just stared at him darkly, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop and kick him in his pasty, round face.
Harry sighed and looked down at his toes. “I don’t think he really likes me all that much,” Harry admitted, “and I don’t think I really like him, either.”
“Oh,” said Longbottom.
“He’s a—a bully and a liar and I don’t miss him at all,” Harry said heatedly.
“Oh,” Longbottom said again, in a small voice, “right.”
Harry didn’t know why he was even talking to the hopeless Gryffindor boy, let alone confessing things like that to him. He just felt, for some reason, that Neville Longbottom was someone with whom he had a lot in common. Maybe it was just that he had been feeling so miserable lately, and Longbottom was always so pathetic. They were probably two of a kind.
“Well…I thought you were friends,” Longbottom muttered defensively.
“So did I,” said Harry sourly. He plopped down on the low stone wall around the courtyard and kicked at it idly with his heels.
After a few moments Longbottom edged over and joined him, sitting well down the wall from Harry, as if afraid that he might attack. His hands were still wrapped tightly around his toad, who had stopped kicking and seemed to have resigned himself stoically to captivity in the chubby boy’s hands.
“So, um…H-hermione says you’re all right, anyway,” Longbottom offered.
Harry shrugged. “I dunno,” he said.
“Sh-she’s pretty nice,” Longbottom continued, valiantly trying to make conversation. “She helps me out sometimes in class.”
“Yeah, well, you need it, don’t you?” Harry replied before he could stop himself. Longbottom winced, and so did he. “Sorry,” Harry said.
“Th-that’s all right,” said Longbottom miserably, “it’s true.”
Harry shrugged. “Well...I bet you need less help than Goyle does,” he said by means of a peace offering.
Longbottom’s grin was watery, but it was still a smile.
“And Hermione’s helped me some, too,” Harry continued, “with studying, and stuff.”
Longbottom nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve seen you with her sometimes in the library.”
Harry nodded. “Why didn’t you ever join us?” he asked.
Longbottom shifted uncomfortably on the stone wall. “Well…” he hesitated. “I mean, I didn’t want to annoy you…”
“You should definitely come along next time,” Harry said. “At the least it would give Hermione someone else’s study habits to get aggravated with.”
They both grinned at that.
“Yeah,” said Longbottom, “she can be a bit…”
“Yeah,” agreed Harry.
“But,” Longbottom continued, “she means well, really. And my Gran always says that’s the most important thing.” He didn't look convinced.
“I’ll bet she does,” Harry said, imagining how often Neville Longbottom’s grandmother probably had to repeat to herself things like,
the boy means well… Harry chuckled.
“Um…this is Trevor,” Longbottom said, holding out his toad for inspection. Harry nodded at the amphibian politely. It croaked. “Do you…do you have any pets?” Longbottom asked.
Harry nodded. “An owl,” he said. “Her name’s Hedwig, she’s brilliant.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Longbottom. “She’s white, isn’t she? I’ve seen her at mail call. She looks pretty.” He looked down mournfully at Trevor. “Probably real useful, too, having an owl…”
Harry shrugged. “I dunno, nothing wrong with a toad,” he lied, secretly thinking that Hedwig was the coolest animal in the world, and he’d rather have her than a hundred toads. “I mean, it's not like I ever get mail…”
“Oh.” Longbottom’s face went pink. “Right,” he said quickly. “I…forgot.”
After a long, awkward silence, Harry asked, “so, um, your gran writes you all the time, right?”
Longbottom nodded. “I forget things a lot,” he confessed quietly, which was no secret to anyone at Hogwarts.
“Bet she’s got an owl of her own, huh? Or two or three?” Harry grinned. “Your parents should open an owlery, all the mail she sends…”
“Oh, I—I live with my gran, actually,” said Longbottom. His voice had gone quite high-pitched and stuffy. “My, my parents aren’t…”
“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “Really sorry. I didn't know.”
“S’okay,” muttered Longbottom.
The uncomfortable silence stretched out, broken only by Trevor’s low croaking. Harry avoided looking at Longbottom by staring around at everything else instead. Suddenly he realized that “everything else” included a familiar, exceptionally tall figure hurrying away from the castle towards the gamekeeper’s hut. Harry jumped to his feet.
“Uh, listen,” he said, “I need to, um—”
“No problem,” said Longbottom. “I’ll—I’ll stop bothering you, now.” He climbed off the wall quickly, Trevor grumbling in protest at the jostling.
“No,” said Harry, “it’s fine, I just have to—look, why don’t we hang out later?” he offered.
“Really?” gaped Longbottom.
“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “We can meet back here after lunch or something.”
Longbottom might be the most pathetic person in their year but, Harry figured, he clearly wasn’t much better off himself, and he could use a friend, even a fumbling, stuttering one like Neville. And the Gryffindor boy didn’t seem like he'd be all that bad, once you got to know him.
“Okay,” said Longbottom. “That, um, that sounds cool…”
“Brilliant,” said Harry. “I’ll catch you later, then.”
Longbottom said something in farewell but Harry was no longer listening. He was already pelting down the lawn towards Hagrid’s. Harry was dying to ask him what was going on, where he’d been, and what he was doing smuggling what looked an awful lot like one of Madame Pince’s precious library books out of the castle like some kind of contraband.
When he got there, however, there was no more answer than before. Harry banged on the door and shouted until at last he heard a muffled, “All righ’, all righ’…” from within. Fang whined from the back garden, apparently still banished from the hut even though Hagrid had returned.
Hagrid cracked the door open and peered down at Harry through a sliver barely wide enough to expose half of his heavily bearded face. “Oh, Harry. Didn’ expect yeh.” Hagrid glanced furtively over his shoulder then back at Harry and attempted a casual smile. “How are yeh, then?” he asked.
Harry’s face felt hot, like the air inside the hut was a lot warmer than outside. “What’ve you got in there?” he asked.
“Nothin’!” said Hagrid quickly.
Harry stood on his toes and stretched back and forth but couldn’t see anything past Hagrid’s bulk. “Liar,” said Harry, grinning. “C’mon, what is it?”
“I told yeh, it’s nothin’!” Hagrid snapped. His face had gone red.
Harry frowned. “It’s not another three-headed dog, is it?” he asked, leery.
“Course it ain’t,” said Hagrid. “Already got one o’ them. I mean, it’s nothin’!” he amended hastily. “Bit busy, Harry, can’t chat just now, sorry,” he said, and shut the door.
Harry gaped at the solid wood in front of his face. He scowled and knocked until the windows rattled, but Hagrid did not return. Fang barked petulantly, but he was no help either.
Harry was in a very bad mood as he walked back up to the castle. He was glad he didn’t run into Longbottom and his toad again; right now, he might have been tempted to give Trevor a good kick after all.
Instead he ran into something much worse:
Weasleys.
Harry was halfway across the courtyard before he realized that anyone was paying any attention to him.
“Oi! Potter!”
Harry jerked out of his grumpy reverie at the sound of his name being shouted. He saw two tall, red-headed, identical figures stalking towards him angrily. Harry took a step backwards before he could stop himself. What did
they want?
“We want a word with you,” one of the twins said. It wasn’t a request, but a threat.
“Wh-what for?” Harry asked.
A crowd began to gather as people in the courtyard realized that something out of the ordinary was going on. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Theodore Nott poking out like a pale weed between two Ravenclaws. Like the rest of the onlookers, his sharp eyes were darting back and forth between Harry and the Weasleys.
“You think we wouldn’t find out?” the other twin demanded.
“Find out what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” said the first Weasley. He crossed his arms.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry was starting to feel frantic. The twin Gryffindors looked like they were in the mood for a fight, and Harry was under no delusions about his ability to take on both older, taller boys by himself. He looked around for help and saw only Theodore, who grimaced, looked around himself and, seeing no one else they knew in green, slunk away.
So much for house loyalty, Harry thought glumly. “I really don’t,” he told the Weasleys, a bit desperately.
“You’ve been having a go at our mother,” said one twin.
“Don’t deny it,” snapped the other, as Harry’s mouth fell open to do just that.
“But I haven’t!” he protested, bewildered.
“Liar,” sneered a Weasley.
Harry shook his head, utterly perplexed until he noticed a horribly smirking Blaise Zabini leaning against the far column with his arms crossed, watching the show. He caught Harry’s eye and nodded smugly. Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach like a cold lump of realization and he knew that he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this.
“I—I’m really not,” Harry stammered. “I don’t even know your mother—”
“Don’t you talk about her,” one twin interrupted.
“You think we’d let you get away with that?” the other scowled. “We don’t care if you are the Great Harry Potter—”
“Nobody says those kinds of things about our mum—”
“Especially no Slytherin.”
They nodded in fierce unison.
Harry swallowed hard.
“Do something!” somebody hissed.
Harry risked a glance sideways and saw that the growing crowd now included Hermione Granger, who was tugging at the arm of the youngest Weasley: Ron. “They’re your brothers, you have to stop them!” she demanded.
“Are you mental?” Ron whispered back, gaping at her.
Hermione stomped her foot, frowned, and chewed on her lip. Harry knew that she was no fan of broken rules, and was probably personally affronted that any Gryffindor would dare pick a fight somewhere that a teacher might see.
“You’re all going to get in awful trouble,” she told the twins, and Harry as well, as if the fight had been his idea. “You’d just better stop it!” she ordered.
“Sod off, why don’t you?” one of the twins suggested amiably.
“Ooh!” Hermione gasped in frustration and spun around on her heel, shoving her way through the crowd.
Her housemates were glad enough to let her go; anyone who would stick up for a Slytherin—even if only to keep order—wasn’t going to win herself any points with the rest of them.
The twins had paused to watch and now looked at their brother inquiringly. Ron took one look at Harry and threw his hands up, backing away. The twins nodded approvingly and turned back, advancing on Harry once again.
“No—really,” he pleaded, “I haven’t said anything, honest.”
“What do you say, George, do you believe him?” one Weasley asked the other.
“I find myself inclined to doubt his word, actually, Fred,” he replied.
“I think a particular little Slytherin may need to be taught a lesson, George,” the first surmised.
“You know Fred, I think you might be right,” said the other.
Harry stumbled backwards. “No, listen—”
“What’s going on here?”
Everyone turned to look at the source of the new voice: It was Draco Malfoy, just come around the corner with Crabbe and Goyle. He scanned the courtyard and its burgeoning confrontation, and strode over imperiously to stand beside Harry. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, trailed right behind.
All three of them crossed their arms and glared at the Weasleys, Crabbe and Goyle flanking Draco—and, by extension, Harry—like great, hulking bodyguards. They were both shorter than the third year twins, but definitely broader. Everyone paused to assess the new dynamics.
If it came to a fight, Harry figured, the Slytherins and Gryffindors would probably be pretty closely matched—unless the older Weasleys turned to magic, at which point Crabbe and Goyle would be useless as anything other than cover to hide behind. Not that Harry knew any good curses or jinxes himself, mind, but he kept his hand near his wand anyway.
His palms were sweaty and he hoped that, if he did have to go for his wand, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by dropping it. He would have felt better about his backup if he’d been confident that he’d be able to count on them should things go badly, but Harry knew that Draco was just following his father’s instructions to make it look good, and he didn’t think that would extend to actually risking a fight with the Gryffindor twins.
They seemed unsure of what to do now that they were confronted by all four Slytherins, rather than Harry alone. They exchanged a glance that Harry couldn’t decipher. One of them nodded, and then the other, and they started forward again.
“What’s wrong,” Draco sneered, “were you trying to beg for pocket money, and Potter’s refusing to help you out? You should have sent your little brother, he’s even more pathetic than you two are, Potter might have taken pity.”
Everyone gasped and a few people giggled. Ron yelled, “Oi!” and his brothers’ jaws dropped in unison. “You little slug,” one of them spat, his hands curling into fists.
Crabbe cracked his knuckles and Goyle crossed his arms. The twins stopped, sizing up the two bulky Slytherins and their scrawnier companions. Draco offered his most infuriatingly smug smirk. Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his own smile. He was pretty sure that he was about to get pounded, but he could hardly help but grin at how easily Draco was riling the two older boys.
Harry quickly reminded himself that he didn’t like Draco, but that didn’t make it any less entertaining.
“Cowardly little worm,” the second twin muttered, his freckled face screwed up in angry disgust. “You’re real brave hiding behind your friends now, aren’t you?”
Harry wasn’t sure if they were talking to Draco, or to him. He shrugged anyway.
“Oh right,” Draco drawled, “because it takes real guts, that true Gryffindor courage, to pick on a lone first year when you come in a matched set. You know, I hope you were cheaper that way, at least, for your parents’ sake.” He smirked.
“You’d know all about picking on people when they’re outnumbered, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?” someone shouted from the crowd. It was Finnegan, or maybe Thomas; Harry couldn’t remember which was which, but the other one was standing at his friend’s side, nodding agreement, so it didn’t really matter.
Draco spun around to face the new participant, scowling. “You shut your fat, Mudblood mouth, Thomas,” he snapped. Several people gasped and someone muttered, “bad form!”
“What d’you say, George, shall we shut the little git’s mouth for him instead?” one of the Weasley twins suggested darkly.
“I’d say he needs rather to have it washed out,” the other demurred, and reached for his wand with a malicious grin. “
Scourg—”
“Oh, my, what’s all this, what’s all this?”
Everyone jumped at the high-pitched voice. The twins spun around, the one with his wand out hastily stuffing it back inside his robe.
Coming down the yard towards them was the diminutive Professor Flitwick, with Hermione Granger scowling at his heels. The Gryffindors and Slytherins all shuffled uncomfortably, doing their best to look innocent and nonchalant in a way that radiated guilt. The gathered crowd held its collective breath.
“Afternoon, Professor Flitwick,” one of the twins said breezily.
“Mr. Weasley, we haven’t been getting into trouble again, have we?” Flitwick squeaked mournfully.
“Who, us? Of course not, professor!” the other replied for them both. He grinned at the Slytherins in a very unsociable manner. “We’re just having ourselves a friendly chat here. With our
friends.” His smile seemed to show every single one of his teeth.
“Right,” said Draco, making very little effort to pass his sneer off as a more pleasant expression, “that’s exactly what’s going on, professor. Nothing for you to concern yourself over, whatever Granger there’s told you.”
Flitwick frowned, looking between the two groups of students as if debating which set would be more likely to crack. Hermione mirrored him, scowling darkly. “Very well, very well,” the Charms professor relented tiredly, “I suggest you all go back inside now, boys. Lunch has started, and you wouldn’t want to miss that…”
The crowd gradually scattered. The Weasleys slouched away, looking every bit as sulky and disappointed as Crabbe and Goyle. None of them could do anything more than toss dirty looks at one another, however, since Professor Flitwick—with Hermione still at his side, looking cross and superior—watched them all the whole way back into the castle.
Harry stiffly thanked his three comrades for their help.
Goyle smiled. “Sure thing,” he said brightly, rubbing his disappointingly unbruised knuckles.
Crabbe seemed a bit more resentful of having had to come to Harry’s rescue, but shrugged and said only that any opportunity to pound Gryffindors was a good one. Goyle nodded enthusiastically and looked around to see if, having been denied the Weasleys, he could spot any substitute targets nearby.
Draco just grinned smugly and assured Harry that he had nothing to worry about so long as he was around. “Nobody will dare give you any trouble,” he proclaimed haughtily, “I’ll see to that.”
Harry thought about pointing out that it had probably been the presence of Crabbe and Goyle, rather than Draco, that had given the Gryffindors pause, but as it was Draco who directed Crabbe and Goyle, Harry supposed he had a point anyway.
“Come on,” Crabbe interrupted, “what about lunch?”
Draco nodded and they all set off for the Great Hall, Harry unable to come up with a good excuse to extricate himself from their company. He thought about saying that he wasn’t hungry, but his stomach picked just then to pipe up and give him away. He resigned himself to sitting through lunch with his erstwhile friends. It would have been rude to ditch them after they’d just stuck up for him to the Gryffindors like that, even though Harry knew they’d only done it on Lucius Malfoy’s say-so.
That didn’t stop Draco from regaling everyone nearby with the story. Harry was forced to nod along, making a lot of noncommittal “ums” and “ahhs,” as the tale of his confrontation with the Weasley twins grew by leaps and bounds with every word Draco spun. His embellishments soon had everyone hanging on his words. Incredulous exclamations and spurts of uproarious laughter burst from their little section of the Slytherin table. Each chuckle and chortle garnered darker and darker looks from the Gryffindors and Harry was glad that they were on the far side of the room.
After lunch, he still couldn’t get away; Draco, apparently disgruntled by how Harry had been avoiding him of late, had taken the opportunity to latch, limpet-like, on to his side, and he wasn’t about to be pushed aside by any of Harry’s weak excuses.
Harry thought that, the day being so nice, Draco would want to spend it outside, so he claimed to be knackered from the almost-fight, and decided to head back to their common room. Unfortunately Draco elected to come along, and having already stated his plans, Harry had no choice now but to follow through on them despite the others tagging along.
They walked through the secret door in the dungeons and right into Blaise Zabini’s wrath.
“What was that all about?” the tall, dark-skinned boy snapped, before Harry had even crossed the threshold. An irate Blaise didn’t exude much of the casual elegance he usually boasted.
Draco stared back mildly. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Blaise’s dark eyes snapped as angrily as Snape’s ever had. “You know very well!” he retorted. “What were you thinking, getting involved in that—that fracas?”
“We were—”
“Shut-up, Gregory, I’m not talking to you,” Blaise interrupted. “I’m talking to
Draco. Well? Taking on the Weasleys like that—you could have gotten hurt or, worse, gotten in trouble, maybe even lost us points! You know how close we are to winning the Cup this year?”
Draco shrugged. “If it had come to a fight,” he pointedly out calmly, “Harry would have been in it anyway, so if we were going to lose points, it would have happened the same, with or without my help.”
“And, uh, Professor Flitwick didn’t—”
Blaise ignored Harry, snarling, “that’s not the point, that’s only Potter after all.”
Draco stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” he said harshly.
Harry felt his face going red and wished that everyone would look at something else, but it seemed like half the house was assembled in their common room right now, and all of them were staring at him.
“That’s only
Potter,” Blaise repeated venomously. “He’s just some filthy half-blood, it’s not like he’s a proper Slytherin—”
Draco interrupted heatedly, “he was sorted here the same as—”
“He’s the one that destroyed You-Know—”
“Oh please, you don’t care about politics any more than—”
“Everyone knows you’re only hanging around him to look good, cozying up to the Boy Who Lived like a sycophantic—”
“Shut-up,” Draco snarled. Surprisingly, Blaise did so, even taking a step backwards. He scowled at the shorter, paler boy, his face flushing, but Draco wasn’t done: “Just because you can’t manage to make proper friends is no reason to take it out those of us who can,” he told the other boy snidely.
“Potter hardly counts as a proper friend,” Blaise retorted scornfully, “don’t be mental. He doesn’t even hang around the rest of us anymore, he’s too busy with that swottish Mudblo—”
“I’d rather have Harry for a friend than you, Blaise,” Draco snapped back.
Everyone started, shocked by the words, not least of all Draco himself. Harry turned to stare, his mouth hanging open in the same dumbfounded expression that Crabbe was wearing. Pansy actually yelped before turning to her gang of girls, all of whom clustered together and started whispering furiously, while shooting scandalized glances over at the boys. Blaise just stared, sputtering like an angry teakettle.
Draco tilted his chain and glared defiantly at all of them. “It’s too stuffy in here,” he announced loftily, “I’m going back outside.” He turned to look at Harry and Harry could see uncertainty behind his bravado.
“Yeah,” said Harry, “good idea.” He moved to join the other at the hidden door. He saw something that might have been a relieved grin flicker across Draco’s face.
Draco paused and looked coldly at Crabbe and Goyle. “Well,” he demanded, “are you coming?”
The two thick boys exchanged a glance, then hurried immediately to Malfoy’s side, dogging his imperious exit from the common room. Harry glanced over his shoulder on the way out. Blaise Zabini was staring after them all with murder in his dark eyes. Harry grimaced and hurried out the door.
He trotted along next to Draco, his mind still reeling at the realization that Draco must be his friend after all.
Draco was walking very quickly and he had gone pale, save for two red spots on his cheeks; he was either angry or frightened, Harry couldn’t tell. He wondered if Draco knew.
Harry, however, was elated. He was beaming as he walked—no, practically bounced—at his friend’s side. Harry could hardly believe it. Not only did Draco Malfoy—arguably the coolest boy in their year—really want to be Harry’s friend, but he would rather hang out with him than with Blaise Zabini!
Harry couldn’t stop grinning.
He didn’t notice Neville Longbottom at all. The Gryffindor boy was loitering awkwardly near the courtyard wall and he started forward eagerly when he spotted Harry come out the castle door. He stumbled back, though, when he saw who Harry was with, and his face fell.
Neville watched in silence, hurt and confusion stark and painful on his round face, as Harry walked past him with the Slytherins. Harry didn’t so much as glance over once.
He had already forgotten all about Neville Longbottom.