The Three Brothers

8th November 1991

Neville rocked his head to the song as Mark shredded on his guitar. It would have been better if Mark wasn't singing in a terrible off-key voice; then again, the upturned cauldron that Neville was banging with a stirring spoon wasn't exactly a proper set of drums. It was doing its job—to provide a beat for Mark to play along, and allowing Neville to experience a freedom that he hadn't been able to experience before.

Growing up under the watchful eye of his Gran, Neville hadn't exactly had an opportunity to let loose.

Even when he had tried learning the piano at his Gran's insistence, there was the shadow of his father looming above him. Of how Frank Longbottom was a natural at it. Of how Frank Longbottom was the pinnacle of dignity and grace during his performances—as well as everything else. Of course, Neville hadn't been able to keep up—his clumsy fingers and apparent resistance to learning a delicate craft like playing the piano had crashed any dreams that his Gran had of him succeeding his father's legacy.

No, growing up as he had, Neville had only managed to find his freedom amongst the plants. It was there that he was left alone; to explore what he wanted to explore. To make mistakes without anyone looking over his shoulder, and be able to learn from them as per his will. To feel free.

It wasn't until he met Mark and Fred and George that Neville came to the realisation that he hadn't really experienced freedom. If the time he spent in his greenhouse was akin to roaming free on the mountainside, spending time with his friends was like jumping off from a cliff into a lake. That was what he had been missing—pure adrenaline. Even now, banging away with abandon on the cauldron in front of him was just that—full of adrenaline.

"Hey Gred, what's taking you so long …"

Neville looked up at the interruption to see Fred standing gobsmacked at the door of their dormitory. George was standing just behind him, with a similarly awe-filled expression on his identical face. Their presence disturbed Neville's rhythm, and Mark—who had been jumping on his bed while holding his guitar—stopped to look at once. Following Neville's gaze, he too noticed the twins in the doorway.

"Hey mate," asked Mark, swiping off the sweat on his forehead. "What's up?"

"That was amazing," George said in an awe-filled whisper. Fred nodded his head in agreement.

"Right in one Forge. Bloody brilliant," said Fred. Neville saw that his eyes were twinkling—obviously thinking of something. As if struck by lightning, Fred turned back towards his twin.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Depends," answered George. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Neville watched in fascination as the twins managed to hold a silent conversation by their facial gestures alone.

"Cool," said George, finally breaking the silence. He offered a fist bump to Fred, who promptly replied before turning to face Mark.

"We want you to teach us," said Fred.

"Come again?" asked Mark, obviously confused.

"We," repeated Fred, pointing to himself and George, before pointing to Mark, "want you to teach us." Pointing towards Mark's guitar, he added, "to play like that."

Neville found a thrill of adrenaline spike within him at the very thought. Learn how to actually play?

"Very funny guys," said Mark, looking away shyly. He must have thought the twins were pulling his leg.

"Oh, we're completely serious," said Fred.

"One hundred per cent," said George.

"Count me in," Neville said immediately. He wasn't going to be left out of this. Not in a million years.

"Come on, guys," said Mark, embarrassed. "I'm—I'm not that good." An explosion of surprise followed his statement—one that Neville found himself joining in wholeheartedly.

"What!" "Are you kidding!" "Look who's talking!"

"Okay, okay," Mark called out, "calm down."

The three of them quietened themselves grudgingly; a moment later, however, Fred broke the silence

"Don't you dare say you're not good," he said, pointing towards the guitar in Mark's hand. "Especially after what you were just doing!"

"All I meant," said Mark, "was that I'm probably not qualified to teach."

"Hey, you know more than us. That's qualification enough," Neville chipped in. George agreed.

"As long as you can make us play anything that's not noise, it's a win."

"Okay," said Mark, climbing down from the bed. "Okay, then." He paced around a bit, obviously thinking about something. If Neville had to take a guess, his friend was already trying to work out the logistics and arrangements and all sorts of problems that they would and could likely face.

Neville admired that in him; that he could quickly go from an embarrassed mess to a well-organized professional stance.

"Do you all want to learn the guitar or —" Mark turned towards them. Neville looked towards the twins; they seemed to be of the same opinion as him.

"It's better if we play together as a band, I think," answered George.

"Dibs on Drums," Fred added immediately.

"That's not fair," said Neville. He wanted to play the drums.

"We can decide that later," Mark interrupted. "First we will need drums. We don't have any."

"We can transfigure them. Old cauldrons will do nicely," George suggested.

"Okay." Mark sat down on his bed, his hand combing through his long hair. "We can't practice here, or in your dorms. The others will kick us out of the tower"

"There are some abandoned classrooms on the fifth floor," said Fred, leaning on Harry's bed. "We can use those."

"They're sufficiently isolated as well," George added. "We won't be disturbing anyone with any noise that we make."

Neville was surprised by the seemingly pre-prepared answers that the twins were supplying. Evidently, Mark was as well.

"You guys are really serious about this," he observed.

"Of course," said George.

"Alright then. One last thing. Are you sure about this?" Mark asked in a serious tone. Taking a deep breath, Neville decided to answer.

"Yes."

"Good," said Mark. "Because you three will be convincing Professor McGonagall to give us permission to practice."

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"Did you get it?"

Harry jerked up to see Ron looking at him with an expectant expression. Lost in his thoughts, Harry hadn't realised that he had already made his way back to the common room. Ron must have sensed the confusion on his face as well.

"What's the matter?" asked Ron, catapulting Harry back to the conversation he had witnessed just a few minutes before.

Given his nervousness for the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin, Hermione had suggested Harry borrow a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages for some 'light reading.' Deciding to take her advice, Harry checked the book out a few days ago and had begun to give it a read. He was glad that he did; the book had a lot of tips and useful tidbits of information scattered throughout the generally fascinating history of the sport.

It had been earlier today when the three of them had been relaxing outside. Trying to catch some of the warmth of the scarce winter sun, Harry had been engrossed in reading the book when the unwanted shadow of Snape loomed past. Unable to bear seeing happy Gryffindors, he had confiscated Harry's book under a likely made-up rule about not taking Library books outside castle premises.

Deciding to get his book back from the potions professor, Harry had gone to the staffroom when he had stumbled onto a horrible sight.

Only Snape and Filch were inside, with Snape holding his robes above his knees, exposing a bloody and mangled leg. Filch was handing the potions master bandages—from the looks of it they were changing the dressing of the wound.

If the sight wasn't enough, it was what he had overheard that had Harry rooted to the spot outside the door.

"Blasted thing," said Snape. "How is one supposed to watch out for all three heads at once?"

Harry had tried to leave then, but Snape noticed. After weakly asking for his book, Harry ran back to the common room before an enraged Snape could take off any house points from Gryffindor. After thinking about what he had just witnessed, Harry could come to only one conclusion—that Snape had tried to get past whatever thing that the three-headed dog was guarding on the third floor.

"No—he wouldn't!" Hermione exclaimed when Harry tried to tell his friends of his suspicions.

On their trip to Diagon Alley, Hagrid had retrieved some mysterious grubby looking package from a high-security vault in Gringotts—on Professor Dumbledore's orders. The three-headed dog on the third floor was guarding something. It made sense that these two were the same thing—the thing that Snape had tried to steal at Halloween. Harry and Ron had both seen the potions master make his way to the third floor instead of the dungeons that day; in fact, Harry was willing to bet his broomstick that Snape had probably even let the troll in himself as a perfect distraction. It all made perfect sense.

Ron was quick to share Harry's opinion, but unfortunately, Hermione was not as receptive.

"Look, Harry. I know he's not a nice person —" she began, only to be interrupted by a loud snort from Ron. Giving him a pointed look, she continued unfazed. "—but he wouldn't try and steal something Dumbledore was keeping safe."

"Hermione, it's like you believe all the teachers are saints or something," Ron retorted. "Harry's right. I wouldn't put anything past Snape." Scrunching his eyebrows, he looked at Harry. "But what is he after? What is that dog guarding?"

Harry just shrugged. The same question had been eating at him ever since he returned from the staffroom. What was so valuable that Snape would risk going against Dumbledore? Gold? Jewels?

He was still occupied with these thoughts when he retired to his dorm that night. When he entered the room, he noticed Mark and Neville talking in hushed tones. On Mark's bed were two guitars—only, one of them looked odd, with a longer neck and just four strings. He had never seen this one before.

"What's that one?" Harry asked, pointing to the unfamiliar instrument. "Never seen that before. Is it new?" Mark turned to look at where Harry was pointing.

"That's a bass. You use it to play lower frequencies—deeper sound," said Mark. "It isn't new actually—never had a reason for taking it out of the bag until now. It was my dad's—he used to play on it when he was younger."

Though the answer satisfied Harry's curiosity, it felt like a punch to the gut. His face fell, and Mark noticed.

"You alright mate?" asked Mark, worry etched on his face. Neville had a similar look on his face.

"Yeah, I'm fine," lied Harry, trying to fake a smile. He quickly turned around and changed into his pyjamas. It was only after he rested his head on his pillow and drawn his blanket closer to himself that Harry finally let his emotions flow. The tears trickled off his face as he silently sobbed, the suppressed thoughts of his parents surfaced themselves.

He had never even thought about any of his father's old belongings, let alone see any. Ever since his birthday, Harry had been so happy with everything that he had gained that he hadn't had any chance to think of what he'd lost. He was a wizard, yes. But he was still an orphan. His parents weren't anything like what the Dursley's had told him all his life. But they were still dead. They had left him enough money to do his schooling, but he had nothing to remember them by. Mark said he didn't really have any reason to get the guitar out of the bag until today; if Harry was in his place, he would have taken it out every day.

As he sniffed away his tears, Harry tried thinking about something else. His mind wandered to the Quidditch match tomorrow. He wasn't feeling confident at all—what if ended up making a fool of himself? He had no experience in a real match, and now he would be facing off against Slytherin, who had won the Quidditch Cup for the past three years in a row. They would probably laugh at him for even attempting to play. He was not a real Quidditch player; not like his father had been.

After Professor McGonagall had told him about his father, Harry had gone to the trophy room to check. Indeed, James Potter had been a chaser in the Gryffindor team, even being the captain since his fifth year. If that wasn't enough, Gryffindor had won the Quidditch cup four times while he played—three under his captainship. Harry could never hope to live up to that.

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9th November 1991

"Ok, men," Oliver Wood said, facing his team in the locker room.

"And women," interrupted Angelina. Mark chuckled along with the rest of the team as he fastened the belt on his scarlet Quidditch robe.

"Yes, and women," Oliver agreed. "This is the big one. This is Slytherin."

"The one we've all been waiting for," chimed in the twins. Mark raised his eyebrows in surprise, and Alicia leaned in to explain.

"They know Oliver's speech by heart," she whispered. "He's made the same one for the past two years."

"Shut it you two," snapped Oliver. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "This is by far the best team assembled in years. We," he said, glaring at the team. "Are going to win."

The rest of the team nodded nervously in response. Mark couldn't help but credit Wood for his leadership and intimidation skills.

"All right then," said Oliver, clapping Harry's back. "Good luck." Wood then turned to the reserves. "Longbottom, Weasley," he began, and was interrupted by two "Yes" from Fred and George.

"No, not you two," he clarified, shooing them out of the locker room. Turning to Ron and Neville, he continued. "Slytherins will be focusing on the Seekers and Chasers, so both of you can head to the stands." Mark watched as they gave reluctant nods before exiting the locker room.

Though Oliver gave them a plausible reason, it wasn't exactly unexpected. None of the reserves were actually ready to substitute anyone in the game. The only reason Mark and Dean weren't sent out too was that there was a higher chance of a chaser getting injured, and that there were two other players to carry the game in case that happened.

In all honesty, Mark wasn't sure to be happy or not; on one hand, there was a minuscule chance that he might get a chance to play—something he probably wouldn't have enjoyed a few weeks ago. On the other hand, if he did get to substitute one of the players, there was the looming fear of actually having to carry the hopes and tensions of the entire Gryffindor House. Another thing the past few weeks had taught Mark—people took Quidditch way more seriously than he had ever imagined.

Steeling himself for whatever the match might bring, Mark picked up the broom issued to him—an old Cleansweep 3, the fastest broom in the school broom shed—and walked out into the field. He made his way towards the bench with the other reserves, while the starting team gathered around Oliver in the middle of the pitch. Madam Hooch was refereeing today, and she kicked off the match with a loud whistle blast. The match had begun.

Mark saw the team take off, and the Quaffle being passed by Angelina. Alicia caught it with a low swoop and passed it again after a few moments. Mark tried his best to keep a track of the red ball streaking across the field, his gaze only seconds ahead of the wonderful commentary by Lee Jordan.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelia Johnson—what an excellent chaser, rather attractive, too —"

"JORDAN!"

"Sorry, Professor."

Mark snorted. Trust Lee to say something like that when Professor McGonagall was sitting beside him. Keeping his attention fixed on the Quaffle, Mark watched as the red ball moved in a complicated path before ending up back in Angelina's hand before she feigned and scored.

A hearty cheer ran through the Gryffindor stands, one that Mark joined in heartily. It had been one spectacular play, and he hoped he could pull it off someday. The game continued uninterrupted, and Mark tried studying the passes between Alicia and Katie as the manoeuvred through the Slytherin defences. His mind was working in overdrive; trying to track the Quaffle, the Gryffindor Chasers, and the Slytherin Chasers all at once, while at the same time making mental notes and hypothesis for whatever plays the two teams were employing.

A few minutes later, however, his attention was drawn away by something; he suddenly realised that the crowd had gone silent. The Snitch had been spotted. Mark's eyes were then immediately drawn towards Harry, who was speeding on his Nimbus towards the Slytherin Chasers, who had all momentarily stopped playing to watch the Seekers.

'Idiots,' thought Mark. Given that the players were distracted by the Snitch, it was actually the perfect time to try and score, or at least do something productive rather than float around like dumb ducks. It looked like the Slytherin Captain Flint was struck by the same idea, for he zoomed straight at Harry and slammed into him. The impact through Harry completely off course, and Mark watched as the scrawny boy tried to get his spinning broom back under control. The Gryffindors obviously called for foul, which Madam Hooch promptly awarded; yet the damage was done. Flint had succeeded in foiling Harry, who had now lost track of the Snitch.

This is what Oliver must have referred to when he had told them that the Slytherins 'play dirty.' Try and win at all costs, even if it meant potentially injuring the players on the other side. Still, the whole thing had a silver lining. The foul had awarded Gryffindor a penalty shot which Alicia scored with superb speed and accuracy. Mark tried and studied her fly-up with interest—shooting penalties was a skill he was particularly interested in mastering someday.

As Mark's eyes flittered towards Harry for a cursory check, he was met with an odd sight. Harry seemed to be jumping up and down on his broom, which was bucking like a rodeo bull.

'What does he think he's doing?' thought Mark as he quickly borrowed Dean's binoculars. Peering through them, he focused on Harry and found him completely alright. Whatever it was, he seemed to have missed it. Mark was about to lower the binoculars when he suddenly saw an expression of immense focus appear on Harry's face. Mark's gaze stayed only slightly ahead of Harry as the Seeker leaned on his broom and dived almost vertically towards the ground. The moment a glint of gold entered Mark's eye he gave a loud cheer—Harry immediately captured the Snitch, ending the match in favour of Gryffindor two-hundred to sixty. They had won.

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"How do you know about Fluffy?" asked Hagrid.

"Fluffy?" Hermione exclaimed in surprise with Ron. That massive killer three-headed dog was named Fluffy?

Today's match against Slytherin was one of the scariest things Hermione had ever witnessed, and that was when she was sitting in the stands. She seriously had no idea how Harry even managed to stay up so high on a broom, never mind zoom around like a madman. And that was before his broom had been cursed.

Hermione and Ron had been cheering their team from the Gryffindor stand when Harry began to buck on his broom. When Hagrid mentioned that the Nimbus was too high quality to malfunction like this, Hermione settled on the next explanation—that someone was deliberately tampering with it. Quickly grabbing a pair of binoculars, she began scanning everyone in sight, and within minutes found the culprit—Professor Snape, standing still, quietly muttering something as he kept his gaze focused on Harry.

Not wanting to waste a single moment, Hermione hurried over to where Profesor Snape was and quietly used the Bluebell Flame charm on his robes, which quickly caught fire. It was enough, for when the potions master spotted his robes in flames, he stumbled around in a panic, knocking over several people around him, including the turbaned Profesor Quirrell. But most importantly, his eye contact was broken, and the jinx lifted—Harry was free to ride his broom safely again.

Once the match had finished, the three of them—after informing Harry of the fact that Professor Snape had cursed his broom—had made their way to Hagrid's hut for a cup of tea. They told their friend about today's events, and when Hagrid dismissed their accusations outright, Harry had brought up the subject of the three-headed dog and how Professor Snape had tried to get by it on the night of Halloween.

"Yeah—he's mine," said Hagrid. "I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the —"

"Yes?" said Harry eagerly, encouraging Hagrid to spill the secret.

"It's none of yer business. That's top-secret," Hagrid said in a stern voice.

"But what about Snape —"

"Rubbish. Professor Snape is a Hogwarts teacher, and Professor Dumbledore trusts 'im" Hagrid said again.

"But then why did he try to kill Harry?" cried Hermione. "I know a jinx when I see one, and Snape was not breaking eye contact!"

"I'm tellin' yeh, yer wrong!" Hagrid snapped. "Harry's broom may have been jinxed, but it sure wasn't Snape. He wouldn't try to kill a student!" he said with confidence.

"Now you kids listen to me, all three of yeh. Don't meddle in things that don' concern yeh. You better forget that dog, an' forget wondering bout what it's guardin', for that's between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel —" he caught himself, but the cat was already out of the bag.

"Ha! So, there is a Nicolas Flamel involved, isn't there?"

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"Let me get this straight," said Professor McGonagall, looking at the four of them with the most flabbergasting expression Mark had ever seen on her face. "You want my permission to officially make a racket in one of the empty classrooms?"

"To practice music, Professor," clarified Fred in his usual cheery tone. Professor McGonagall stared at them for a moment before she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"This isn't some roundabout way of setting up some elaborate prank, is it?" she asked.

"Not at all, Professor. We just want to learn to play some instruments," answered George. "After all, the pursuit of knowledge is something you can surely understand, can't you Professor?"

"And why exactly can't you do that in the Hogwarts choir, Mr Weasley?"

"Well —"

"The Hogwarts choir doesn't really involve guitars and drums, Professor," said Neville.

"It's a bit old fashioned," said George.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Fred quickly chipped in. "We just want to make the music of the times."

Mark watched in amus.e.m.e.nt as Professor McGonagall tried to process all this information. He couldn't exactly blame her scepticism; when the Weasley twins approach you with a seemingly sincere request, you can't help but be sceptical. Fred—trying to be his usual smooth self—tried to convince her another way.

"Think if the Weird Sisters could have begun playing while they were at Hogwarts, Professor," he said. "Obviously we aren't anywhere near as good —"

"We don't actually know how to play," muttered Neville, earning him a small kick on the leg.

"— But we could be …" Fred finished.

Professor McGonagall looked at the three of them with disbelief. Mark, standing behind, earned just a cursory look. Mark watched her take a deep breath before finally deciding to reply.

"Mr Longbottom, your grandmother has already written to me about her worries regarding your academic performance," said Professor McGonagall. Neville's face fell, reverting back to the nervous shell he had been in when Mark met him on the Express.

"I've assured her that your reports so far are up to the mark," continued Professor McGonagall, "but this could potentially put that in jeopardy."

Pushing her square spectacles further up her nose, she then turned towards the twins.

"As for you Mr Weasleys," she said. "You are both already a part of the Quidditch team, and you have your classes to study for. When will you find time to do this?"

George lowered his head at that, while Fred seemed to want to object. Professor McGonagall, however, didn't give him a chance.

"Your mother has already written to me that she fears for your grades. I understand that this is something you wish to pursue seriously, but as your Head of House, it —"

Mark decided to interrupt and cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mr Smith?"

"Just two words, professor. Fewer Pranks."

"Permission granted," came the immediate reply.

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