“beyond wandpoint” 064 by gingerbred
Mar. 21st, 2019 05:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11d Tuesday - You Can Holler, You Can Wail”
Harry, Ginny, Neville, Hafsa, Dhanesh and Kiera Devi, Seamus, Zacharias and Salome Smith, Filius, Poppy, Pomona, Professor Call-Me-Terry Terrence Taylor
Originally Published: 2018-03-10 on AO3
Chapter: 064
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Realising they're only making things worse between them, Harry and Ginny agree to call a truce and try to interact with some of the others at their table.
Oddly, no one who'd been sitting there able to see them silently arguing seems eager to take them up on it.
That leaves them perched there even more awkwardly, alternating between staring at the table's surface (Ginny notes, now that she examines it carefully, that it shows no residual signs of yesterday's strange Charm that silenced the Hall) and making a couple of false starts at conversation with the others that they somehow completely overhear. Despite sitting only feet away. They don't even rise to the bait at casual remarks about Quidditch or a new high end collector's grade broom line expected sometime this winter. It's possible, though, that Ritchie and Jack are too taken with the witches sitting with them, and Seamus may just have borrowed a page from Harry's book on ignoring people.
Fair enough.
Harry and Ginny have no idea how uncomfortable their fighting makes people, especially when, in absence of facts to the contrary, the general assumption is the arguments revolve around their very obviously failed relationship.
No, that sends most people running faster than the threat of Cerebrumous Spattergroit.
Admittedly that may be due to an abysmal lack of basic health education at Hogwarts.
Hmm. Yes.
Rumour has it the elective and extra-curricular courses had been determined by drawing lots to fill the openings and then throwing the results in the bin as far too sensible and then taking what was left on offer. Ghoul Studies? Frog Choir? Xylomancy?!
It's surprisingly close to the truth, actually, but doesn't reflect that there had also been an extremely rare and virulent case of Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis obscurely and improbably coupled with alcohol poisoning involved in the process. Probably because it was so highly improbable, or possibly just because no one had given it all that much consideration. Or, as everyone involved is now long dead, perhaps it's just been forgotten.
Highly contagious as the illness was initially, incorrectly, thought to be - after a week's time they came to realise it had been caused by some improperly prepared Plimpie soup served at the last meeting of the Hogwarts Board of Governors - the entire Board had found itself sequestered in a ward of their own at St. Mungo's. It should have been abundantly clear that wouldn't end well.
Several days into the HBoG HGE outbreak, a number of so stricken members of the Board grew, well, bored with their inability to... imbibe as the virus ran its course. Technically, of course, they were perfectly capable of imbibing, the problem lay in their inability to retain what they'd imbibed long enough to experience any of the usual benefits thereof, and prodigious amounts of a very expensive vintage of Blishen's Firewhisky were wasted in the initial attempts. But they weren't ones to split hairs, and certainly not in any fit state to do so.
Hermione, on the other hand, who was positively born to split hairs, would naturally point out that the lack of retention of those involved with Hogwarts is a very widespread and pernicious problem, the severity of which shouldn't be underestimated, but no one would thank her for the observation, no matter how valid. Quite typically.
A theory was concocted, much like one of old Professor Swoopstikes' potions, that alcohol, much like those potions in fact, could be administered directly if only one had the ability and requisite permissions to do so. As their collective abilities weren't worthy of note after five days of sicking up all over their ward, a gullible Healer was pressed into service - Galleons may have changed hands, extremely hollow threats were definitely voiced - permissions were readily granted, and in a couple of shakes their problems were, rather predictably, soon compounded.
Were the events better known, Poppy would happily use that as another case to illustrate just how Healers' Vows offer no protection to speak of against more or less honest mistakes. Or idiocy. And more's the pity there's no cure for that.
Quite obviously, to anyone not so thoroughly ill, addled or simply slow, the intravenous administration of alcohol proved a great deal more potent than their usual methods of becoming thoroughly pissed and led to the alcohol poisoning. The use of a prohibitively expensive single malt to do so was just... very poorly conceived and in addition undoubtedly wasteful. It certainly did nothing to mitigate the effects of the HGE, and at some point in the throws of all of this, they decided it was past time to overhaul the curriculum.
Naturally.
Longstanding Governor Temperance Mathew, never one to be known to so much as nurse a pint, typically eschewing intoxicants in favour of tea, had argued quite vocally against it. Hermione would have liked her. Naturally, Temperance was then summarily deemed an obstructionistic stick in the mud (Hermione would have sympathised) - only they used unflattering synonyms, because 'obstructionistic' proved too unwieldy for drunken tongues (oh, how she would have sympathised) - and promptly locked in a secret broom cupboard until the changes had been ratified.
Really, there could be no other explanation for it.
As a direct result, none of the students presently studying at Hogwarts has ever learned about Haemorrhagic Gastroenteritis, and the only course in the regular curriculum in which Spattergroit is currently even mentioned is Professor Binns' History of Magic, which unfortunately has never been known to impart knowledge to any of the students. At least none they seem to retain... Ironically and highly atypically, due to the effects that particular strain of Spattergroit seems to have had on the 1877 Quidditch World Cup, the only students who can say more than 'Spattergroit. Bad.' on the subject are aficionados of the sport, and rare individuals like Hermione with extraordinary memories who've read 'Quidditch Through the Ages' for reasons they themselves couldn't begin to define.
All of which helps explain why, although the Gryffindors seated beside Harry and Ginny know they have no desire whatsoever to be party to their relationship... issues, they lack a suitable medical metaphor for it. Why precisely that metaphor should need to be medical is presumably a valid question, the wide world of wizarding sports, despite being woefully comprised predominantly of Gobstones and Quidditch, certainly offers up some of its own, but suffice it to say 'avoiding them like a Bumphed Bludger' lacks the same pithiness. Certainly no further explanation shall be forthcoming at this time.
Nevertheless, those two get luckier than they probably deserve and are saved from any further social flailing as their availability now coincides with Neville taking the seat next to Harry. He's just finished coordinating with Professor Sprout to schedule his extra hours in the greenhouse for his Herbology internship. That should help mask the odour of Ron's socks. Unfortunately with a more pungent one.
Neville cheerily tells his Housemates about what he has arranged for his independent study, and while they'll never share his enthusiasm for the subject, both are good enough to be happy for him. Harry will never forget how Neville is there in a pinch, and Ginny has harboured a soft spot for the quiet Gryffindor ever since he took her to the Yule Ball in her third year. He was her first ever sort-of date, and a perfect gentleman. She smiles at him fondly as he gets carried away in his explanation. His pleasure is catching, although not quite as much so as Spattergroit, Cerebrumous or otherwise.
It's not long before their conversation seems as normal as any other at the table and the awkwardness from minutes ago is a thing of the past.
The Devis, holding hands and smiling gleefully, have finally made their way down to breakfast and are settling in amidst fits of giggles when a single eagle owl comes rushing into the Hall and makes its way unerringly for the boy. Far and wide, there's not another owl in sight, and something about the owl shrieks... smug. Over-achiever. If an ill tempered, terminally serious swot could be an owl, he would be precisely this owl. It wears a Gringotts crest, and the scroll it's carrying bears the matching seal.
Somehow that fits. And undoubtedly regular work with the goblins could sour anyone's mood.
The bird half fires, half drops the scroll onto Dhanesh's lap, not entirely simple given he was seated at the table, but the owl's aim is a damn sight better than the current Hufflepuff Chasers', before flapping its way back out of the room, not evening pausing to cadge a bite off his plate. The boy soon rips the scroll open to a chorus of happy 'woohoo's, not that anyone knows quite what he's on about, but he and his bondmate exchange a fairly triumphant hug.
Should anyone have missed the display, it happens, the Devis' presence becomes even more noticeable when Professor Flitwick then calls for Dhanesh, still sporting his tail rather impressively, to come up and see him.
Dhanesh can't resist giving it some demonstrative flicks and flourishes as he goes, having learnt to manipulate the thing almost masterfully thanks to some quite rigorous practice the past night. He has the bags under his eyes to show for it and a fairly debauched grin. That isn't going to help his case in the least.
Pomona chuckles, watching the boy as he goes, shaking her head and thinking of Minerva. When the Devi boy reaches the High Table, Filius breaks it to him firmly that the tail needs to go. There's a bit of futile negotiation, followed by undignified whinging. Filius is far too experienced to fall for that. He couches it as a health issue, Poppy had said it wouldn't be good for his skin after all.
The Matron kindly backs him up, nodding, "I said we couldn't leave it long, Mr. Devi."
Good woman in a pinch, Poppy. They'd told her about Minerva's reaction and had come to the mutual conclusion they should probably sort it before their colleague laid eyes upon the boy again. After all, they were the ones who had decided to let it go last night, and ultimately Minerva would be the one, as his Head of House, who would have to answer for it to the young man's parents. It wasn't quite fair of them.
"But I thought we had at least until Friday..." he whinges some more.
In a whiny tone that proves particularly amusing while leaving one questioning if the boy is really mature enough to be married, Mr. Devi's coup de grâce, naturally, is that they're on honeymoon, and 'the thing is dead useful'. Poppy may have inhaled some tea when he said it, and Pomona can't quite stifle a chuckle and whispers something to Filius about 'cavorting'. Minerva's just lucky she's elsewhere. There's no conceivable way she wouldn't have choked at that; she seems intent on elevating it to an art form.
Alas, it's not quite the killing argument the lad had hoped.
With the possible exception of its effect on Professor Taylor, that is. He sounds like he's about to do himself a mischief laughing. He's been quite enjoying his morning, regaling Poppy with the story of how Madam Snape had swept in to fetch Minerva.
It's all the more puzzling as he wasn't present as it occurred.
That was no impediment to his story telling, though, and he took the bits and pieces he had from Pomona and Filius and artfully span together a story three times as long. It wasn't a bad story, in fact it was well told and it would have been more than diverting were Poppy less invested in the individuals involved or less cognisant of her recent manipulations, theoretically on their behalves. But given Poppy had actually seen the young woman very shortly before she appeared in the Hall, it provided her with quite some insight into Taylor's fabrications. In particular, the idea of Madam Snape's exceedingly fitted clothing and wildly tousled hair seemed to have caught his fancy.
Poppy's been growing increasingly annoyed with Professor Taylor, Terrence, the longer he natters on and makes a note to avoid the seat next to him whenever possible moving forward. She also now suspects she knows where Madam Snape took their colleague and why.
Good for her.
Quite probably good for Severus as well.
Poppy's becoming less patient the longer she sits there, thinking perhaps she also should have a word with Minerva herself. And looking at Professor Taylor with some pique, Poppy resolves to sort the 'hair issue' before the young woman heads to class. There's no need to give rise to more rumours.
The Mediwitch feels a little guilty for not liking the DADA Professor more. Or at all, really. He's done nothing wrong that she could put a finger on, he seems... inoffensive enough. She just can't seem to warm to him.
What's worse, she can remember quite clearly when he was... What would he have been, a second year Hufflepuff? Just a wee thing, well, extremely, and apparently one of the older students had hit him with a very seriously miscast Sonorous and shrunk him to the size of a vole. There are some incredibly good reasons that spell isn't part of the syllabus, although naturally they wouldn't want the children able to shout that loudly even if the Charm were ridiculously easy. Filius had needed days to get him back to regular size. They'd never seen a Sonorous so badly cast before or since.
Mr. Taylor had been brought to her in an old Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans box someone had thoughtfully stuffed with some batting, and Poppy had taken care of him for the week it took to finally get him sorted. He never revealed the identity the child who'd done it to him, showing more backbone than she'd expected, insisting he was 'no grass'. He'd been very little bother, was friendly and polite enough, as he remains to the current day even... and yet she still doesn't like him.
There's no accounting for taste.
"Be that as it may, Mr. Devi, be that as it may. And perhaps that's not quite something that should be shared with your Professors over breakfast, but I'm sure it's good to know," Filius does his best to keep his face neutral. Pomona firmly bites her cheek in her struggle to suppress her chuckles. "Still, I'm afraid it must be done. Would you mind turning..." A curious arc of Filius' wand and the boy is back to his previous form, although he can't seem to stop rubbing the spot where the tail now isn't.
"I did say it wouldn't be good for your tissues, Mr. Devi. If you have problems, please stop by the Infirmary, and we'll get you a Salve." The notion of dropping his trousers and pants before the Matron proves sobering enough to enable him to stop his rubbing. She bites back her smile at his look of pure mortification. The insights into his conjugal exploits that he'd provided anyone within earshot hadn't brought a blush to his cheeks, but that... It's typical, she finds, of the youth of today.
The boy looks so crestfallen that Filius leans towards him and whispers, "May I suggest just having your sister teach you the Charm? Then you could perform it at will and no one else would ever have to know."
The boy looks a good deal happier as he heads back to the table calling for his sister, apropos of nothing. Pomona leans over and tells him, "I don't think anyone else knowing was quite his issue."
"No, I believe you're right about that, my dear," Filius laughs his slightly squeaky laugh in return.
Looking about, Harry and Ginny determine the Smiths, too, have finally made an appearance. Further looking around, and they're forced to acknowledge there's still no sign of Hermione. Or Snape.
"What, I mean, why do you suppose they're... Where do you think she is?" Harry asks, finally settling on a formulation that didn't seem to broach any of the very long list of things he doesn't wish to broach, possibly more so now that Neville has joined him, although he'd been quite unwilling either way.
"I don't know, but I don't think we handled it well yesterday, and I imagine she isn't all too eager to see any of us," Ginny answers, further demonstrating her superior grasp of the situation.
"Are you two talking about Hermione?" Neville asks. Harry nods. "She was here earlier," he tells them and fills them in. Neither knows quite what to think.
Of course, it's not quite fitting with the image of a victim Harry's been trying not to envision.
Doubtless that will only cause more problems.
The Smiths' presence now also becomes all the more evident as the first of the mail owls swoops in bearing a Howler for Zacharias.
Poppy sighs, "That's our quiet breakfast gone for a burton..." to no one in particular, but Taylor quickly agrees with her. Naturally, that only makes her like him less.
Mr. Smith's father had done the honours and soon his voice is booming through the Hall. "ZACHARIAS SMITH..."
It's unsurprising that he sent it given the personalities in their family, but a recent survey conducted of its readership by 'Witch Weekly' determined that upwards of ninety percent of all Howlers sent are indeed sent by women. It's possible, however, that their survey sample was biased, it being a periodical primarily for witches, as the name might suggest. Scientifically robust methods of data acquisition are also not part of the curriculum at Hogwarts.
Zacharias, officious tosspot though he may be, probably doesn't deserve the public humiliation associated with the Howler, and a few people, Filius and Poppy not least among them, will notice there don't seem to be any owls circling, searching unsuccessfully for Albus. It's hard to say for sure, from their standpoints, if he receives any complaints, as the Headmaster still hasn't appeared for the meal. That's been happening more and more often of late. Staff suspect the war and leading the Order alongside the school is taking its toll. They're only right in part, but then only one of their number knows about the curse slowly overwhelming Albus' body, and he's sleeping upstairs in the Infirmary.
Zacharias is spared some of the embarrassment he could otherwise expect as another owl almost immediately descends with a Howler for Dhanesh. Kiera is kind enough to do the blushing for him, in a lovely bit of teamwork, and she's also taken to rubbing the spot on his very much lower back where his tail had been. The smile he'd had before he received the Howler would seem to indicate he liked that quite a bit. They're generally cute together. Currently they're mortified together. But as his mum's voice echoes off the walls, it becomes increasingly difficult to understand either Howler.
Pomona's laissez-faire attitude towards the Smiths' bond lasts right up until the moment she in turn gets her Howler from Mr. Smith, but by this point no one can understand a word of it. The tone, however, is clear enough, but with a Red Howler, that was basically a given. She'd rather been hoping it wouldn't come, but she remembers Mr. Smith Sr. from his days as a student in her House from way back when she very first started teaching at Hogwarts, and he hasn't mellowed with the years. She thinks he's more like vinegar than wine, becoming more bitter over time.
Isolated snippets of parental outrage stand out from the din, nothing that shouldn't have been expected, but Salome puts an end to all of it by turning the now quite thoroughly reddened Zach, his complexion is truly ideal for it, bodily towards her and snogging him nearly senseless. The cheer that goes up from the student body drowns out whatever anyone could still make out of the Howlers.
They've pretty much played out entirely when the students get themselves back under control, presumably in response to Filius' squeaking, effective as always, except for one last and now somewhat exasperated sounding, "Oh and, Kiera, welcome to the family, I suppose." Culminating in a dramatic sigh and then followed by a terse, "I will expect to see you both on the next Hogsmeade trip for tea," from Mrs. Devi.
Hafsa can't help herself, it makes her laugh, and soon others follow suit and the discomfort is all but forgotten.
Forgotten, that is, by almost everyone except for Ginny, who now looks supremely uncomfortable and very nervous.
"Gin?" Harry tries to coax her.
"I owled mum. Yesterday. With the news." She doesn't sound good.
Harry hasn't forgotten the Howler Mrs. Weasley had sent Ron their second year. It was the first he'd ever seen or heard, which would probably make it memorable enough, but it had been... quite distinctive in its own right. The woman certainly had a talent for them.
"Do you think your mum will send one?" He asks her rather horrified, especially in light of what they'd discussed just before.
Ginny just looks more uncomfortable, "I wouldn't rule it out."
Harry pales at his next thought, "Do you think she'd send it to Hermione? Or Snape?" Neville's pumpkin juice seems to magically relocate to inside his nasal passages. Fudge on a broomstick. He's never been happier not to be in that class.
All the colour drains from Ginny's face and possibly her entire body. She goes a really unhealthy shade of pale at the previously unconsidered possibility. "Merlin, Harry! He'll have me for potions stock!"
"Too right," Neville somewhat unhelpfully, but automatically, agrees.
"You think you've got it bad, you're not in his class anymore," Harry reminds her.
"He wouldn't take it out on you..." She half asks, hoping it's true.
Harry isn't sure that it is. He and Snape have never gotten on. That was evident as recently as... yesterday. He shrugs. "Maybe. If not, there's always Ron..." Harry doesn't need to complete the thought.
Ginny knows she won't get another bite down. She pushes her plate from her, muttering something about needing to get to class and bolts from the table, hoping to be long gone before any such Howler, Snape or Hermione appear.
Seamus calls out for her to wait, he wants to go visit Dean before class, and chases after her to catch up. The doors to the Great Hall clang shut behind them.