Chapter Thirteen of 'Leopard's Choice'- Defense Against the Dark Arts
Chapter Twelve.
Chapter One.
Title: Leopard’s Choice (13/60)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairings: Mentions of canon background pairings, otherwise gen
Content Notes: Angst, AU (Harry Sorted into Slytherin at the end of second year), violence, gore, torture, present tense
Rating: R (for violence)
Summary: Sequel to Wolf’s Choice. Harry enters his fifth year with the Ministry demanding he retract his stories of Voldemort’s return, his allies demanding sacrifices he may not want to make, and the world becoming sharper with every breath.
Author’s Notes: This is the sequel to Other People’s Choices and Wolf’s Choice, and the third part of the Choices series. Seriously, don’t try to read this without having read the other stories first. I anticipate this being 60 chapters, like the others in the series. Also, please take the violence warning seriously. Like OoTP, this fic will get considerably darker than the others.
Thank you again for all the reviews!
Chapter Thirteen-Defense Against the Dark Arts
Harry sits at the Slytherin table, staring towards the head one, where Dolores Umbridge is squatting in her chair, squinting and blinking and nodding at everyone. Harry’s too far away to really see what the look in her eyes is when she turns her head towards him, but he’s sure that it’s not complimentary.
So much for staying well-fed, he thinks, even as he knows that Lyassa and the others would never accept Umbridge as an excuse for skipping meals. He stabs his fork against his empty plate and leans back against his chair, staring as the new first-years stumble in through the doors.
“You’re going to make them scared to Sort into Slytherin,” Draco mutters from a few seats down.
Harry opens his mouth to snap back, and then shuts it firmly and tries to moderate his scowl. Draco’s not someone Harry can talk to easily, even now, but it’s true that he doesn’t want to scare helpless little firsties.
Zacharias Smith stands up and saunters across the Great Hall towards him. Harry blinks. As far as he knows, it’s a tradition that everyone stays at their House tables until the Sorting is finished.
Umbridge seems to think so, too. She titters, and then snaps, “Where are you going, young man?”
Some of the students flinch. Harry thinks it’s probably just at the sound of her voice, but maybe it’s the contrast between her laughter and her harsh words a second later.
He wouldn’t have thought that way, last year, when he had Chaos beside him.
He reaches down and clutches Chaos’s firestone in his robe pocket. Lion hisses gently and rubs his wing against Harry’s cheek.
Zacharias just glances over his shoulder, says, “The Slytherin table, Professor,” and keeps walking. Harry wonders if Umbridge knows who he is, or who she might just have insulted. Of course, she might not care even if she did, he thinks, taking a quick look at her. Umbridge’s eyes are narrowed and glittering, and her smile seems to have congealed on her face.
Zacharias leans his elbow on the table next to Harry and stares at him expectantly. “So, what’s the plan?”
“What do you mean?” Harry asks. Draco shifts as if he wants to say something, but Zacharias glances at him, and he doesn’t.
“What’s the plan to make this place better?” The flicker of Zacharias’s eyes and tilt of his chin leaves no doubt what he means, although Harry supposes that not using Umbridge’s name means he can claim a level of plausible deniability.
Harry coughs a little, then sits up when he sees Zacharias still staring at him. “I’m working on it.”
“Ah. Mysterious and impressive to some people, but not to everyone.” This time, Zacharias gives him a thin smile and turns around to face the Hufflepuff table. Harry thinks most people would miss the way his fingers jab, pointing, under the table, aiming at some of the Ravenclaws and a few of the Hufflepuffs.
And a few of the Gryffindors.
Harry grimaces. Well, with the fact that Voldemort’s back and a lot of people not wanting to believe it, he knew that he couldn’t count on his old House supporting him completely.
It still hurts.
“I know,” he says. “And I appreciate you coming over to talk to me about it. But I think we’re going to have some gore on our hands from an exploding head if you don’t go back to your table.” In fact, Professor McGonagall is also glaring at Zacharias from where she’s herding in the first-years, a chore she apparently didn’t want to give up to anyone else even though she’s Headmistress now.
“That’s an image,” Zacharias mutters, and then sighs wistfully. “Well. Rest assured that you’ll have the full story about the head’s owner in a few days.” He nods to Harry and wanders off so that he blocks Umbridge’s view of the first-years for a second. Harry has no idea if that’s deliberate or not.
He sits back with a sigh. There were dangers over the summer, sure, but he finds that he’d rather deal with Pettigrew trying to sneak into Grimmauld Place than all the subtleties and politics that happen around him in Hogwarts.
*
“Who’s that letter from, Draco?”
Draco glances up and glares at Theo. Theo only looks back at him, not blinking. Draco doesn’t think it’s his imagination that Theo’s eyes are reflecting the firelight like a cat’s. He’s certainly draped around the chair near the common room fire like one.
A big cat.
But then, Draco knows about Theo’s Animagus training. And while he thinks the last thing the psychotic bastard needs is to know how to turn into a leopard, it’s happening, and no one would listen to him if he tried to argue his point-of-view.
“You don’t need to know,” Draco retorts, and tucks the parchment away. “Aren’t you the one who said that you weren’t ready to be my friend anymore, unless I did something ridiculous that you think is necessary to apologize to your lord? There’s no reason for me to pay attention to you.”
“I don’t think I made a declaration like that.” Theo stretches himself and drapes his arm around the back of the chair. “Not as such. There may have been others, though. And need I remind you what happened the last time you thought you could trust your own wisdom?”
Draco’s face flushes. “Shut up.”
“Need I remind you? Or do you remember?”
Draco stands up and retreats to their bedroom without speaking. At least Theo seems bound by some declaration Harry issued, which means that he doesn’t follow Draco and poke at him. He only turns his head to watch him go, eyes still glowing with that flat yellow-orange shine from the fire.
On his bed, he draws the curtains and stares, again, at the letter from Hecuba Selwyn. She says that she knows ways to get around the declaration that seals off Malfoy Manor from him, ways to convince the house-elves to obey him the way they should when he’s their rightful owner.
And the temptation throbs in his heart and hands, breaking like a wave against the memory of what did happen the last time he trusted his own evaluation of someone.
Draco closes his eyes, and makes no decision, and knows he will have to.
*
I have done as I promised.
Dolores bows her head to the shadow of the great leopard that strides back and forth along the wall. “Yes, you did, powerful one,” she whispers. “You secured the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for me. And will you not yet tell me how I may prepare the sacrifice I will offer you?”
The shadow stops pacing, and for a second, the tail twitches. Dolores holds still. She knows that mortal cats do that when they see prey, but she can only hope that she is not the prey, herself. She doesn’t think she is. She has done exactly what the creature asked of her.
But when making bargains with powers beyond the mortal plane, that is not always enough.
We must have a test, the creature says, its voice flowing out from the wall as if slinking. I do not know the powers of this Harry Potter or how he might resist. He has already resisted one attack I thought would-catch him.
Dolores restrains her curiosity. She is to serve, not ask questions, so that someday she might be one that others serve.
“Very well,” she says quietly. “I can set up a test for him in class. What do you want me to do?”
*
Harry is trying to calm down as he walks into the Defense classroom. He knows that his state of high alertness is driving Lion into a hissing frenzy and making Theo and Blaise’s nerves worse. Even Millicent Bulstrode is edging away from him as though she fears infection with his fear.
Or his anger. Or his caution. There are so many emotions blended in him that Harry can’t even name them all. That is not helping him calm down.
He takes a seat in the middle of the classroom, a row of desks that the other Slytherins place themselves in an odd arrangement around, almost a half-circle. Not a full circle, at least, which would have increased Harry’s feeling of being trapped. He stares towards the front of the classroom, and catches Umbridge’s eye.
She gives him a little smirk and waves her wand. The writing that appears on the board is delicate and feminine and seems to consist mostly of curlicues. It says, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Dolores Umbridge. MINISTRY-APPROVED CURRICULUM.
Harry swallows and finally manages to dislodge the stone in his throat. He gives Hermione a nervous, grateful smile as she settles into the seat right in front of him. Ron has to sit further away because the other chairs are filled with Slytherins, but he catches Harry’s eye and nods.
The other students file in, but Umbridge doesn’t speak until there’s been no one new entering for at least two minutes. Then she stands and smooths down her pink cardigan. There’s a necklace of pearls around her neck, Harry sees, and she seems to have pearls embedded in the haft of her wand.
“As you can see,” Umbridge says in her soft voice that sounds to be a moment away from a titter, “I am your new Defense professor, Madam Dolores Umbridge. We will be following a new curriculum in this class, one the Ministry has approved. You might have been puzzled about the lack of a Defense book in the shops? I have it for you.”
She gestures with her wand, and books shoot out of a pile beside her desk and unfurl themselves onto all the student desks like a stack of playing cards. Harry blinks down at his. It’s by someone called Slinkhard, and says, Defensive Magical Theory on the cover.
“Slinkhard’s book is the essence of Defense,” Umbridge says. Harry can feel her eyes pressing especially hard on the side of his head, but he doesn’t look up to meet them. Instead, he flips through the pages of the book, which-
Appear to have no spells in them.
Hermione’s already noticed the same thing, of course, from the way her hand shoots up. Umbridge ignores her for a moment to talk about the “essence” of Defense, which sounds awfully like “Shut up and do what the Ministry tells you.” Then she turns and nods to Hermione with a small, put-upon sigh.
“Miss Granger?”
“Yes, Professor.” Hermione leans forwards a little. “I couldn’t help noticing that there don’t seem to be spells in this book.” She shakes the Slinkhard thing, which is the most disrespectfully Harry has ever seen her treat a book.
“You have a keen eye for a Muggleborn, Miss Granger,” Umbridge purrs.
Hermione’s face cools and turns red at the same instant, but she just says distantly, “Thank you, Professor. Why are there no spells in the books?”
“Why would you need to learn them?” Umbridge raises her eyebrows. “It’s much more important to learn the habits of right thought. You don’t have to go out and fight in a war. Defensive-and offensive-spells are for trained people in the Ministry like Aurors, who are, after all, paid to do a dangerous and dirty job. Why would you need to do them?”
Seamus, who has been giving Harry uneasy glances since they returned to Hogwarts, is the next one to speak up, unexpectedly. “But we have to take our OWL’s at the end of the year!” he blurts. “How can we pass ‘em without some knowledge of defensive spells, Professor?”
“Oh, I have nothing against self-study, Mr. Finnigan.” Umbridge stares for a moment at Seamus as if he’s a bug she found on the bottom of her shoe. “I’m sure that you’ll manage to impress the proctors if you…work hard.”
“And what will we do in class, if we’re not practicing spells?” Ron demands. “Professor Umbridge,” he adds after a second of her staring at him with those two small eyes like she’s a boar about to charge.
“Read,” Umbridge says, with a long, slow smile. “There will be no need to talk. Read at least the first two chapters of Slinkhard, and more if you can manage it.” She turns and walks up and sits behind her desk, but Harry doesn’t think it’s his imagination that she’s leaning forwards a little, as if waiting for something to happen.
Hermione puts her hand up again. Umbridge ignores her, but turns her head slightly, as if to see past the barrier that Hermione’s arm makes, and yes, Harry is certain now. She’s watching him, waiting for-what? Some outburst?
Harry sees no reason to oblige her. He flips open the first page of Slnkhard, reads the paragraph which says Dementors are no threat to anyone because they’re only used to keep the guilty criminals of Azkaban under control, and snorts.
“Something you wanted to say, Mr. Potter?”
Harry looks up and shakes his head. “No, Professor, I have no questions.” He glances at Hermione, and so does Umbridge, but she doesn’t seem inclined to call on her. Hermione switches to her left arm.
Harry, meanwhile, pulls a book on curses that Sirius gave him out of his bag and starts to read it.
“Mr. Potter.”
Harry glances up as Umbridge skulks away from her desk and comes to stand right beside his. It’s not easy to control his instincts that want to cast at her, or ignore Lion, who’s hissing about how he wants to fly into her face and bite her. “Yes, Professor?”
“I can’t help noticing that you are not reading Slnkhard,” Umbridge says, and there’s a note under her voice that sounds like excitement.
“Oh, but I am, Professor Umbridge.” Harry nods to the Slinkhard book still open on his desk. “I’m comparing this other book to it. I’m interested in seeing what their different Defense philosophies are.”
Umbridge narrows her eyes. “I did not tell you that you could do that, Mr. Potter.”
“But you said that we should read Slinkhard’s book, Professor. I’m just doing this to make sure that I get a greater understanding.” Harry widens his eyes innocently, and ignores the way that Lion is whispering insults on his shoulder and his image of Sirius is laughing in the back of his head.
“That isn’t a Defense book.” Umbridge steps around to the side as if she wants to get a look at the title or cover of the book. Harry tilts it a little so that she can see the ancient gold-flaked lettering, and smiles up at her.
“It’s a book on the philosophy and history of Defensive spells, Professor. And offensive spells.”
“It is not.” And Umbridge reaches out to take it.
Harry can never really recall afterwards if he intended to move it out of her way or not. The point is that he doesn’t, and her palm brushes the cover of the book, and a second later she’s staggering backwards, clutching her blackened hand and giving a muted sound that’s a half-howl.
“Oh. I wonder why it did that?” Harry frowns at the book, then shakes his head. “Sorry, Professor. That must be because it’s a book from the library at Grimmauld Place, and my godfather probably put a spell on it to keep anyone he doesn’t want to touch it from touching it.”
“You wounded me, Mr. Potter!” Umbridge sounds far more shaken than Harry thinks a little thing like a burned palm is worth. Then again, if she doesn’t face physical pain on a daily basis, maybe she takes it more seriously when something happens.
“Sorry, Professor.” Harry does his best to look contrite. “I really didn’t know the book would do that.”
“Detention,” Umbridge snarls. “Tomorrow night, at eight-o-clock.” She looks around the classroom and seems to meet everyone’s eyes, although Harry doubts she does. “Go back to reading Slinkhard! And Mr. Potter, put that book away right now!”
Harry didn’t really expect to get away with studying the book for long, so he shrugs and puts it back in his satchel. And then he bends his head over Slinkhard and pretends to read.
And pretends that he can’t feel the sheer hatred with which Umbridge is staring at him.
*
You said you would set something up that would give me an opportunity to taste his blood and power.
“I’m sorry.” Dolores sits with her head bowed and her hand in a bowl of soothing unguent on her desk in her office. She did intend to make Potter spill his blood, and then her master could have learned from it how strong his magic was. She never counted on being injured herself.
I ought to destroy you.
Dolores bows further and gets very tense as the leopard’s shadow stops pacing on the wall in front of her. She knows that she can do nothing if the great creature decides to kill her. That is the price of calling up more-than-mortal creatures and making bargains with them.
Nothing except remind the leopard of what she might be able to offer.
“It is your right to do so,” she murmurs, and can’t remember the last time she sounded so calm and meek. “But you would need someone else to bring you to a foothold in this world, my master, and perhaps you would not find someone for another generation.”
And this Harry Potter is the best prey I have seen in many of those generations. The shadow turns on the wall, its tail coiling briefly around its flanks for a moment as though to brush away annoying flies. Then the leopard’s head turns towards her. You have another chance.
Dolores holds back the joyful squeak that would make her sound too much like a little girl, and bows her head. “Yes, master?”
The detention. You will draw his blood during that. I do not care what you must do to accomplish it. I will be within the shadows, and I demand blood.
Dolores breathes out on the rush of relief. “It will be done.”
Chapter Fourteen.