Harry looked at the other boys. They were all tall and athletic, and they now ranged about him in a semi-circle, effectively trapping him. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked, his nervousness increasing. What could a bunch of upper years from a different House want with him?

Jeffreys smiled wider and gave his shoulders a little squeeze. “What do you know about your father, Potter?”

“My dad?” Harry echoed blankly, wondering if they were talking about James Potter or Professor Snape. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious as to whether you know what an utter wanker he was!” Jeffreys snarled, dropping the friendly mask and shoving Harry hard enough to knock him into one of the other boys.

“He was not!” Harry protested automatically, even as he fought to pull free of the older student. The Ravenclaw held him easily, his hands tightening painfully around Harry’s biceps. “Leggo!”

“Not just yet, Potter,” Jeffreys smirked. “You got him, Smythe?”

“He’s not going anywhere,” the boy holding Harry assured him.

“Leggo!” Harry said again, his voice getting louder. "Gerroff me!"

“Silencio!” One of the other two boys waved his wand at Harry and though Harry tried his hardest, no sound came from his throat.

“Thanks, O’Leary. We can’t have someone overhearing and crashing our party,” Jeffreys said, pretending to pat Harry’s head, then giving his hair a nasty yank.

Harry’s yelp was – of course – silenced, as was the imprecation he snarled at the other boy.

Jeffers was apparently skilled enough to read lips – at least for that word – and he slapped Harry across the face, hard enough to send his glasses flying.

“Hey, now wait!” the last Ravenclaw burst out, sounding alarmed. “I didn’t think you were going to really hurt him!”

“Shut up, Peterson,” Jeffreys snapped. “This little toerag’s old man sent my father to Azkaban, and I intend to make him pay. Besides, we have him personally to thank for the Dark Lord’s defeat, and without that, your uncle and Smythe’s parents wouldn’t have been chased out of the country by Aurors or killed like O’Leary’s mum.”

Harry wasn’t quite sure what Jeffreys was talking about. He was slowly learning about Voldemort and Death Eaters and what exactly had happened a decade ago when his parents were killed. He understood that Jeffreys held him responsible for something his father had done, and that the other boys’ relatives appeared to have been Voldemort supporters who regretted the way the war had turned out. Why exactly that translated into a desire to beat the snot out of him, he didn’t understand, but at this point he was past caring about their motivation.

Professor Snape’s words about defending himself came back to him, and he grabbed his wand. He couldn’t do much with it yet, and Smythe still held him by the arms, but he felt better with it in his hand. “Get OFF!” he yelled again – silently – and threw himself to the side, hoping to wrench himself free.

He got one arm – his wand arm - free and began to flail and kick. Jeffreys cursed and reached for him, getting an elbow in the nose for his pains. Smythe hung onto his one arm like grim death, and O’Leary stepped forward, raising his wand again.

“Accio wand!” shouted Harry, unsure whether he had learned the new spell well enough for it to work, let alone whether it would be effective when he was under a Silencing spell, but to his intense gratification O’Leary’s wand jerked uncontrollably and the hex he had been aiming at Harry hit Peterson instead. Peterson went down with a yelp of surprise, both legs locked together, and banged his chin on the floor.

Harry spun around and kicked Smythe hard in the shins, hoping to force him to turn loose, but the older boy punched him in the stomach, and Harry dropped to his knees, gasping for air. He barely managed to keep hold of his wand.

“Good work,” Jeffreys panted, wiping the blood off his face and staring at Harry with a murderous expression. “Let’s get him up and move someplace nice and quiet.”

“Wait,” Peterson bleated from the floor where O’Leary was trying to reverse his hex. “What’s the point of dragging him away? What do you think will happen to us when he gets back and tells one of the professors what we did to him?”

“He’s not going to get back,” Jeffreys retorted with such chilling certainty in his tone that Harry knew exactly what he meant, and despite the pain in his stomach, he fought like a wild thing when Jeffreys grabbed his collar.

“Stop that!” A new voice rang out in the corridor, and for an instant, everyone froze. “Fighting in the corridors is prohibited! Hogwarts: A History clearly says so!”

For the first time ever, Harry was delighted to see Hermione Granger, officious know-it-all though she might be. He struggled and waved his arms frantically even as he yelled - inaudibly - at her to run for help.

“Harry? Is that you? What are you doing? You’re going to lose us House points if a professor sees you fighting.”

Jeffreys stared at the bushy haired girl with disgust. “Get rid of her,” he snapped at Smythe, tightening his grip on Harry.

“My pleasure,” the other replied with a roll of his eyes. “Move it, ugly,” he ordered, looming over the first year.

Hermione stiffened, and she couldn’t completely hide the hurt in her tone as she replied stoutly, “I’m not going anywhere without Harry. What are you doing to him? Leave him alone!”

Smythe snarled an extremely rude word and, placing his hand over Hermione’s face, shoved with all his strength. She tumbled backwards and yelped as her backside connected painfully with the stone floor. Smythe stood over her and let out an amused chuckle at the tears in her eyes. “Not such a bossy little cow now, are you?” he taunted. Seeing the girl hurt made Harry fight even more strongly, mouthing curses at their attackers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of blond hair, but the small form – was that Malfoy? – wasted no time in quitting the vicinity.

Harry more than half-expected Hermione to flee before the older boy followed up his initial assault, but Hermione was made of sterner stuff than that. She rolled over onto her side, as if she were about to scramble away, but instead she abruptly shot out her foot and kicked Smythe squarely on the side of his kneecap. The large boy let out a howl of agony as his leg flew out from under him – the joint forced in a highly unnatural direction – and he collapsed to the ground. Unfortunately, he fell directly on top of Hermione, who was knocked flat with a squeak of distress.

Jeffreys grabbed Harry by the front of his robes and all but threw him into the wall. The back of Harry’s skull cracked against the stone, and the world disappeared for a moment in a blaze of white hot agony. By the time he struggled back to awareness, O’Leary had gotten Peterson back on his feet, and Jeffreys was struggling to pick Harry up bodily. “Get his legs!” he ordered Peterson. “Let’s get out of here!”

Peterson obeyed, snatching Harry’s ankles and lifting so that the boy was suspended between the two Ravenclaws. “Hex him!” Jeffreys ordered O’Leary. “Something good and nasty so he quits fighting!”

Harry had lost his wand, but he was far from helpless. He squirmed madly, putting his Harry-hunting experience to good use. He got one foot free and kicked Peterson in the jaw, throwing him backwards into O’Leary and causing both of them to fall.

“Hey!” Ron had come out of the Great Hall to find Harry and caught sight of the melee. He took one look and darted into the Hall, yelling for his brothers, then tore back to the fray to help his Housemates.

As he arrived, Ron saw that Harry had nearly fought free of Jeffrey’s grip. Smythe, however, had managed to shake off the pain from his knee long enough to grab Hermione by the hair as she tried to wiggle out from underneath him. The girl let out a shriek of pain as the older student brutally yanked her back, then threw up her hands defensively as he raised his fist to punch her. Ron hurled himself on top of the larger boy, forcing him to release his grip on Hermione but also - once again - squashing the poor girl beneath the boys' struggling forms. Ron grabbed Smythe’s wrist, preventing him from striking Hermione, while Hermione managed to drive her elbow into Smythe's solar plexus as she struggled to get away.

Jeffreys swore as he saw his allies fall. “You little bastard!” He grabbed Harry by the throat and pinned him against the wall. Harry choked, clawing at the older boy’s grip. He dimly saw Jeffreys draw back his fist and knew that he had no hope of blocking the punch to his face.

“Let the Firstie go,” a new voice ground out, very deep and very menacing. The pressure on Harry’s throat abruptly eased, and as he desperately dragged in a much-needed lungful of air, he saw that the tip of a wand was digging into Jeffreys’ neck, just below his ear. Attached to the other end of the wand was a very large and angry-looking Marcus Flint. Harry recognized him as a Slytherin prefect and Quidditch team member, because Oliver Wood had once pointed him out when the Gryffindors were turning the pitch over to the Slytherins. Wood’s exact words had been “He’s a right mean bugger, so keep an eye out for him!” and looking at Flint’s malevolent expression, Harry had no reason to doubt Wood’s assessment.

Meanwhile, Ron’s timely intervention had prevented Smythe from further harming Hermione, but the burly seventh-year had managed to shrug off the smaller children’s blows. He grabbed Ron by his shirtfront while his other hand snatched out his wand. Ron’s blood ran cold as Smythe leveled the wand between his eyes and snarled, “Cruc—“

Before Smythe could finish the spell, another body cannoned into him, knocking his wand from his grasp and aborting the Unforgiveable. Things deteriorated into a free-for-all at that point, and everything became a blur. Ron had no idea who had saved him, but he assumed it was one of his brothers – a suspicion which grew stronger when he heard Smythe grunt in satisfaction and a new, masculine voice wail in pain. Ron promptly sank his teeth into the wrist that he still held and had the pleasure of hearing Smythe yelp while the other person’s pained cry cut off. A trousers-clad pair of legs squirmed past his vision, narrowly avoiding kicking him in the head and confirming that there was at least one other boy assisting him in the fight. Then Hermione managed to grab two handfuls of Smythe’s hair and slammed the older boy’s head against the floor. He groaned and went limp, and Ron seized the opportunity to pin both his wrists together and lie on top of them. Only then did he lift his head and look around.

Hermione was kneeling by Smythe’s head, rumpled and breathing hard, with a grim light of battle in her eyes. Smythe was groaning but not putting up much of a fight – yet – and Ron looked around to see which of his brothers had come to his aid.

His jaw dropped. There, sitting with both knees firmly planted in Smythe’s midriff was Draco Malfoy. For once the Slytherin’s immaculate coiffure was disheveled, and he had a split lip. “Malfoy!” Ron yelped incredulously. “Was that you?"

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could snatch them back. Of all the stupid things to say! But amazingly, for once Malfoy didn’t sneer. “You didn’t think we’d let you defend a Slytherin Firstie without help, did you?” he asked, glaring at Smythe. “Hey, Granger, how about slamming his head into the floor again? I think he might be waking up.”

Ron was too dazed to follow up Malfoy’s inexplicable statement, so he turned to see what else had happened while he'd been distracted. He saw that a big Slytherin prefect held the one who’d been manhandling Harry at wandpoint, while Fred and George had a third in a headlock which Ron knew from painful experience was extremely effective. The last of Harry’s assailants was cowering away from a tall dark-skinned girl with a Slytherin prefect’s badge on her robe.

Even as it became clear that the scuffle was over, more students came hurrying up, drawn from the Great Hall by the commotion. Ron saw Percy, Oliver Wood and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and even timid Neville Longbottom approaching at a dead run. Making matters even more interesting, a sizable number of Slytherins had already arrived and, with wands drawn, were reinforcing their prefects.

Ron noticed that as the others drew up, Flint and the girl (Jones? Jonas?) snapped out orders that had the Slytherins forming an efficient defensive perimeter. The Gryffindors were less organized, tending to mill about and demand answers rather than cede authority to any single individual. Since Percy was the only Gryffindor prefect present, Ron couldn't really blame the other Gryffindors for being unwilling to take orders from him. Oliver Wood, however, quickly appreciated the utility of the Slytherins’ approach, and he immediately had the Quidditch team emulate the other House’s maneuvers. The rest of the Gryffindors followed suit, and soon there was not only a mixed group standing guard against further attacks, but each of the attackers was now covered by at least two people.

“You ****** little Mudblood ****,” Smythe growled at Hermione as his head cleared and he realized that, thanks to her interference, their plan to attack Harry had failed.

Hermione’s lips tightened as she slowly stood up. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” she retorted, though her voice trembled a bit. Then she took two steps to her left and brought her heel down sharply. Smythe’s wand snapped in two beneath her foot, and the older boy let out a howl of anguish. “Oh, dear,” Hermione said sweetly. “How clumsy of me. I suppose that as a Mudblood, I keep forgetting how fragile wands are.”

The other students stared at Hermione with mingled awe and dread. Snapping someone’s wand was the schoolyard equivalent of a nuclear strike. Smythe’s whimpers of disbelief were the only sound for several seconds, then: “Good going, Firstie,” Jones, the Slytherin prefect, said admiringly.

That broke the silence. “Let go of me,” Jeffreys demanded, a not inconsiderable feat of bravado considering that Flint’s wand was still digging painfully into his neck. “This has nothing to do with you or your snakes, Flint.”

Flint snorted. “You went after one of our Firsties. That bloody well is our business.”

“That Malfoy brat had no business interfering with Smythe,” Jeffreys argued. “He deserved the pasting he got.”

Flint glanced over at Draco and grinned. “Looks like it was Smythe who got the pasting,” he shot back. “And I was talking about Potter.”

Jeffreys and the other Ravenclaws stared at Flint, as did the Gryffindors. “What? Potter’s a lion, not a snake.”

Flint shrugged. “He belongs to our Head, that makes him a snake. Touch him and die.”

“What the ***** are you on about?” Jeffreys bellowed furiously. “He’s the sodding Boy Who Lived, you ***** moron! You Slytherins should be lining up to kill him!”

Harry trembled at the depth of hatred in the other boy’s eyes, and Flint gave him a quick, assessing look. “Wood, come get your Seeker away from this mad bugger, would you?"

Oliver hurried over and pulled Harry away. He patted Harry’s back reassuringly, and Katie Bell, another Quidditch teammate, came up on Harry’s other side, enfolding him in a half-hug and handing him back his miraculously unbroken glasses. “It’s okay, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “Everything’s under control.”

“You ********!” Jeffreys continued to rant, and finally Jones had had enough.

Jones snapped her finger and gestured commandingly at Percy. “Here, you! Percy – stop standing around looking useless and keep this waste of space covered,” she ordered, gesturing at Peterson.

“Erm – well, yes. Yes, of course!” Percy hastily obeyed, nonplused by both the peremptory order and the fact that the beautiful seventh year knew his name.

“Firstie – yes, you. Come over here,” Jones beckoned Hermione to her side and stepped closer to where Jeffreys was still raving at Flint. “Right – this is a good spell to learn. Ready? Watch my wand.” She raised her wand and pointed it at Jeffreys. “Castrato ex-“

“NO!” Every upper level male in the vicinity yelled and hunched over, and Jeffreys paled to the same shade as the stone wall.

Jones sighed. “Oh, all right. I’ll teach you later,” she promised Hermione. “As for you, you cowardly shite, pipe down, or I’ll hex it right off you! Snip-snip!”

No one had to ask what she meant by ‘it’, and Jeffreys subsided, eyes wide and hands clutching himself protectively.

Flint rolled his eyes at Wood. “Witches!” But he said it quietly.