Chapter Eight

November came by, and the weather deteriorated, much to my dismay. The water of the Black Lake where Professor Quirrell and I practiced the Water Monster spell (as Harry, Ron, and Hermione started calling it after the troll incident) had frozen over and become hard enough to skate on, though I was always too scared to try. I noticed that Fluffy had started getting cold in his little prison, so I conjured a small fire there that couldn’t harm him but would keep him warm. My visits to Hagrid became more infrequent as the path towards his hut became icier and more dangerous to tread.

Professor Quirrell and I had finally started working on Hurricane magic, which was just as much a breeze (no pun intended) for me as Tempest magic was. It turned out that all the branches of the Dark Elemental Arts had spells whose incantations were similar to one another (for example, just like there was a “pestis tempestua” spell, there was a “pestis zephyrus” spell), and once I had mastered one branch, the rest would be easy. Every day Professor Quirrell told me he was “thrilled” by my progress, though he had started saying one thing in particular that confused me. He kept saying that soon, I’d be “ready.”

Every single time, I’d reply, “Ready for what, Professor Quirrell?” And every single time, he’d just smile and pat my shoulder, escorting me out of the room at the end of each lesson. I eventually gave up asking, because I clearly wasn’t going to get any answers. What was he referring to? Would I be able to take my O.W.Ls early? Was I going to be able to skip to fifth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts? Was he going to teach me something new?

As much as I wished for some way I could Meteolojinx the weather over Hogwarts to become sunnier, there was one thing about November I was looking forward to: Quidditch season. Though the thought of playing Quidditch myself scared me, I could concede that it was an incredibly exciting sport to watch, and Harry was going to play in the next Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match. Apparently, Harry was supposed to be our “secret weapon,” but the secret lasted for about two days when Ron accidentally told Lavender Brown about all of Harry’s late night practices. The news came out to mixed reactions from Gryffindors and Slytherins alike—some Gryffindors rejoiced, some Slytherins got spooked, and some Slytherins were completely skeptical, Draco being one of them.

“They should have someone running around under him, holding a mattress,” Draco scoffed.

As for our friendship with Hermione, it just kept getting better as she became less strict about us following the rules. Often, she’d ask to borrow my fourth-year textbooks to learn more about Transfiguration and D.A.D.A and Charms, and while she had her nose buried in those books, she’d let Harry, Ron, and I check our homework against hers. 

Draco and I made it a habit to study together at the library every weekday during our breaks between the end of our classes each weekday and dinnertime. One day—thankfully, Pansy Parkinson wasn’t there to crash our studying—I found myself humming absentmindedly to a Celestina Warbeck song that Gramps always had playing in the living room, “Bewitched,” and Draco interrupted me, saying, “You sound like a siren.”

His POV

Draco’s feelings had been piling up for some time, and the more time he spent with Carina Aberforth, the faster his heart seemed to beat each time he saw her after. It was getting to the point where he dreaming about her every night, and every time his mind wandered it returned to her face, her eyes.

Undoubtedly, he had a bigger crush on her than he’d had on anyone in his life. It was almost embarrassing—even Crabbe and Goyle, dense as they were, were starting to pick up on it. Crabbe had said something about how red Draco’s cheeks got after Carina hugged him goodbye a few days ago, and Goyle snickered, and Draco told them off about it. But inside, he was panicking.

Why hadn’t he said anything earlier, especially since the feelings had been festering for months now? No, no, it absolutely, definitely wasn’t because he was scared! He wanted to be strategic about it, like his father always told him. He wanted to be completely sure that Carina was in love with him too, and now, he was virtually certain. Of course, it had nothing to do with being scared.

I mean, he thought, with all the time we’re spending together, and how close we are now, there’s no way she doesn’t like me back. She always drops hanging out with Harry Potter to be with me instead, and she always comes to the Slytherin table to eat, there’s no way—

Then his stomach knotted itself when he remembered that just the day before, she and Draco had not spent any time together at all, and instead, Draco saw her around the halls laughing with Harry and his stupid friends. His mind raced, just thinking of the possibility that Carina might like Harry instead of him. It made him see red.

Then, he steeled himself, forcibly dispelling all those anxious hypotheticals out of his mind. Come on. You’re smart, you’re cool, handsome, rich. Of course she likes you. How could she not?

It was time to confess. He decided he couldn’t go in with it right away. He had to open with something—perhaps a compliment.

“You sound like a siren,” he said. He meant it. Even though he had heard her sing countless times—she had the habit of humming without realizing it, and her tone sounded as though it was made of silk. He could hardly believe that no one had ever trained her in singing.

She looked up from her book to grin at him. “Thanks, Draco.”

She returned to doing her Charms homework. 

Draco gulped. He couldn’t believe it was finally happening. He could feel beads of sweat start to form on his palms. “Can I tell you something? It’s really important.”

He felt as though he’d throw up.

She looked up from her homework again, and gazed at him with kind eyes. “What is it, Draco?”

“Well… haha. It’s—it’s kind of funny. So… um, ah… I have a—”

All of a sudden, they could hear a loud “Carina!” behind them. Two tall, lanky figures sauntered over to their desk in the library, laughing. Madam Pince shot them a nasty look.

It was Fred and George. In the silence of the library, their presence was so overwhelming that I felt some second-hand embarrassment, but I was never so happy to hear someone say my name. I hadn’t seen either of them in quite some time—I had definitely retained a lot of my crush on Fred, despite it being weeks since I last had a proper conversation with him.

“Fred, George,” I said, flustered. “Hi.”

“Our resident animal whisperer,” Fred teased, no doubt referring to our last adventure together.

“Charms expert,” said George.

“Dungeon navigator.”

“Oh, you’re doing too much,” I laughed, feeling my ability to think straight slowly dissolve. “What do you want, you two? Need me to pull you out of a sticky situation again?”

“No, no, we just came to say thanks,” Fred said. He took my hand, which instantly made my limbs freeze up. “We’re going to have a private chat somewhere else, if that’s okay, Malfoy.”

Draco said nothing, but the twins weren’t going to wait for his response anyway. 

Fred and George sat me down at a more secluded table in the library and took out what seemed to be a Daily Prophet clipping. Its headline read: THIEVES ATTEMPT TO BREAK INTO HIGH-SECURITY GRINGOTTS VAULT.

“So we’ve been trying to find out what the hell was under the trapdoor that monster was guarding,” George started.

“Fluffy, you mean.”

“The door that Fluffy was guarding. We have almost nothing to go on, except Fred brought up this genius possibility.”

“So, Carina, something happened that was all over the news a few months ago. I’m sure you can guess what it was, from the headline.”

“The break-in, yeah.”

“Well, there’s more. If you read a few paragraphs in, you’ll see that everything was actually fine, because the vault was emptied earlier that day. The 31st of July.”

I thought about it. That was the day I went to Diagon Alley. Hagrid was supposed to have come with me, but he said he was busy escorting someone “very important.” And I knew that that person was Harry Potter.

“Wait…” I said, recalling something. “When I went to Hagrid’s hut with Harry at the end of our first week of school, Harry mentioned that they went to Gringotts to empty a vault that same day.”

“I knew it!” Fred pumped his fist in the air, then high-fived his brother. “I was about to propose that whatever was in that vault might have been sent to Hogwarts.”

“How did you come up with that? It might just be a coincidence.”

“Well. If you think about it, my friend…” Fred started highlighting various dates and sentences in the article. “July 31st. Just before the school year starts. And everyone knows Hogwarts is the safest place on Earth.”

“That’s still almost nothing,” George said. 

“Better than nothing.”

“Whatever,” George conceded. “But what you said, Carina, about Hagrid emptying the vault on July 31st—that can’t be a coincidence.”

“Wait a second. I never said that Hagrid emptied that vault, the one that was broken into. I said Hagrid emptied a vault on July 31st. What if that was a coincidence too?”

“You’re right. Maybe we should put our heads together and involve Harry, get to Hagrid somehow. He’ll definitely know more about this.”

George pulled out a notebook and started jotting something down. “This is perfect. Talk to you about it tomorrow. Make sure Harry’s there. I guess Ron can come too, Harry probably tells him everything he hears anyway.”

“By the way, are you coming to the Quidditch game tomorrow?” asked Fred. “It’s pretty big. We’re the team’s Beaters, and Harry’ll be playing Seeker, too.”

I grinned. “No way I’m missing tomorrow’s match.”

“Good to hear. And one more thing.”

Fred pulled out something small from his bag and laid it on the table in front of me. It was a packet of seeds.

“Ron tells us you’re a natural at Herbology,” George said. “Pun intended.”

“We went exploring through the Dark Forest a bit ago and found this in a cache someone made. We took some out and were trying forever to get them to grow, but they never did,” explained Fred. “Thought you might have better luck with it.”

“Do with them as you please,” said George. “Our gift. We probably would’ve gotten eaten by that mon—I mean, Fluffy—if you weren’t there.”

“Consider it your salary for being part of the Fred & George Exploration Company,” Fred joked.

I held the packet of seeds in my hand. They were warm.

His POV

Draco would never admit it, but that night, he shed a few tears into his pillow. After all, it was so clear, wasn’t it? It was as clear as day that Carina Aberforth liked Fred Weasley, not him. Fred Weasley! Or was it George? Regardless, it was one of the Weasley kids twins she liked, those pathetic kids from that Muggle-obsessed, blood traitor family. They were poor! But Carina was clearly blushing, and Fred Weasley had clearly taken her hand, and things had clearly happened between them. 

What’s wrong with me? Draco wondered, tossing and turning in his bed. It was probably Potter, that damned idiot. He probably told her something bad about me that scared her away. Or maybe she thinks Fred’s more attractive than I am. Maybe she likes boys with ginger hair? 

Regardless, he knew he could not, under any circumstances, show weakness about it, or he might lose her entirely. As his father always said, to show weakness is weakness itself. If Crabbe and Goyle found out that Draco was capable of feeling sad, they’d smell blood instantly and lose respect for him, surely. So the only thing left to do was push it down.

That night, my heart soared at the thought of having received a gift from Fred Weasley. The first thing after I came back from dinner that day, I asked Professor Sprout for some gardening supplies, which she happily gave to me, and planted the seeds—which, interestingly, never lost their warmth—inside a small pot that I left by my windowsill. Even though I had tried to do some research in my Herbology textbook what those seeds were, I couldn’t find any answers, so I gave the seeds the classic treatment of some water and magical soil. I vowed to find some way to sprout the plants by the end of the semester.

Fred, George, Ron, Harry, Hermione, and I sat together that morning right before the Quidditch match. To be honest, it was probably the worst morning we could’ve picked to drop news like that onto Harry—he was so nervous for the game that his skin looked paper white. But whatever he was too antsy to say, Ron filled us in on. He explained to us how Harry had tried to get his book Quidditch Through the Ages back from Snape and walked in on Filch patching up Snape’s wounds. The craziest part: Snape had said, “How are you supposed to keep your eyes on three heads at once?”

“No way that’s a coincidence!” I exclaimed, and Hermione had to shush me. 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put it past Snape to try and sneak off with whatever was underneath that trapdoor,” Fred remarked, musing.

“But it still leaves us with the question of what the hell’s behind that door,” Harry said grimly. 

And we had zero leads for the answer to that, so we concluded the conversation and agreed that asking Hagrid was probably our best bet. Harry and I agreed to try to squeeze that information out of him later, perhaps after the game.

I knew Quidditch was big, but not this big. When Ron, Hermione, Neville, Seamus, Dean, and I finally pushed our way to our seats in the Quidditch stands, I looked out over the stadium—pretty much the whole school had shown up. Using one of the sheets Scabbers, Ron’s rat, had ruined, we created a huge banner for Harry that read “Potter for President”—Dean had drawn an amazing lion on it, and Hermione enchanted it so that the lion flashed different colors. As for my contribution, I brought a Muggle trinket from Gramps’ office that amplified my voice—he told me it was called a “megaphone” or something. That way, when we chanted our support for Harry, he’d be able to hear us over the screaming crowds.

The game was off to a pretty good start, with Gryffindor scoring a few times with the Quaffle. Lee Jordan was adding his own funny commentary with Professor McGonagall at his side. 

Then, Slytherin’s captain Marcus Flint very obviously fouled Harry by nearly knocking him out of the air as he was attempting to catch that little fleck of gold that had whizzed by the Gryffindor stands. All of us groaned at the light punishment that Slytherin got for it, a single free shot at their goal. 

Then I noticed something weird. After focusing on the intense back-and-forth between Alicia Spinnet and Adrian Pucey, I looked back at Harry and noticed that his broom looked as though it was trying to buck him off. At first, I thought it was some strange play that the Gryffindors had come up with, but after studying Harry’s horrified face, I realized it was real.

“Harry’s broom is bewitched somehow,” I said frantically to Ron and Hermione. Soon, more and more people started to realize and began pointing at his rogue Nimbus Two Thousand. 

Hermione snatched my binoculars and started looking through the crowd. “It’s Snape—I knew it!”

To his dismay, I snatched Dean’s binoculars and found Snape in the teachers’ box of the stands. She was right—he was uttering something suspicious, his eyes not breaking contact with Harry’s broom. 

“He’s jinxing the broom,” I said. “Hermione, if you want to stop him, you’ll need to distract him somehow.”

She nodded, a fierce, determined look in her eyes. “Leave it to me.”

“I’ll cover you.”

Ron and I kept track of Hermione as she weaved through the crowd towards Snape—thankfully, no one blocked her way as she got to the space between Snape’s seat and whispered the Fire Charm, her wand pointed at the hem of his robes. It took him a little while to realize he was on fire, but once he did, I witnessed as he let out a great yelp and Harry’s broom returned to his control. 

Harry lurched back towards the ground and then, something surprising happened: the Snitch popped out of his mouth, perfectly intact. Somehow, in the commotion, Harry had gotten hold of it. 

He yelled in confusion and awe, “I’ve got it!”

We had won. We had won!

All the adrenaline replaced by the sheer joy of victory, Hermione, Ron, and I cheered with all the capacity in our lungs, even though it definitely got drowned out by the sound of hundreds of jubilant Gryffindors who had finally seen their first win in a painfully long time. I hadn’t felt a rush like that in my entire life. And it was all thanks to Harry!

I made a mental note to attend more Quidditch games in the future.

When Hermione, Ron, and I reunited with Harry after the game, we gave him a gigantic hug and a million compliments. Even though it had been over twenty minutes since the game ended, I could still hear Marcus Flint groaning about how Harry “didn’t really get the Snitch, he swallowed it!” 

“That was some insane playing,” I said with a big smile. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied, giving high fives to some excited spectators. “Happy as all hell.”

After Harry, who was now Gryffindor’s biggest celebrity, chatted with some people who gushed about how Gryffindor was destined to win the House Cup this year, the four of us made our way to Hagrid’s hut, where the next exciting—though more daunting—event awaited us. We needed to somehow extract information from Hagrid about what in the world Fluffy was guarding. 

When we all sat down, though, it seemed like I was the only one who remembered our mission. Perhaps the others’ memories had been wiped after the overwhelming game. But then they started talking about Snape—and how he had been cursing Harry’s broomstick.

“He’s always been suspicious,” I blurted. “Especially after he tried to break into Fluffy’s room in the castle!”

Hagrid dropped his teapot.

“How do you know where they decided to put Fluffy?” he demanded. 

“Fluffy?” Ron inquired.

“That’s the name of the three-headed dog that was in the third-floor corridor,” I explained.

“Carina, that’s secret information yer givin’ out, mind!”

“You locked him up, Hagrid!”

“No, no, of course not! He’s only there for a little while, to guard the—”

All four of us looked at him expectantly. Disappointingly, he shut his mouth just before he finished his sentence.

“Now, don’t ask me anymore,” Hagrid said gruffly.

“Whatever Fluffy’s guarding, Snape’s trying to steal it,” said Harry.

“Rubbish,” said Hagrid again. “Snape’s a Hogwarts teacher, he’d do nothin’ of the sort."

“So why did he just try and kill Harry?” cried Hermione. “I know a jinx when I see one, Hagrid, I’ve read all about them! You’ve got to keep eye contact, and Snape wasn’t blinking at all, I saw him!”

“I'm tellin’ yeh, yer wrong!” said Hagrid hotly. “I don’ know why Harry’s broom acted like that, but Snape wouldn’ try an’ kill a student! Now, listen to me, all three of yeh -- yer meddlin’ in things that don’ concern yeh. It’s dangerous. You forget that dog, an’ you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore an’ Nicolas Flamel—”

“Aha!” said Harry, “so there’s someone called Nicolas Flamel involved, isn’t there?”

Hagrid huffed, furious with himself.