The Three Brothers - Chapter 14

9th February 1992

“I’ve found him!” Harry exclaimed, holding up the chocolate frog card in his hand. “I’ve found Flamel!”

A few odd looks greeted him from some of the older students in the common room, but both Ron and Hermione beamed in excitement. Ever since Hermione had returned from the Christmas Holidays and expressed her disappointment about the lack of progress in the search for the mysterious Nicolas Flamel, the three of them had spent all their free time combing through the many books in the library. But they had struck no luck; at least not until now, almost a month in the new term.

“I told you I had seen the name somewhere,” Harry whispered in excitement as he sat beside Ron. “It was on Dumbledore’s Chocolate Frog Card. Listen to this: ‘Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel.’ See?”

As Harry finished, Hermione shot up from her seat and barrelled towards the girl’s dorms, much to his and Ron’s surprise. She returned after a minute, huffing as she carried a large old book in her arms before she sat beside Harry and began to frantically flick through the pages.

“What exactly—”

“Sssshhh!” Hermione shushed Ron before he could speak any further, her eyes bȧrėly leaving the book in her ŀȧp. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to both Harry and Ron, she finally broke the silence.

“I knew it! I knew it!”

“Are we allowed to speak yet?” Ron asked in exasperation.

“I never thought to look in here!” Hermione continued excitedly, “I checked this out of the library a few weeks ago for a bit of light reading.”

“And?”

“Nicolas Flamel,” she whispered dramatically, “is the only known maker of the Philosopher’s Stone!”

Two dumb looks greeted her. Harry finally broke the silence,

“The what?”

“Oh, honestly,” she said with a sigh. “Look—just read this passage”

She pushed the book towards them, and they leaned over it.

The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Philosopher’s Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. The Stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.

There have been many reports of the Philosopher’s Stone over the centuries, but the only Stone currently in existence belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel, the noted alchemist and opera lover. Mr. Flamel, who celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year, enjoys a quiet life in Devon with his wife, Perenelle (six hundred and fifty-eight).

They finished and sat straight, digesting the new information.

“— is the thing that Fluffy’s guarding. I bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to keep it safe for him, because they’re friends and he suspected that someone was after it.”

“He must have wanted the stone moved out of Gringotts,” Ron exclaimed. “And he was right, wasn’t he? The vault was broken into!” Harry nodded in agreement.

“A Stone that can make you immortal and makes as much gold as you want!” he said. “No wonder Snape wants it! Anyone would!”

Hermione nodded slowly, her usual politeness towards Snape notably absent. Ron spoke in an amused tone.

“And no wonder we didn’t find Flamel in the Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. The bloke’s not exactly recent if he’s six hundred and sixty-five, is he?”

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“Where exactly are you leading us?” Neville asked Fred as they shuffled along the wide stone corridors of the castle. The two of them, along with Mark and George had spent the entire morning practising music in the unused classroom—or rather their ‘clubhouse’, as they now preferred to call it—that Professor McGonagall had allowed them to use. As a result, they had managed to miss breakfast and were now headed to someplace the Twins claimed they could get some food.

“Where is your sense of adventure, oh young one?” asked Fred in a deep voice, bȧrėly turning to look back at Neville. “Relax. We—your elders, that is—are guiding you to the heart of Hogwarts. The kitchens.”

“Kitchens?” asked Mark disbelievingly. “You guys know how to get to the kitchens?”

Plus, his Gran wasn’t exactly helping the situation entirely. At least she was proud he was in Gryffindor. But other than that, his performance wasn’t what she had been hoping for. She had shown some pŀėȧsurė when he mentioned learning music again, but again, playing the drums wasn’t what she had been hoping for. It seemed Neville was dead set in not doing the things she was hoping for. Neville tried to push it out of his mind as he tried focusing on the present instead.

The music practice was going better than he had expected. In a surprise to no-one, Mark was a better teacher than he had claimed he would be. It was as if he could tell what they were thinking while making a mistake—he would direct Neville precisely towards the root of the problem—usually his posture—and voila, the problem would vanish away.

The clubhouse itself was quite cosy. After a lot of cleaning—both by brooms and cleaning charms—and soundproofing—thanks to special charms that Lee Jordan, the twin’s friend, taught them—the abandoned classroom had been made usable. Mark had brought in more guitars (and a xylophone) from his home, and a few burnt cauldrons were transfigured into a drumkit by the Twins and Lee.

Professor McGonagall had inspected the room after their efforts in her usual intimidating demeanour and finally approved their endeavour. Neville had found himself sweating with nervousness the entire time; frankly, he didn’t know how Fred or Mark could crack jokes in front of their stern professor.

Neville found himself pulled from his thoughts as the four of them reached the Hufflepuff dorms.

Before he could ask what they were doing here, Fred approached a large painting on the wall. It was a picture of a large silver bowl full of fruits, its colours slightly faded out over the years. Fred reached out and touched the painting lightly, ċȧrėssing it gently, and to Neville’s surprise, the pear in the painting giggled before turning into a doorknob.

“Welcome to the kitchens,” announced George. “To gain entry, you must tickle the pear.”

Both Neville and Mark had their mouths hung open in surprise as they walked inside. The sight that greeted them was simply spectacular. The kitchens were huge. On one side, there were five tables laden with food—arranged in a layout identical to the one in the Great Hall, while the other side was filled with areas for cooking and storage. Neville realised that the tables were for sending the food up in the great hall through magic—or more accurately, house-elf magic.

As he walked with his friends to one of the tables near the pantry, his eyes studied the small hurrying figures of the house-elves that were running around the kitchen. The little creatures with large ball-like eyes and batty ears were familiar to Neville; his great uncle Algie had a house-elf in his service that he had known since he was five.

“Oh, admit it, you love us Tippy,” Fred retorted teasingly, making the little elf’s cheeks green.

“Now eat,” the elf said before moving on to work again.

“I didn’t know Hogwarts had house-elves,” Mark commented, grabbing some chips.

“Yeah, they run the place. Food, cleaning, laundry, you name it” George answered

“But why have I not noticed them before?”

“That means they’re doing their job well,” Neville answered. On seeing Mark’s confusion, he clarified further, “It’s a sign of a good elf, to not be seen.” Mark nodded slowly at this.

“None of our books mention anything about them. Do they get paid or are they like slaves?”

George immediately hushed him.

“Don’t ever mention pay in front of them,” he hissed. “They work because they like to work, and in exchange, their magic is enhanced by the Master.”

“Yeah, we know a few things,” Fred said pompously, “Our grades may say otherwise, but that’s the truth.”

“You throw away your marks to get a reaction out of your mother,” Mark said, to the surprise of Neville. “I’m not stupid. You guys are able to brew NEWT level potions in your third year. You think I didn’t notice the shrinking solution you used in your pranks?”

Neville turned to see the gobsmacked looks on Fred and George’s face, and couldn’t help but snicker.

“You caught us,” they said finally, raising their hands. “No trying to hide it.” They looked at each other as if deciding something. Finally, it was George who spoke.

“We want to open a joke shop when we leave Hogwarts.”

“What?” Neville asked in disbelief. Whatever he thought their reason might have been, this hadn’t been it.

“No shit,” said Mark. With a thoughtful look on his face, he continued, “You guys are serious.”

“Like—like work at Zonko’s?” Neville asked.

“No. Our own shop. We even thought of a name for it —” George said in the most serious tone Neville had ever seen him use.

“So, what’s the issue?” Mark asked, “Your mother doesn’t like that?”

Fred snorted at that. “She’d have kittens if she found out. No, she wants us to work in the ministry, just like Percy.” He answered dejectedly, “And anyway, it’s just a dream.”

“It’ll work out,” Mark said sympathetically, “You’ve still got four more years.”

They both nodded. An awkward silence followed

“So, do you guys have a date for Valentine’s day?”

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14th February 1992

A loud thud from outside the door had Harry burrowing deeper in his blankets. Of all the things that could have happened to him at Hogwarts, this was the one he had expected the least.

The day had begun like every other at Hogwarts; once he’d gotten dressed, he’d proceeded to the Great Hall for breakfast. It was when he had arrived in the Great Hall that he had noticed multiple pairs of eyes on him; specifically, those belonging to the many girls at Hogwarts. It was only when he realised it was Valentines Day that it made some sense to him. Yet, he wasn’t prepared at all for what had followed. Within a few minutes, Harry found himself hounded by girls—older girls asking to be his valentines.

Of course, Harry was surprised by this. In his life before Hogwarts, no one had bothered giving him a second look, except to comment on the shabbiness of his attire. Uncle Vernon had even remarked on occasion that no sane girl would ever want a freak like him. Harry hadn’t commented on his insults, but he hadn’t disagreed with them. After all, why would anyone bother with him?

So here he was, hiding in his dorms, away from all the girls who wanted to be seen with ‘The Harry Potter’. Harry was thankful for Ron—the boy hadn’t teased Harry but rather shared in his discomfort, helping him to escape to the dorms after classes. They had ended up chatting on their beds for a while, discussing what they would do if the had the Philosophers Stone, and what the upcoming match against Hufflepuff was going to be like.

The whole of Gryffindor House had been in an uproar earlier yesterday when it had been told that Snape was going to referee the match. After their last victory, Gryffindor was gaining a lead in the House Cup, catching up to Slytherin. Technically since Slytherin was not one of the teams playing, Snape was expected to be impartial in his refereeing. But this was Snape.

Harry, however, had other worries. Snape had tried to kill him from the stands in the last match, and he was most likely to try again this time, now that he could get to Harry easily in the air. Hermione suggested feigning an injury to get out of the match; Ron even went as far as to suggest him to actually break a limb, but Harry did not agree. Against their protests, Harry decided that he would be playing, since he didn’t want the Slytherins to have something to further mock him.

He just hoped he would make it out alive.

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16th February 1992

Mark rubbed his eyes as he closed the book in front of him. He’d been reading the Standard Book of Spells Grade 4, more specifically the summoning charm.

It had actually come up when he’d been feeling too lazy to get up from the armchair in the common room and get his books from his trunk. He had asked Percy, who had been sitting nearby if a spell could do that. In a long winding explanation that included wizarding etiquettes about laziness that had followed, Mark had come to know of the rather nifty charm.

He had spent all day after class reading up on the fourth-year spell in the library. Checking his watch, he saw that he had missed dinner. He immediately remembered the kitchens.

Happy that he had a reliable source of food, he set off towards it. On his way, he pondered over the interesting subject of making spells. The wand movement for the summoning charm that he had read had been fairly simple, however, it was the power draw pattern that had been intriguing.

For all the other spells they had learnt, the power draw pattern was either a point at the wand tip, like the light from a bulb, or a linear projection like the beam of a torch. The summoning charm, however, had a power draw pattern like a doughnut.

The main reason that it was a spell reserved until the fourth year was this; the pattern was not easy to master at all. From the notes that he found in the library, most students took a couple of weeks to get the hang of it.

Mark was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost walked past the entrance to the kitchens. As he’d seen Fred do earlier, he tickled the pear and went inside. He asked for some food, and was immediately served a small banquet to his feeble protests by the elves. Looking at his eager little hosts he wondered aloud.

“Have you guys had your dinner yet? Why don’t you join me?”

His innocent question was met by what he figured were scandalised looks. ‘Shit,’ he thought. His question must have somehow offended them. He decided to look into their minds for answers.

What he found was most interesting. The minds of the house-elves were very different than humans.

He found different layers of thoughts, protected by some sort of intruder protections. However, it was constructed in a bizarre fashion — The most private thoughts and the most public thoughts were the most easily accessible, with the layers in the middle almost impenetrable to him.

‘The knowledge about their masters is the most heavily protected,’ he concluded. ‘It’s as if there is some magic protecting the bond between the elf and its master.’ He shook these thoughts, shelving them for rumination.

“I meant no offence,” he tried to placate the elves. “I just wished to imply that I would not mind your company.”

“It is very kinds of you, Master Smith,” one of the elves said, “But it is not proper for a elf to consider itself equal —”

“As you wish,” Mark said. “Please do whatever you’re comfortable with.”

The elves seemed torn at this. Finally, one of them signalled the others, who then left. The lone elf spoke.

“Corky will provide you with company, Master Smith”

Mark smiled as he ate his sandwich. “Thanks, Corky.” After munching some more, he asked

“So Corky, how old are you?”

“Corky is being sixteen human years, sir”

“Huh. And how long — how long does a house-elf live for?”

Corky thought for a few moments, before replying.

“It can be from eighty to two hundred of your years, sir”

“Two hundred?! Really?”

“Yes, sir”

“How long have you worked at Hogwarts?”

“I was born here Master Smith”

“Then you must know the castle like the back of your hand. Do you know any secrets? Something to tell your new friend, perhaps?” Mark asked in an amused tone.

Corky, however, took the question seriously, and immediately answered

“We is bound not to share Hogwarts secrets.” Corky took a pause, before adding slowly, “But there is a place that is not a secret. None of the wizard masters know about it. You sees, it is being forgotten”

Mark’s interest was piqued.

“Really? Will you tell me?” He asked in the politest tone he could muster. Corky nodded slowly

“On the sixth floor, near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, there is being a secret room.” There was a pause before the instructions continued.

“It becomes whatever you wishes it to be. You walks in front of it three times thinking about what you wants and the room comes”

“You’re kidding!” Mark hissed excitedly.

“We house-elf cannot lie Master Smith” the elf replied, in an offended tone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I was just surprised. What’s this room called?”

Corky seemed to be satisfied with the clarification, and answered,

“We elves is calling it the Come-And-Go-Room”

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