“beyond wandpoint” 069a by gingerbred
“11 11i Tuesday - Déjà Vu” Part 1
Hermione, Harry, Ron, Minerva, Sybill Trelawney, Peeves, Draco, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Seamus Finnigan, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Terry Boot, Padma Patil, Mentioned: Severus, Filius, Horace Slughorn
Originally Published: 2018-04-11 on AO3
Chapter: 069 part 1
The original version of this chapter exceeded livejournal’s maximum post length. It’s been split in two parts.
Nearly setting something by way of a personal record, Sybill braved the Great Hall again for breakfast this morning, hoping to hear some talk of her prediction, her fourth period Prophecy from yesterday. What she got instead was quite an earful of Howler and a reminder of why she shuns meals with all and sundry in the first place. Really, she should have seen that coming.
She really should have, especially when one considers even Severus was able to predict them. Perhaps he missed his calling. As enjoyable as he finds the instruction of Potions, undoubtably Divinations would be so much better. Hmm... Although to be fair, the students are less likely to blow one up. There's something to be said for the lack of combustibles in the Divinations classroom. Beyond Trelawney's myriad scarves and high-octane breath, that is, but then neither would be Severus' problem. Typically.
'Gryffindors,' Sybill scoffs to herself in a huff of sherry, apparently forgetting that two of the three Howlers had actually been sent by a Hufflepuff, of all creatures. It's easy to understand, however, the things being such a quintessentially Gryffindor means of communicating one's displeasure. It's all too easy to confuse the facts. Or perhaps that, too, is the sherry.
If crowds are injurious to her Inner Eye, the noise... Well she is now quite deaf and, at least innerly, blind. The deafness, however, had been the result of a Charm. It's a little unreliable in terms of how long it lasts, but well worth it, and she has the next period free anyway. The Charm effectively tunes the world out. Turns it off. The silence is ethereal. She finds it's generally helpful when she wishes to focus.
Or deal with schoolchildren.
Case in point, focusing that is, in this specific instance on schoolchildren, while everyone else seemed to have eyes, and presumably ears, only for the shrieking bits of post, she had noticed an influx of those odd mail snakes the Slytherins are prone to receiving. Years of careful observation have taught her they must be unpleasant. The recipients not infrequently are missing from class the following day for poorly defined 'medical' reasons. She finds the delay highly significant, not the least because she knows something will happen that hasn't yet. That's her baps and butter. She's done nicely for herself recognising those criteria.
It appeared Mr. Malfoy had received three of them, something she hasn't witnessed before, not that she attends meals all that regularly, but judging by the reactions of his Housemates, it's an event of some magnitude.
To make certain she spotted that correctly, it wouldn't do to unnecessarily make an inaccurate prediction, and there's no excuse for laziness, she leaves the Hall a little early and lurks by the doors. When the blond Slytherin and his friends leave for class, she inadvertently bumps into him.
No one thinks anything of it.
Given the thickness of her glasses, the prevailing assumption is she's almost legally blind, and not just innerly. The Ministry had gone so far as to offer to assign her a seeing eyed Augurey via an affiliate programme of St. Mungo's. Even supposing a bird were adequate to the task, considering the so-called Irish Phoenix can't do much more than moan, rather annoyingly at that, she fails to see how that should work, and not just because of her ocular impairment. One moan for left, two for right? Further taking into account that they can't predict a damn thing more than the weather, a feat even she could accomplish (the simple application of a Temperies to tell the temperature determines the only crucial difference between 'rain' and 'snow' - precipitation is a given), she has a dark suspicion the proposal came from a one time student of hers, and is a dig so obvious that even she should see it. Without glasses.
She's lobbying for a parrot instead, at least they could provide direction, but so far she's being put off as parrots are supposedly not magical 'enough'. As though that were a thing. One is, or one isn't. This feels like more of Umbridge's nonsense.
And it's patently false, besides.
Still, it could have been worse. At least they hadn't tried to assign her a Fwooper for the task. The colourful little African birds say nothing at all. Well, unless the Silencio ensuring that fails, in which case their song induces madness. In light of which, she can't imagine why the Ministry wouldn't try to use them for the purpose. It sounds like a perfect fit. Even to her deafened ears.
Mr. Malfoy's books go flying, predictably, she's gotten incredibly good at this particular ruse, and as she bends to help him gather his things, she surreptitiously exposes his wrists. Yes, just as she thought. Three of the paper twists, now practically wooden from the feel, wrapped tightly about his lower arm. Good to know. She can undoubtedly use that. And it's Arithmantically sound to boot. How perfect.
She turns to watch as the boy slinks off to class.
It doesn't quite compensate for the thoroughly disappointing lack of attention her Prophecy from yesterday is receiving, but yes... She can use that.
Ron isn't even trying to keep his pace to a walk; there's no time for it. He just hopes he doesn't run into any of the Professors. More and more students appear heading in the opposite direction, clearly finished with breakfast and on the way to their classes. It's only a matter of time before he sees Harry, quite sensibly also headed away from the Great Hall.
"Harry! Brilliant! I was just going to get something to eat."
"Hey, Ron. Yeah, I was on my way to..." Harry begins a little aimlessly, still preoccupied with the ideas Ginny put in his head, and an uneasy feeling creeping over him that his meeting Ron should in any way be considered 'brilliant'. Where else would he be at this time? It's hardly a chance encounter.
"Come with me," Ron commands, taking his friend by the elbow and turning him back the way he'd just come. "I really need to get some food."
"Ron, there's no time for that now..." Harry suspects Ron thinks they're less likely to get into trouble together, which is absurd. If memory serves, it's quite the opposite. Harry's trying to recall point losses of consequence, recieved together and alone, and he's pretty sure together they've racked up quite a deal more. As Hermione would point out, if only for there having been two of them, the deductions were quite logically doubled.
"I was in the Infirmary, y'know," the ginger chastises, the reproval clear.
"So I gathered."
"Well, I'm hungry and need to get something to eat before class." His eyes narrow suspiciously, "Did you go down to the kitchens last night without me?"
"No, mate, but I did just eat breakfast. Look, Ron, you're going to be late to Transfiguration if you don't get a wriggle on, and there's no point both of us being..."
But they've almost made it to the doors, and Ron won't be deterred. Not after the morning he's had. And there is no way he's facing the Great Greasy Git on an empty stomach. That's just not on.
He relentlessly drags Harry on with him.
Unfortunately when he bursts through the doors to the Great Hall, the room is empty and there's nothing left on the table but a single tray of rather unpromising bread.
Still, he's more than a little desperate, as one gets having missed a meal or two, and he grabs a couple of slices to take with him before giving in to Harry's pleas to get moving.
Stuffing the first slice into his mouth as they hurry back into the corridor they'd only just left, Ron moans around the half-chewed chunks, "Ugh." It sends more than a few sizeable crumbs flying in a way that usually makes Hermione cringe; there are advantages to being on the outs and missing such displays.
"What now, Ron?" Harry's annoyance isn't veiled, not even thinly, not that Ron notices. It could be wearing Harry's cloak for all it registers.
"Stale," he informs Harry woefully. Not that the staleness in any way stops him, or even slows him in wolfing the rest in his hunger and desperation.
And it is better than the gruel.
'Hogwarts: A History' is good for more than just propping open doors and flattening botanicals for artistic displays. While unquestionably many things have been left out, some deliberately, some forgotten, some simply unknown to the authors, one of the things one can learn from the book are some of the details of Peeves' contract.
Naturally the number of students who actually did so, generally Muggle-born or -raised, wouldn't be sufficient to make up a Quidditch team. Not that that poses a problem, as they - every last one of them, Hermione is in extremely well suited company - also aren't the least bit gifted in that regard. And it's not as though there were a secret handshake to identify one another were they of an inclination to play a quick, if intrinsically skill-less, match.
Most hearing the contract referenced take it for hyperbole or a strange turn of phrase, and currently there probably aren't a dozen students at the school who are even aware such a thing truly exists. Easily half of those are the attentive children of solicitors, the legal negotiations with a Spiritous Apparition, human or otherwise, but most especially with a non-being being something of a watershed in wizarding legal history. The less attentive children typically doze through their parents' recitations, remaining blissfully unaware of this and so many other things.
One can debate which of the concessions made to the Poltergeist is more important until one is every bit as much a spirit as Peeves; it doesn't really matter. What matters, particularly at this precise moment, is that almost a century and a quarter ago Headmistress Mole had agreed to leave him his choice of Hogwart's stale bread and he hasn't forgotten to this day. Not at all.
The elves, rather clever creatures really, had come to realise they were best off depositing this well away from their kitchens for Peeves to do his choosing there. Elsewhere. Anywhere but the kitchens would do. Peeves can be fairly easily led if one puts one's mind to it, and he rather liked the idea of them serving him. Quite a bit. As such, they've taken to leaving the stale bread on an overly ornate silver tray in the Great Hall after meals.
As an added benefit, it keeps the Poltergeist busy when students are trying to get to classes, and he's less likely to attack them in the hallways. The drawback is that when he does, he's suitably armed, but one can't have everything. It certainly helps to discourage stragglers, and once in the company of their teachers, students are reasonably safe from Peeves. Elves can be very considerate creatures.
Which explains why it is a bad idea of truly noteworthy proportions to help oneself to the stale bread on precisely that tray. Beyond the fact it frankly doesn't taste all that great.
Draco's flagging, sufficiently that Theo's worried. It's just his friend's luck that the blind Seer had overlooked him - and how ironic is that - and nearly sent him sprawling. Draco's not too steady on his feet today to begin with.
The last twelve hours have been troublesome in a way that leaves Theo very unsure of himself, although that's kind of his natural state anyway. Only close friends might perceive a difference, they number a grand total of 'one', and he's not noticing much of anything just now, wobbling along as he is beside Theo at the moment.
And Theo had hexed him into unconsciousness last night.
That's quite a thing. Especially for him.
Draco had come crawling in shortly before curfew yesterday, looking like something the Kneazle had coughed up and then not deigned to drag in, all too evidently suffering the effects of the Cruciatus. It says too much that Theo recognises it, or that he even considers it a possibility for what might have happened to his friend, both that he thinks Draco could be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable and that Theo doesn't automatically discount such a thing universally, not even at school.
Had it been the Gryffindor Tower, the assumption would have been the after effects of the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and they'd probably have been correct. Things are very different in the Slytherin seventh year boys' room.
Theo had naturally asked the blond what happened, but he hadn't been too surprised when he didn't get much of an answer. He's far from stupid, and a smart wizard does not press the issue in their circles. Not if he isn't suicidal anyway. And Theo's not. Yet.
"Merlin, Draco, what happened to you?"
"Crucio." It was hardly recognisable as his voice. Theo had helped him to his bed.
"Yeah, that much I gathered..."
All too aware there wasn't any Pain Relief to be had in the Infirmary, Draco had begged him to Stupefy him instead of taking him there.
"That really doesn't sound like a very good idea, Draco. We need to go tell Professor Snape. Please..."
Draco had only snorted. "He's well aware of the situation."
"Couldn't he help you?" That just got him another derisive snort. Theo was a little desperate, but he had an idea as to what the Antispasmodic that appeared on his nightstand was meant for. Theo knows the game. He can't betray what he doesn't know, and he deliberately didn't even try to think about who might have left it, why, or how they'd have known it was needed in the first place. He has no desire to get innocent people in some very serious trouble. He's not even sure he wants to get guilty people in that kind of trouble either, not in general, and particularly not for something like providing a much needed medicinal Potion. Merlin.
"I think he has bigger problems," Draco had finally answered once he settled back on his pillow, had taken a few tortured breaths and was able. "I believe he was on his way to pay his respects to our families."
Theo went quiet at that. There are few things worse in his world than seeing anyone from their families. Subsequently, when the Professor wasn't at breakfast the next morning... Well, Theo had some rather specific concerns, and they'd certainly been exacerbated by the Poste Serpentes.
In the end, he had fetched the phial and given it to Draco and then just did as his friend asked. "Stupefy."
And he finds it bloody disturbing that he basically hexed his friend senseless for the night. Because that's just not who he is. It never has been. He's not the sort who goes around hexing people, certainly not those he likes. Granted, the Stupefy is technically a Charm. Theo suspects how those things are classified is a question of either marketing, Galleons exchanging hands, who one knows at the Ministry, or some combination of the three.
But he's careful not to let Professor Flitwick hear him say that.
Still supremely uncomfortable with just about everything, Theo just took Draco's books from him once Professor Trelawney returned them and carried them the rest of the way to Transfiguration. Draco sort of looks like he could use some carrying himself, to be honest. If all else fails, there's always the Mobilicorpus.
Hermione watches as the classroom slowly fills from her spot in the front row on the bench furthest from the door. The three Hufflepuffs are there, as are all six of the Ravenclaws now seated in the middle of the room. It's not exactly a flattering way of seeing things, not that she realises it, but she can't help feeling no one who matters has arrived yet.
No Malfoy. No Zabini. No Nott.
No Harry. No Ron.
There's still time, of course, but it makes the room seem rather empty, and realistically, she's waiting.
She can feel the difference the second phial of Calming makes. She should have taken it from the outset. She should have taken the Draught of Peace like he told her. There's no way he isn't going to find out, either, as she won't be able to take it before he wakes. Bugger.
And she did not just consider, no matter how briefly, sneaking over right after class and giving him another dose of a Sleeping Draught.
Fine, she did. But she most certainly never would. There's a great difference between thinking a thing and doing it.
And now she's thinking about it again...
And then just like that, she's trying desperately not to think about someone giving her a Potion she didn't want in this very room...
And feeling even worse that she - even ever so briefly - really, really briefly - had imagined dosing the Professor.
Honestly, it a good sign, as bad as that sounds. It really is. Because it means she's not as scarred from the events of Friday night as some might fear. On the other hand, it's a rather scathing statement about the society in which she lives that those are the kind of things that might cross a normal person's mind, even in jest. But she can't entirely help being a product of her society.
Unfortunately, it's not quite as innocent as it might sound. In fact, she even has a bit of a history with dosing people with Sleeping Draught. She herself had spiked cakes meant for Crabbe and Goyle with that very same Potion when she was only a second year. And only a year later, hadn't she laughed right along with Ginny at Mrs. Weasley's story of brewing a Love Potion? It had seemed funny then.
Time has a way of changing one's perspective.
Damn Mrs. Weasley anyway. And Love Potions and their derivatives, too, for that matter.
She decides she's just trying to distract herself from waiting for the Slytherins, who'll undoubtedly arrive in a clutch, and she would feel a bit better if Harry were there. Or even Ron, really. But not even Seamus or Dean have shown yet, they're probably still in the Infirmary, and she's feeling rather alone all by herself on the bench there.
Exposed.
She stares at Professor McGonagall's chair, more visible now that the Professor has stood to make notes on the board in preparation for class. From her seat in the middle of the bench, she can see the carving of Crooks perfectly and it calms her. Her hand reaches unconsciously for the phial hanging at her neck as she concentrates on the image of her familiar, and then she performs one of Professor Taylor's strange breathing exercises, and before long it's all done some good.
Her timing is excellent, as the Slytherins filter in just then.
Really, it's almost anticlimactic.
The thing is, no one but Draco has any idea that the room has any kind of significance, certainly none other than it had had the week before, or that her being there is in any way exceptional, and the result is they pay her no attention at all. The boys are rather preoccupied with the Serpents that had arrived this morning, and Theo's still trying to puzzle out what on earth he could have done to make his father proud (besides hexing Draco, which his father really shouldn't have any way to know about, or he's got some very big problems indeed). And true to his nature, he's more than a little nervous thinking about if pleasing his father could possibly be a good thing. Objectively, that is. That's far from a given... Or perhaps depends on one's definition of 'good'. His father's is questionable at best.
The only one of them who knows what took place Friday is Draco, and he's almost dedicated himself to not looking her way. Which having sat there dreading it the past several minutes, she now finds... annoying.
Annoying beyond words.
So now she sits there staring at him instead.
There's a deep-seated reflex that alerts people that they're being observed. Even wizards have it. It doesn't take long before his eyes dart up, glancing around, and he notices she's scrutinising him. Unwaveringly. Hermione narrows her eyes in her most challengingly glare, looks very deliberately at the spot on the floor she'd last seen him sprawled on and then with a purely malevolent grin, allows her eyes to travel down to his crotch.
That does the trick.
Draco blushes heatedly and quickly turns away. It's comes as no surprise when he studiously avoids looking at her again for the rest of class.
Hermione counts it as a victory.
At least there's one.
Harry and Ron storm down the corridor at a dead run, small loaves of bread flying about their ears and Peeves hot on their heels.
"Potty and Weasel would steal the bread from the mouths of babes..." Peeves is screeching up a storm, it comes all the easier as he doesn't actually need air in his non-lungs to do so.
It's surprising how hard old bread can be, and Harry feels thoroughly pelted. Assailed from all sides, so to speak, although primarily the rear, logically enough. This wasn't quite how he had pictured his morning, but he can't say it comes as a total shock. He'd had a bad feeling ever since... Actually, scratch that, he's had a bad feeling for days now.
As they throw themselves bodily around the next corner, Ron tries to bring a little humour to the situation, because that was what it was lacking. No doubt. "So, what, I guess everyone else gets the 'y' from my name..."
It doesn't help that it wouldn't have been funny were Harry not being barraged with volleys of bread. As it is, it leaves him glaring at his best friend more intensely.
Ron tries again, "I only wonder 'y'..." Alright, that was a little better. And Harry almost cracks a smile, except just then Ron grabs his arm again and tugs him to one of those stairwells no one uses with a self-assured, "This way."
It might have worked, too, two quick turns to shake off the Poltergeist, except the stairwell wasn't empty and as they careen around the corner there's a heavy "Oof," and a flurry of scrolls that comes from neither of them.
It's followed by an inexplicable and theatrically winced, "Karma," that Harry doesn't bother trying to decipher when he realises who spoke. They've just flattened the Divination Professor every bit as surely as 'Hogwarts: A History' will do a number on a Flitterbloom bloom. Or is that blossom?
"Watch where you're going," she snaps at them, trying locate her glasses on the floor and settling for Harry's instead.
He's insulted. There is no way the two can be confused. Harry fumbles about until he locates hers and is about to suggest a trade when Ron replies, "I'm surprised you didn't see that coming."
Karma, it would seem, holds for Ron as well, as Trelawney's Deafening Charm has worn off, completely, and she heard that.
Harry thinks there's a chance, with rapidly diminishing probability now that he looks at the ginger, that Ron hadn't meant anything by that. Trelawney, naturally, doesn't 'see' it that way.
Of course not.
"Class, kindly submit your homework scrolls and open your books to page 137," at the sound of her Tempus, Professor McGonagall's voice interrupts the students' conversations and everyone begins shuffling through their piles of books and papers for their homework and the class text. Everyone but Hermione, Ernie Macmillan and Theo that is, all three of whom already have their homework out and books open to the right chapter, if not the right page.
Ernie shoots Nott a slightly superior smirk because the Slytherin actually had to turn two pages. It's hardly a wonder, with such inattention, that the boy hadn't made Prefect. Which naturally doesn't explain how Malfoy had, as his book isn't even out yet. Or Weasley, for that matter, who's still missing.
Hermione's side of the classroom is still pretty empty. It's clear now Dean won't be joining them, and Harry hasn't shown up either. She has no idea what could be keeping him.
Scrolls go flying to McGonagall's desk, Banished, the Professor casts a quick spell to tally them and then turns to a certain blond sitting in the front row on the bench closest to the door. He's still noticeably busy searching through his book bag, his search becoming increasingly haphazard as he goes.
"Mr. Malfoy? Where is your assignment?"
"I don't..." He rifles further furiously for a moment, spurred by her question and everyone's attention, but there's no help for it. It's just not there. It's more than a little infuriating, because he knows he did it, and it may have been the only thing he had to feel smug about lately, that he'd managed to get it done despite serving detention all weekend, breaking what felt like most, if not all, of the major bones in his body, being tormented by the school nurse, oh, and getting fucking tortured by his Head of House-cum-godfather, how lovely, but he can't find it. It's... gone.
"Well?" She asks, with that certain inflection that tends to stop students in their tracks. As worn down as Draco is this morning, it simultaneously succeeds and yet fails to really reach him. This would seem to be just another little tile in the mosaic of misery that has been the past few days; it's hardly worth taking notice.
He surrenders. What difference does one more thing make? "I can't seem to find it, Professor."
"And isn't that a shame. Well, there is much to be said for keeping one's papers tidy, Mr. Malfoy." Blaise in the row behind Draco does a reasonably good job trying not to laugh, but Theo and Tracey both know why he might be tempted and catch it all the same. He'd only just had this conversation with Professor Snape yesterday. "Perhaps a little practice in tidying this evening under Mr. Filch's tutelage..."
Draco swallows hard and looks at his arm. He has three Serpents wrapped tightly around it. There's no way he'll be in any condition to serve detention tonight. The Slytherins shoot him sympathetic looks. Good luck not explaining that. With no options, Draco does the unthinkable, causing a few gasps and even more snickers, "I'm afraid this evening won't be an option. I'm, um, otherwise occupied..."
McGonagall's eyebrow shoots up, and the snickers cease. She considers using the same manoeuvre on him she had on her three Quidditch players, scheduling his detention during their practice, except then they'd simply trade training times... "Well, I shouldn't like to interfere with your plans..."
Seamus, now seated in the row behind Hermione can't quite stop his snort of laughter. That earns him a raised brow of his own, and he quickly gets the reflex back under control. "Very well, Saturday evening..."
Draco's voice sounds uncharacteristically small, "I already have detention then..."
"Wonderful. Would you care to save us all a little time and tell me when it would be convenient for you then?"
This sounds like a trap, but not answering also doesn't seem like an option. Draco finds he's actually sweating a little. He's appalled to think his Charm didn't hold.
Blaise leans forward and softly hisses, "I'm doing detention Saturday afternoon..."
Very tentatively, Draco volunteers, "I don't have detention yet on Saturday afternoon..."
"Perfect. You do now. Saturday afternoon it is then. Now if you would turn your attention to the book..."
"Running in the hallways, Mr. Weasley?" Trelawney rejoins, her irritation audible. "I 'see' you spending some time with Mr. Filch this Saturday afternoon..." Harry tries to stifle a groan. He's picturing having to tell the team he's earned them an early morning practice session on the weekend by virtue of this bit of stupidity. And he's the captain. That's not embarrassing at all. Hell, he'd give any of them a right bollocking if they did this...
"Uh, no, Professor," Ron replies, and for a short moment Harry foolishly feels something like hope.
Her brow wrinkles as both of her eyebrows shoot up, but Harry's glasses are ruining the effect more thoroughly than hers would have. She looks ridiculous. "No?" She asks. She does not sound pleased.
"Well, yes, actually, but not for you, I mean. Professor McGonagall already gave me detention then." Harry just scowls at him, forgetting for the moment that if Ron hadn't had detention then, they both certainly would have now. At least this way, rescheduling practice is still only Ron's fault...
"Ah, well then my sight remains clear..."
"It might be more so," Harry quietly suggests, extending her glasses towards her, "if you tried these instead?"
"Hmm. Ah. Much better, Mr. Potter. Nevertheless, things don't look good for you either." She returns his glasses, which at least gives him hope: things might not look good, but he'll settle for in focus.
"No. No, I didn't think so." They generally don't look good for him when Trelawney's involved. In fact they tend to look rather grim... At least he knows enough keep that thought to himself. He shoves his own glasses back into place and sets to gathering her scrolls.
"Saturday evening then?" She takes her wand and Summons the parchments with an, "Accio. There. Also better."
"Yes, Professor," Harry agrees, both with the time for their detention and the use of the Summoning Charm. Ron doesn't look best pleased. Harry gives him a nudge. "Right, Ron? Saturday evening?"
Ron nods somewhat sullenly as he picks himself off the floor. "We really need to get moving, mate."
Harry manages not to ask him whose fault that is. Only just.
"Potty! Weasel!"
The delay seems to have given Peeves a chance to catch up. Bloody hell.
They're in silent agreement about what to do about it, it's not like there's much choice, and take off running again.
Ever so gleefully, Peeves chases them through the castle, lobbing a seemingly endless supply of brick hard bread at their heads.
"Good practice for dodging Bludgers, yeah?" Ron quips, still trying to work his way back into Harry's good graces. Harry frankly can't be arsed with his overtures and just keeps on belting down the passage.
Only Sybill's fluster and utter lack of willingness to attract the Poltergeist's attention - even slightly - allows them to escape a second detention, as they've demonstratively not learnt their lesson about running in the corridors in the least. Hooligans!
"Can we make his feathers a darker green?" Daphne Greengrass asks, gesturing at the Augurey Professor McGonagall has Transfigured on her desk.
Ernie Macmillan, seated in the back row across the aisle from Daphne, snorts his opinion of that and whispers, "And how about turning his grey feathers silver while you are about it?"
"Oh!" Daphne half coos, "Can that even be done? Surely not real silver?"
"Do be quiet, Greengrass..." he mutters in reply, promptly drawing Blaise's, Theo's and Tracey Davis' ire who turn as one prepared to put the Head Boy resoundingly in his place, with wands if need be.
It's not that they as a group don't happen to share Macmillan's opinion of Daphne, not at all. They, like Draco, think she's one of the weaker of their number, which makes her skill in Transfiguration surprising and frankly more than a little frustrating for many of those around her. It shouldn't be. It's anomalous, and at moments like these seems nonsensical. But there can be no doubt, she's actually pretty gifted.
Still, they can't let Macmillan's attack slide. For one thing, it's a matter of principle. Daphne is one of theirs, her unquestionably questionable priorities and inane questions aside. They settle their differences internally. Externally they present a united front and protect their own. It's one thing they've learnt and learnt well from their Head of House.
For another, they're fairly certain, and correct, that Draco and even Theo regularly outperform that self-important gasbag Macmillan academically, and there's some resentment that the Hufflepuff was made Head Boy. There's a widely held conviction in their House that Macmillan's getting the spot is just one more example of the Headmaster's concerted anti-Slytherin fuckery.
While it isn't, not this time, they'd definitely be more than justified in questioning why no one can take a full course load without also taking Muggle Studies. Purely coincidentally, the course isn't exactly popular with the Snakes.
Draco, for his part, is pretty sure poisoning and cursing his classmates as he had last year was probably what precluded him from the running for the Head Boy position, and can see a certain logic to that. That's if the fact he'd taken the Mark hadn't already been reason enough. He can't begin to imagine why he's even still a Prefect, to be honest, other than someone very transparently trying to maintain Severus' cover (the Death Eaters regularly have a good chuckle about that), or maybe trying to keep attention off Theo, and candidly Draco would be perfectly happy to have one less responsibility this year. They couldn't pay him to be Head Boy. Well, and not just because he's ridiculously rich, either. Trying to repair those bloody trunks is taking up a great deal of his free time, which seems to be diminishing rapidly as the detentions keep piling up.
Normally Draco, too, would leap to Daphne's defence against the stuffy sandy-blond, her insipidity notwithstanding, but between the Serpents on his arm and Granger's clear reminder of what happened to him there last night... Draco's got a lot of other things on his mind.
"Thank you, Mr. Macmillan. That will be enough. I believe the question was directed at me," Minerva nips it in the bud and swallows her sigh.
It's not the bickering that gets to her, although it grew old decades ago. It's the things that seem to really matter to the students. There can be no question, Miss Greengrass is one of her most attentive and enthusiastic students. She's there energetically scribbling down every word Minerva says right along with Mr. Macmillan, Mr. Nott and normally Madam Snape, although she's understandably preoccupied today.
But what Miss Greengrass so eagerly wants to know is 'does it come in a different colour?' Minerva has just brought a vase to life, and after all these years she still finds that a source of wonder, but that's what apparently matters: the colour. Perhaps something to match the girl's dress robes... Still, it's preferable to repeating herself for a fifth and sixth time because Misters Finch-Fletchley and Finnigan haven't grasped the finer points. Again.
She misses questions about the Transfigured creatures's sentience. Is it? Well, no, of course not. If it were, where would the sentience come from, and where would it go once she performs the Finite Incantatem and the Augurey becomes a vase again? Not that those aren't evening filling topics...
Does it have a soul? Naturally that's even more absurd as a premise, but it's a great deal of fun to speculate. Are there even such things as souls? And if so, what is a soul? Honestly, a bottle of elf wine or three greatly helps the discussion, and as such those conversations and musings are normally reserved for the dominion of apprenticeship or the early days of mastership.
Still, every once in a while, the faculty indulges, both in wine and philosophical debate. Horace maintains souls most definitely exist, battling for his standpoint valiantly and with a fairly convincing certainty, but he always looks guilty when he does. Oddly, his guilt sways her more than his arguments.
Severus was a worthy replacement for Horace and used to debate such things with them hotly. He hasn't in recent years. Minerva now has her suspicions why that might be, and wishes she had tried harder to lure him from his shell. That she'd left him less alone with his burdens...
And the only one of her students to care about anything other than simply being able to perform the Spell successfully for the N.E.W.T.s just wants to know if she can make it match her House colours... Some days she wonders why she ever wanted to be a Professor.
And then she remembers her work at the Ministry and it becomes a good deal clearer. The prejudices. The politics... Never again.
Now she actually does sigh.
Hermione, Harry, Ron, Minerva, Sybill Trelawney, Peeves, Draco, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Seamus Finnigan, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, Terry Boot, Padma Patil, Mentioned: Severus, Filius, Horace Slughorn
Originally Published: 2018-04-11 on AO3
Chapter: 069 part 1
The original version of this chapter exceeded livejournal’s maximum post length. It’s been split in two parts.
Nearly setting something by way of a personal record, Sybill braved the Great Hall again for breakfast this morning, hoping to hear some talk of her prediction, her fourth period Prophecy from yesterday. What she got instead was quite an earful of Howler and a reminder of why she shuns meals with all and sundry in the first place. Really, she should have seen that coming.
She really should have, especially when one considers even Severus was able to predict them. Perhaps he missed his calling. As enjoyable as he finds the instruction of Potions, undoubtably Divinations would be so much better. Hmm... Although to be fair, the students are less likely to blow one up. There's something to be said for the lack of combustibles in the Divinations classroom. Beyond Trelawney's myriad scarves and high-octane breath, that is, but then neither would be Severus' problem. Typically.
'Gryffindors,' Sybill scoffs to herself in a huff of sherry, apparently forgetting that two of the three Howlers had actually been sent by a Hufflepuff, of all creatures. It's easy to understand, however, the things being such a quintessentially Gryffindor means of communicating one's displeasure. It's all too easy to confuse the facts. Or perhaps that, too, is the sherry.
If crowds are injurious to her Inner Eye, the noise... Well she is now quite deaf and, at least innerly, blind. The deafness, however, had been the result of a Charm. It's a little unreliable in terms of how long it lasts, but well worth it, and she has the next period free anyway. The Charm effectively tunes the world out. Turns it off. The silence is ethereal. She finds it's generally helpful when she wishes to focus.
Or deal with schoolchildren.
Case in point, focusing that is, in this specific instance on schoolchildren, while everyone else seemed to have eyes, and presumably ears, only for the shrieking bits of post, she had noticed an influx of those odd mail snakes the Slytherins are prone to receiving. Years of careful observation have taught her they must be unpleasant. The recipients not infrequently are missing from class the following day for poorly defined 'medical' reasons. She finds the delay highly significant, not the least because she knows something will happen that hasn't yet. That's her baps and butter. She's done nicely for herself recognising those criteria.
It appeared Mr. Malfoy had received three of them, something she hasn't witnessed before, not that she attends meals all that regularly, but judging by the reactions of his Housemates, it's an event of some magnitude.
To make certain she spotted that correctly, it wouldn't do to unnecessarily make an inaccurate prediction, and there's no excuse for laziness, she leaves the Hall a little early and lurks by the doors. When the blond Slytherin and his friends leave for class, she inadvertently bumps into him.
No one thinks anything of it.
Given the thickness of her glasses, the prevailing assumption is she's almost legally blind, and not just innerly. The Ministry had gone so far as to offer to assign her a seeing eyed Augurey via an affiliate programme of St. Mungo's. Even supposing a bird were adequate to the task, considering the so-called Irish Phoenix can't do much more than moan, rather annoyingly at that, she fails to see how that should work, and not just because of her ocular impairment. One moan for left, two for right? Further taking into account that they can't predict a damn thing more than the weather, a feat even she could accomplish (the simple application of a Temperies to tell the temperature determines the only crucial difference between 'rain' and 'snow' - precipitation is a given), she has a dark suspicion the proposal came from a one time student of hers, and is a dig so obvious that even she should see it. Without glasses.
She's lobbying for a parrot instead, at least they could provide direction, but so far she's being put off as parrots are supposedly not magical 'enough'. As though that were a thing. One is, or one isn't. This feels like more of Umbridge's nonsense.
And it's patently false, besides.
Still, it could have been worse. At least they hadn't tried to assign her a Fwooper for the task. The colourful little African birds say nothing at all. Well, unless the Silencio ensuring that fails, in which case their song induces madness. In light of which, she can't imagine why the Ministry wouldn't try to use them for the purpose. It sounds like a perfect fit. Even to her deafened ears.
Mr. Malfoy's books go flying, predictably, she's gotten incredibly good at this particular ruse, and as she bends to help him gather his things, she surreptitiously exposes his wrists. Yes, just as she thought. Three of the paper twists, now practically wooden from the feel, wrapped tightly about his lower arm. Good to know. She can undoubtedly use that. And it's Arithmantically sound to boot. How perfect.
She turns to watch as the boy slinks off to class.
It doesn't quite compensate for the thoroughly disappointing lack of attention her Prophecy from yesterday is receiving, but yes... She can use that.
Ron isn't even trying to keep his pace to a walk; there's no time for it. He just hopes he doesn't run into any of the Professors. More and more students appear heading in the opposite direction, clearly finished with breakfast and on the way to their classes. It's only a matter of time before he sees Harry, quite sensibly also headed away from the Great Hall.
"Harry! Brilliant! I was just going to get something to eat."
"Hey, Ron. Yeah, I was on my way to..." Harry begins a little aimlessly, still preoccupied with the ideas Ginny put in his head, and an uneasy feeling creeping over him that his meeting Ron should in any way be considered 'brilliant'. Where else would he be at this time? It's hardly a chance encounter.
"Come with me," Ron commands, taking his friend by the elbow and turning him back the way he'd just come. "I really need to get some food."
"Ron, there's no time for that now..." Harry suspects Ron thinks they're less likely to get into trouble together, which is absurd. If memory serves, it's quite the opposite. Harry's trying to recall point losses of consequence, recieved together and alone, and he's pretty sure together they've racked up quite a deal more. As Hermione would point out, if only for there having been two of them, the deductions were quite logically doubled.
"I was in the Infirmary, y'know," the ginger chastises, the reproval clear.
"So I gathered."
"Well, I'm hungry and need to get something to eat before class." His eyes narrow suspiciously, "Did you go down to the kitchens last night without me?"
"No, mate, but I did just eat breakfast. Look, Ron, you're going to be late to Transfiguration if you don't get a wriggle on, and there's no point both of us being..."
But they've almost made it to the doors, and Ron won't be deterred. Not after the morning he's had. And there is no way he's facing the Great Greasy Git on an empty stomach. That's just not on.
He relentlessly drags Harry on with him.
Unfortunately when he bursts through the doors to the Great Hall, the room is empty and there's nothing left on the table but a single tray of rather unpromising bread.
Still, he's more than a little desperate, as one gets having missed a meal or two, and he grabs a couple of slices to take with him before giving in to Harry's pleas to get moving.
Stuffing the first slice into his mouth as they hurry back into the corridor they'd only just left, Ron moans around the half-chewed chunks, "Ugh." It sends more than a few sizeable crumbs flying in a way that usually makes Hermione cringe; there are advantages to being on the outs and missing such displays.
"What now, Ron?" Harry's annoyance isn't veiled, not even thinly, not that Ron notices. It could be wearing Harry's cloak for all it registers.
"Stale," he informs Harry woefully. Not that the staleness in any way stops him, or even slows him in wolfing the rest in his hunger and desperation.
And it is better than the gruel.
'Hogwarts: A History' is good for more than just propping open doors and flattening botanicals for artistic displays. While unquestionably many things have been left out, some deliberately, some forgotten, some simply unknown to the authors, one of the things one can learn from the book are some of the details of Peeves' contract.
Naturally the number of students who actually did so, generally Muggle-born or -raised, wouldn't be sufficient to make up a Quidditch team. Not that that poses a problem, as they - every last one of them, Hermione is in extremely well suited company - also aren't the least bit gifted in that regard. And it's not as though there were a secret handshake to identify one another were they of an inclination to play a quick, if intrinsically skill-less, match.
Most hearing the contract referenced take it for hyperbole or a strange turn of phrase, and currently there probably aren't a dozen students at the school who are even aware such a thing truly exists. Easily half of those are the attentive children of solicitors, the legal negotiations with a Spiritous Apparition, human or otherwise, but most especially with a non-being being something of a watershed in wizarding legal history. The less attentive children typically doze through their parents' recitations, remaining blissfully unaware of this and so many other things.
One can debate which of the concessions made to the Poltergeist is more important until one is every bit as much a spirit as Peeves; it doesn't really matter. What matters, particularly at this precise moment, is that almost a century and a quarter ago Headmistress Mole had agreed to leave him his choice of Hogwart's stale bread and he hasn't forgotten to this day. Not at all.
The elves, rather clever creatures really, had come to realise they were best off depositing this well away from their kitchens for Peeves to do his choosing there. Elsewhere. Anywhere but the kitchens would do. Peeves can be fairly easily led if one puts one's mind to it, and he rather liked the idea of them serving him. Quite a bit. As such, they've taken to leaving the stale bread on an overly ornate silver tray in the Great Hall after meals.
As an added benefit, it keeps the Poltergeist busy when students are trying to get to classes, and he's less likely to attack them in the hallways. The drawback is that when he does, he's suitably armed, but one can't have everything. It certainly helps to discourage stragglers, and once in the company of their teachers, students are reasonably safe from Peeves. Elves can be very considerate creatures.
Which explains why it is a bad idea of truly noteworthy proportions to help oneself to the stale bread on precisely that tray. Beyond the fact it frankly doesn't taste all that great.
Draco's flagging, sufficiently that Theo's worried. It's just his friend's luck that the blind Seer had overlooked him - and how ironic is that - and nearly sent him sprawling. Draco's not too steady on his feet today to begin with.
The last twelve hours have been troublesome in a way that leaves Theo very unsure of himself, although that's kind of his natural state anyway. Only close friends might perceive a difference, they number a grand total of 'one', and he's not noticing much of anything just now, wobbling along as he is beside Theo at the moment.
And Theo had hexed him into unconsciousness last night.
That's quite a thing. Especially for him.
Draco had come crawling in shortly before curfew yesterday, looking like something the Kneazle had coughed up and then not deigned to drag in, all too evidently suffering the effects of the Cruciatus. It says too much that Theo recognises it, or that he even considers it a possibility for what might have happened to his friend, both that he thinks Draco could be on the receiving end of an Unforgivable and that Theo doesn't automatically discount such a thing universally, not even at school.
Had it been the Gryffindor Tower, the assumption would have been the after effects of the Jelly-Legs Jinx, and they'd probably have been correct. Things are very different in the Slytherin seventh year boys' room.
Theo had naturally asked the blond what happened, but he hadn't been too surprised when he didn't get much of an answer. He's far from stupid, and a smart wizard does not press the issue in their circles. Not if he isn't suicidal anyway. And Theo's not. Yet.
"Merlin, Draco, what happened to you?"
"Crucio." It was hardly recognisable as his voice. Theo had helped him to his bed.
"Yeah, that much I gathered..."
All too aware there wasn't any Pain Relief to be had in the Infirmary, Draco had begged him to Stupefy him instead of taking him there.
"That really doesn't sound like a very good idea, Draco. We need to go tell Professor Snape. Please..."
Draco had only snorted. "He's well aware of the situation."
"Couldn't he help you?" That just got him another derisive snort. Theo was a little desperate, but he had an idea as to what the Antispasmodic that appeared on his nightstand was meant for. Theo knows the game. He can't betray what he doesn't know, and he deliberately didn't even try to think about who might have left it, why, or how they'd have known it was needed in the first place. He has no desire to get innocent people in some very serious trouble. He's not even sure he wants to get guilty people in that kind of trouble either, not in general, and particularly not for something like providing a much needed medicinal Potion. Merlin.
"I think he has bigger problems," Draco had finally answered once he settled back on his pillow, had taken a few tortured breaths and was able. "I believe he was on his way to pay his respects to our families."
Theo went quiet at that. There are few things worse in his world than seeing anyone from their families. Subsequently, when the Professor wasn't at breakfast the next morning... Well, Theo had some rather specific concerns, and they'd certainly been exacerbated by the Poste Serpentes.
In the end, he had fetched the phial and given it to Draco and then just did as his friend asked. "Stupefy."
And he finds it bloody disturbing that he basically hexed his friend senseless for the night. Because that's just not who he is. It never has been. He's not the sort who goes around hexing people, certainly not those he likes. Granted, the Stupefy is technically a Charm. Theo suspects how those things are classified is a question of either marketing, Galleons exchanging hands, who one knows at the Ministry, or some combination of the three.
But he's careful not to let Professor Flitwick hear him say that.
Still supremely uncomfortable with just about everything, Theo just took Draco's books from him once Professor Trelawney returned them and carried them the rest of the way to Transfiguration. Draco sort of looks like he could use some carrying himself, to be honest. If all else fails, there's always the Mobilicorpus.
Hermione watches as the classroom slowly fills from her spot in the front row on the bench furthest from the door. The three Hufflepuffs are there, as are all six of the Ravenclaws now seated in the middle of the room. It's not exactly a flattering way of seeing things, not that she realises it, but she can't help feeling no one who matters has arrived yet.
No Malfoy. No Zabini. No Nott.
No Harry. No Ron.
There's still time, of course, but it makes the room seem rather empty, and realistically, she's waiting.
She can feel the difference the second phial of Calming makes. She should have taken it from the outset. She should have taken the Draught of Peace like he told her. There's no way he isn't going to find out, either, as she won't be able to take it before he wakes. Bugger.
And she did not just consider, no matter how briefly, sneaking over right after class and giving him another dose of a Sleeping Draught.
Fine, she did. But she most certainly never would. There's a great difference between thinking a thing and doing it.
And now she's thinking about it again...
And then just like that, she's trying desperately not to think about someone giving her a Potion she didn't want in this very room...
And feeling even worse that she - even ever so briefly - really, really briefly - had imagined dosing the Professor.
Honestly, it a good sign, as bad as that sounds. It really is. Because it means she's not as scarred from the events of Friday night as some might fear. On the other hand, it's a rather scathing statement about the society in which she lives that those are the kind of things that might cross a normal person's mind, even in jest. But she can't entirely help being a product of her society.
Unfortunately, it's not quite as innocent as it might sound. In fact, she even has a bit of a history with dosing people with Sleeping Draught. She herself had spiked cakes meant for Crabbe and Goyle with that very same Potion when she was only a second year. And only a year later, hadn't she laughed right along with Ginny at Mrs. Weasley's story of brewing a Love Potion? It had seemed funny then.
Time has a way of changing one's perspective.
Damn Mrs. Weasley anyway. And Love Potions and their derivatives, too, for that matter.
She decides she's just trying to distract herself from waiting for the Slytherins, who'll undoubtedly arrive in a clutch, and she would feel a bit better if Harry were there. Or even Ron, really. But not even Seamus or Dean have shown yet, they're probably still in the Infirmary, and she's feeling rather alone all by herself on the bench there.
Exposed.
She stares at Professor McGonagall's chair, more visible now that the Professor has stood to make notes on the board in preparation for class. From her seat in the middle of the bench, she can see the carving of Crooks perfectly and it calms her. Her hand reaches unconsciously for the phial hanging at her neck as she concentrates on the image of her familiar, and then she performs one of Professor Taylor's strange breathing exercises, and before long it's all done some good.
Her timing is excellent, as the Slytherins filter in just then.
Really, it's almost anticlimactic.
The thing is, no one but Draco has any idea that the room has any kind of significance, certainly none other than it had had the week before, or that her being there is in any way exceptional, and the result is they pay her no attention at all. The boys are rather preoccupied with the Serpents that had arrived this morning, and Theo's still trying to puzzle out what on earth he could have done to make his father proud (besides hexing Draco, which his father really shouldn't have any way to know about, or he's got some very big problems indeed). And true to his nature, he's more than a little nervous thinking about if pleasing his father could possibly be a good thing. Objectively, that is. That's far from a given... Or perhaps depends on one's definition of 'good'. His father's is questionable at best.
The only one of them who knows what took place Friday is Draco, and he's almost dedicated himself to not looking her way. Which having sat there dreading it the past several minutes, she now finds... annoying.
Annoying beyond words.
So now she sits there staring at him instead.
There's a deep-seated reflex that alerts people that they're being observed. Even wizards have it. It doesn't take long before his eyes dart up, glancing around, and he notices she's scrutinising him. Unwaveringly. Hermione narrows her eyes in her most challengingly glare, looks very deliberately at the spot on the floor she'd last seen him sprawled on and then with a purely malevolent grin, allows her eyes to travel down to his crotch.
That does the trick.
Draco blushes heatedly and quickly turns away. It's comes as no surprise when he studiously avoids looking at her again for the rest of class.
Hermione counts it as a victory.
At least there's one.
Harry and Ron storm down the corridor at a dead run, small loaves of bread flying about their ears and Peeves hot on their heels.
"Potty and Weasel would steal the bread from the mouths of babes..." Peeves is screeching up a storm, it comes all the easier as he doesn't actually need air in his non-lungs to do so.
It's surprising how hard old bread can be, and Harry feels thoroughly pelted. Assailed from all sides, so to speak, although primarily the rear, logically enough. This wasn't quite how he had pictured his morning, but he can't say it comes as a total shock. He'd had a bad feeling ever since... Actually, scratch that, he's had a bad feeling for days now.
As they throw themselves bodily around the next corner, Ron tries to bring a little humour to the situation, because that was what it was lacking. No doubt. "So, what, I guess everyone else gets the 'y' from my name..."
It doesn't help that it wouldn't have been funny were Harry not being barraged with volleys of bread. As it is, it leaves him glaring at his best friend more intensely.
Ron tries again, "I only wonder 'y'..." Alright, that was a little better. And Harry almost cracks a smile, except just then Ron grabs his arm again and tugs him to one of those stairwells no one uses with a self-assured, "This way."
It might have worked, too, two quick turns to shake off the Poltergeist, except the stairwell wasn't empty and as they careen around the corner there's a heavy "Oof," and a flurry of scrolls that comes from neither of them.
It's followed by an inexplicable and theatrically winced, "Karma," that Harry doesn't bother trying to decipher when he realises who spoke. They've just flattened the Divination Professor every bit as surely as 'Hogwarts: A History' will do a number on a Flitterbloom bloom. Or is that blossom?
"Watch where you're going," she snaps at them, trying locate her glasses on the floor and settling for Harry's instead.
He's insulted. There is no way the two can be confused. Harry fumbles about until he locates hers and is about to suggest a trade when Ron replies, "I'm surprised you didn't see that coming."
Karma, it would seem, holds for Ron as well, as Trelawney's Deafening Charm has worn off, completely, and she heard that.
Harry thinks there's a chance, with rapidly diminishing probability now that he looks at the ginger, that Ron hadn't meant anything by that. Trelawney, naturally, doesn't 'see' it that way.
Of course not.
"Class, kindly submit your homework scrolls and open your books to page 137," at the sound of her Tempus, Professor McGonagall's voice interrupts the students' conversations and everyone begins shuffling through their piles of books and papers for their homework and the class text. Everyone but Hermione, Ernie Macmillan and Theo that is, all three of whom already have their homework out and books open to the right chapter, if not the right page.
Ernie shoots Nott a slightly superior smirk because the Slytherin actually had to turn two pages. It's hardly a wonder, with such inattention, that the boy hadn't made Prefect. Which naturally doesn't explain how Malfoy had, as his book isn't even out yet. Or Weasley, for that matter, who's still missing.
Hermione's side of the classroom is still pretty empty. It's clear now Dean won't be joining them, and Harry hasn't shown up either. She has no idea what could be keeping him.
Scrolls go flying to McGonagall's desk, Banished, the Professor casts a quick spell to tally them and then turns to a certain blond sitting in the front row on the bench closest to the door. He's still noticeably busy searching through his book bag, his search becoming increasingly haphazard as he goes.
"Mr. Malfoy? Where is your assignment?"
"I don't..." He rifles further furiously for a moment, spurred by her question and everyone's attention, but there's no help for it. It's just not there. It's more than a little infuriating, because he knows he did it, and it may have been the only thing he had to feel smug about lately, that he'd managed to get it done despite serving detention all weekend, breaking what felt like most, if not all, of the major bones in his body, being tormented by the school nurse, oh, and getting fucking tortured by his Head of House-cum-godfather, how lovely, but he can't find it. It's... gone.
"Well?" She asks, with that certain inflection that tends to stop students in their tracks. As worn down as Draco is this morning, it simultaneously succeeds and yet fails to really reach him. This would seem to be just another little tile in the mosaic of misery that has been the past few days; it's hardly worth taking notice.
He surrenders. What difference does one more thing make? "I can't seem to find it, Professor."
"And isn't that a shame. Well, there is much to be said for keeping one's papers tidy, Mr. Malfoy." Blaise in the row behind Draco does a reasonably good job trying not to laugh, but Theo and Tracey both know why he might be tempted and catch it all the same. He'd only just had this conversation with Professor Snape yesterday. "Perhaps a little practice in tidying this evening under Mr. Filch's tutelage..."
Draco swallows hard and looks at his arm. He has three Serpents wrapped tightly around it. There's no way he'll be in any condition to serve detention tonight. The Slytherins shoot him sympathetic looks. Good luck not explaining that. With no options, Draco does the unthinkable, causing a few gasps and even more snickers, "I'm afraid this evening won't be an option. I'm, um, otherwise occupied..."
McGonagall's eyebrow shoots up, and the snickers cease. She considers using the same manoeuvre on him she had on her three Quidditch players, scheduling his detention during their practice, except then they'd simply trade training times... "Well, I shouldn't like to interfere with your plans..."
Seamus, now seated in the row behind Hermione can't quite stop his snort of laughter. That earns him a raised brow of his own, and he quickly gets the reflex back under control. "Very well, Saturday evening..."
Draco's voice sounds uncharacteristically small, "I already have detention then..."
"Wonderful. Would you care to save us all a little time and tell me when it would be convenient for you then?"
This sounds like a trap, but not answering also doesn't seem like an option. Draco finds he's actually sweating a little. He's appalled to think his Charm didn't hold.
Blaise leans forward and softly hisses, "I'm doing detention Saturday afternoon..."
Very tentatively, Draco volunteers, "I don't have detention yet on Saturday afternoon..."
"Perfect. You do now. Saturday afternoon it is then. Now if you would turn your attention to the book..."
"Running in the hallways, Mr. Weasley?" Trelawney rejoins, her irritation audible. "I 'see' you spending some time with Mr. Filch this Saturday afternoon..." Harry tries to stifle a groan. He's picturing having to tell the team he's earned them an early morning practice session on the weekend by virtue of this bit of stupidity. And he's the captain. That's not embarrassing at all. Hell, he'd give any of them a right bollocking if they did this...
"Uh, no, Professor," Ron replies, and for a short moment Harry foolishly feels something like hope.
Her brow wrinkles as both of her eyebrows shoot up, but Harry's glasses are ruining the effect more thoroughly than hers would have. She looks ridiculous. "No?" She asks. She does not sound pleased.
"Well, yes, actually, but not for you, I mean. Professor McGonagall already gave me detention then." Harry just scowls at him, forgetting for the moment that if Ron hadn't had detention then, they both certainly would have now. At least this way, rescheduling practice is still only Ron's fault...
"Ah, well then my sight remains clear..."
"It might be more so," Harry quietly suggests, extending her glasses towards her, "if you tried these instead?"
"Hmm. Ah. Much better, Mr. Potter. Nevertheless, things don't look good for you either." She returns his glasses, which at least gives him hope: things might not look good, but he'll settle for in focus.
"No. No, I didn't think so." They generally don't look good for him when Trelawney's involved. In fact they tend to look rather grim... At least he knows enough keep that thought to himself. He shoves his own glasses back into place and sets to gathering her scrolls.
"Saturday evening then?" She takes her wand and Summons the parchments with an, "Accio. There. Also better."
"Yes, Professor," Harry agrees, both with the time for their detention and the use of the Summoning Charm. Ron doesn't look best pleased. Harry gives him a nudge. "Right, Ron? Saturday evening?"
Ron nods somewhat sullenly as he picks himself off the floor. "We really need to get moving, mate."
Harry manages not to ask him whose fault that is. Only just.
"Potty! Weasel!"
The delay seems to have given Peeves a chance to catch up. Bloody hell.
They're in silent agreement about what to do about it, it's not like there's much choice, and take off running again.
Ever so gleefully, Peeves chases them through the castle, lobbing a seemingly endless supply of brick hard bread at their heads.
"Good practice for dodging Bludgers, yeah?" Ron quips, still trying to work his way back into Harry's good graces. Harry frankly can't be arsed with his overtures and just keeps on belting down the passage.
Only Sybill's fluster and utter lack of willingness to attract the Poltergeist's attention - even slightly - allows them to escape a second detention, as they've demonstratively not learnt their lesson about running in the corridors in the least. Hooligans!
"Can we make his feathers a darker green?" Daphne Greengrass asks, gesturing at the Augurey Professor McGonagall has Transfigured on her desk.
Ernie Macmillan, seated in the back row across the aisle from Daphne, snorts his opinion of that and whispers, "And how about turning his grey feathers silver while you are about it?"
"Oh!" Daphne half coos, "Can that even be done? Surely not real silver?"
"Do be quiet, Greengrass..." he mutters in reply, promptly drawing Blaise's, Theo's and Tracey Davis' ire who turn as one prepared to put the Head Boy resoundingly in his place, with wands if need be.
It's not that they as a group don't happen to share Macmillan's opinion of Daphne, not at all. They, like Draco, think she's one of the weaker of their number, which makes her skill in Transfiguration surprising and frankly more than a little frustrating for many of those around her. It shouldn't be. It's anomalous, and at moments like these seems nonsensical. But there can be no doubt, she's actually pretty gifted.
Still, they can't let Macmillan's attack slide. For one thing, it's a matter of principle. Daphne is one of theirs, her unquestionably questionable priorities and inane questions aside. They settle their differences internally. Externally they present a united front and protect their own. It's one thing they've learnt and learnt well from their Head of House.
For another, they're fairly certain, and correct, that Draco and even Theo regularly outperform that self-important gasbag Macmillan academically, and there's some resentment that the Hufflepuff was made Head Boy. There's a widely held conviction in their House that Macmillan's getting the spot is just one more example of the Headmaster's concerted anti-Slytherin fuckery.
While it isn't, not this time, they'd definitely be more than justified in questioning why no one can take a full course load without also taking Muggle Studies. Purely coincidentally, the course isn't exactly popular with the Snakes.
Draco, for his part, is pretty sure poisoning and cursing his classmates as he had last year was probably what precluded him from the running for the Head Boy position, and can see a certain logic to that. That's if the fact he'd taken the Mark hadn't already been reason enough. He can't begin to imagine why he's even still a Prefect, to be honest, other than someone very transparently trying to maintain Severus' cover (the Death Eaters regularly have a good chuckle about that), or maybe trying to keep attention off Theo, and candidly Draco would be perfectly happy to have one less responsibility this year. They couldn't pay him to be Head Boy. Well, and not just because he's ridiculously rich, either. Trying to repair those bloody trunks is taking up a great deal of his free time, which seems to be diminishing rapidly as the detentions keep piling up.
Normally Draco, too, would leap to Daphne's defence against the stuffy sandy-blond, her insipidity notwithstanding, but between the Serpents on his arm and Granger's clear reminder of what happened to him there last night... Draco's got a lot of other things on his mind.
"Thank you, Mr. Macmillan. That will be enough. I believe the question was directed at me," Minerva nips it in the bud and swallows her sigh.
It's not the bickering that gets to her, although it grew old decades ago. It's the things that seem to really matter to the students. There can be no question, Miss Greengrass is one of her most attentive and enthusiastic students. She's there energetically scribbling down every word Minerva says right along with Mr. Macmillan, Mr. Nott and normally Madam Snape, although she's understandably preoccupied today.
But what Miss Greengrass so eagerly wants to know is 'does it come in a different colour?' Minerva has just brought a vase to life, and after all these years she still finds that a source of wonder, but that's what apparently matters: the colour. Perhaps something to match the girl's dress robes... Still, it's preferable to repeating herself for a fifth and sixth time because Misters Finch-Fletchley and Finnigan haven't grasped the finer points. Again.
She misses questions about the Transfigured creatures's sentience. Is it? Well, no, of course not. If it were, where would the sentience come from, and where would it go once she performs the Finite Incantatem and the Augurey becomes a vase again? Not that those aren't evening filling topics...
Does it have a soul? Naturally that's even more absurd as a premise, but it's a great deal of fun to speculate. Are there even such things as souls? And if so, what is a soul? Honestly, a bottle of elf wine or three greatly helps the discussion, and as such those conversations and musings are normally reserved for the dominion of apprenticeship or the early days of mastership.
Still, every once in a while, the faculty indulges, both in wine and philosophical debate. Horace maintains souls most definitely exist, battling for his standpoint valiantly and with a fairly convincing certainty, but he always looks guilty when he does. Oddly, his guilt sways her more than his arguments.
Severus was a worthy replacement for Horace and used to debate such things with them hotly. He hasn't in recent years. Minerva now has her suspicions why that might be, and wishes she had tried harder to lure him from his shell. That she'd left him less alone with his burdens...
And the only one of her students to care about anything other than simply being able to perform the Spell successfully for the N.E.W.T.s just wants to know if she can make it match her House colours... Some days she wonders why she ever wanted to be a Professor.
And then she remembers her work at the Ministry and it becomes a good deal clearer. The prejudices. The politics... Never again.
Now she actually does sigh.