“beyond wandpoint” 071 by gingerbred
Mar. 21st, 2019 11:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 11k Tuesday - Sub-Optimally Part 1”
Hermione, Severus, the Bloody Baron, Nearly Headless Nick, Harry, Ron, Albus, Theo Nott, Draco, Blaise Zabini, Ernie Macmillan, Terry Boot, Michael Corner, Morag MacDougal, Padma Patil, Tracey Davis, Winky, Filius, Poppy, Irma Pince, mentioned: Fred and George
Originally Published: 2018-04-28 on AO3
Chapter: 071
Hermione is kneeling on the floor of the library, thoroughly frustrated, stacks of back issues of the Prophet surrounding her, not one bit more knowledgeable about her... mother-in-law and covered in dust. This really isn't how she'd planned to spend her time.
A few shelves over, two young girls, Slytherins, it so happens, which may be what makes her thoughts drift in a certain direction, are whispering about how someone's allergy to Kneazles had landed him in the Infirmary this morning. They're shushed by someone else close by, and Hermione doesn't spare them another thought.
Instead she has a touch of guilt that she hadn't brought the books the Professor had lent her and researched Banishing Crooks' fur like she'd promised him. She had told him she would make it a priority, and she will... eventually, she's back to guiltily biting her lip even as she thinks it, but it had seemed much more important to research the bond and their rings first. Not that research would change anything now...
And because that's worked out stunningly well for her...
It should go without saying that she had no way of knowing that, or even anticipating it, when she'd made her decision on how to allocate her time. The results in no way render that choice less reasonable, only less fortunate. But she's not inclined to see things that way just at the moment.
Sure, the fur collecting Spell was silly, but she had promised, and it's not like she's making progress here either. She sighs and looks at the piles of newpapers around her. She really seems to be failing miserably across the board.
Luna's Inquiro Searching Charm has made her life so much simpler, no doubt, and 'Snape' had been remarkably easy to search for, but the fact the Professor's mum's maiden name was 'Prince' is proving significantly less helpful and was the reason for a good many 'Holy Cricket's. Hermione has now been exposed to two decades worth of hearsay and scandal on assorted royal families she never even knew existed, and is becoming increasingly cross at having filled her brain with such a collection of mind-numbing inanities.
Which isn't to say she hadn't liked Prince Vonundzu's consort's dress at the Ministry's Christmas Gala of... oh, it was some time in the mid-fifties. No, that had been quite pretty. Still, as takes go, it was a ridiculously thin haul for all her work, and far from the intended result.
She smears a bit more dust across the tip of her nose, ironically as she tries to rub the dust induced itch from it. The gesture does help a little with the immediate urge to sneeze, and fairly late in the process it occurs to her to cast a Tergeo on the papers around her.
And then on her clothes. Holy Cricket!
There. So much better.
Madam Pince really should do that herself once in a while.
It takes her longer than she'd be willing to admit - but fortunately she doesn't have to - to realise the annoyance she feels isn't solely her own. Once the realisation hits, she listens to the sensation, really opens herself to it, and can tell that the feelings the bond transmits have shifted. It's as though the focus had changed, maybe from a wide-angle to a telephoto lens. The wide spectrum of feelings is just... gone. What's left is sharper, however, and almost more... tangible, if feelings could be described as such, but it seems... They're concrete somehow. Very real. The others had seemed more dreamlike, which of course is exactly where they'd originated and reasonably fitting, as descriptions go.
There's a sharp spike of annoyance that gets through, very sharp, followed immediately by that nothing she's decided only occurs when he's Occluding.
Which can only mean one thing.
He's awake!
Hermione had trusted Madam Pomfrey. She'd believed her, honestly, when the Mediwitch said he'd be fine and wake by lunch. But her guilt that he'd been hospitalised because of their bond... Well, it hadn't given her much peace. It's something that sits in the back of her mind and gnaws at her. Without the Calming Draughts, it would have been so much worse. With the realisation that he really is going to be fine... As if waking were the only requirement... But the relief washes over her, almost as if it could rinse the metaphorical blood from her hands.
Still, things are looking up. Friday those bloodied hands had been all too literal.
She lets out a short squeal of excitement, nerves mostly. Not at all embarrassing, no. Naturally, it would have been less so if the sixth year Ravenclaw Prefect hadn't been seated nearby and given her the sort of disapproving glower that normally only Madam Pince can Conjure. Or Hermione herself, for much the same provocation, in fact.
She begins to hurriedly sort the papers back into the correct spots on the shelves, very eager to get to the Infirmary as soon as she possibly can. Only her rampant bibliophilia and deep-seated respect of (almost) all things published keeps her on task. Fine, and fear of engendering more of Madam Pince's wrath, although that's not nearly as prominent a source of motivation as one might think just now. Her irritation with the Librarian is outweighing the respect she usually has for Hogwarts' staff.
She's rushes out of the Library at a pace too close to a run not to draw another scowl from Madam Pince in passing as she hurries by her desk, but Hermione's far too preoccupied by that point to notice.
She bursts through the doors and without a thought to the oddness of it, calls for the Baron. He shimmers so quickly into sight beside her that it would be clear he's been waiting were she to stop and consider it, which of course she doesn't in her eagerness.
"He's awake!" She tells him, her excitment so clear, she's practically vibrating with it, and he finds himself almost beginning to... smile. Odd creature. Still, it is... good that this matters to her.
With a very formal bow, he waves his arm in a flourish, extending his hand in the direction of the Infirmary, and just stops short of offering her his arm as he straightens with a, "Shall we?"
She's incapable of keeping her pace to a walk and he does smirk now at the rather undignified trot she's doing to get to her destination more quickly. For him it's no issue to float along... faster. It's hardly something for proper society, the inelegant shuffling, half-skipping gait of hers, but if there had been any doubt in his mind after their conversation earlier, it's very clear she... cares about her bondmate's well-being.
He thinks he finds it... satisfactory. Suitable. Appropriate. He's not certain how the Head will receive that, not at all, but he's coming to suspect it will prove... beneficial in the end.
They are bonded, after all.
Bondings have fallen out of favour with the current batch of the living. The Baron hasn't personally encountered any bonded in... it may have been nearly two centuries now. He hears two of his House had tried it, not very long ago, perhaps two decades or so, but they'd left school by then, and he never saw them after. Rumour had it - not that he entirely trusts to such things, but there had been no evidence to the contrary - the bonding had ended badly, but that may have been a result of whichever war they were waging at the time. Either way, no one seems to have considered the ancient form of marriage thereafter.
Until now.
He fully approves of their bonding for reasons most people of the current century wouldn't place overmuch store in. It honours tradition, which he deems important. More so than is sensible, actually, but he's dead, after all. That has a way of shifting one's values.
For him, a bonding also speaks of a willingness to commit that he finds tragically lacking in the feckless youth of the present day. The Baron's word was always his bond. If he said he would do a thing, he would do it. He adds ruefully: or die trying.
That a bond does this at the expense of being unable to dissolve a union that might be proving... disagreeable or in the event of discordant growth of the partners... Those simply aren't his priorities. Nor were they his experiences, which makes it harder for him to truly comprehend why that could prove crucial. But to him life, or death for that matter, isn't about happiness. And the Baron, as his near millennium of service to the school and his House attests to, has no problem committing to things for the incredibly long term, and little patience for what he perceives as a lack of... perseverance.
With such strong opinions on issues like these, it's perfectly logical that he often has difficulties relating to the witches and wizards of the present.
All of which contributes to his unusual tolerance for the witch's unseemly rush through the castle. He's resolved to view it in a positive light. Admittedly he has to keep reminding himself of that, but the woman's ever broadening smile somehow makes that endeavour... simpler.
They've nearly reached the Infirmary when he's hailed from behind.
"Baron! Baron! There you are!" The Gryffindor House ghost comes whisking up the hallway from behind them. "I've had the portraits... looking for you... everywhere!" Nearly Headless Nick bends over double, resting his hands on his translucent knees, and struggles for breath that will never again fill his lungs.
The Baron isn't entirely sure if that's affectation, or if the spectre, the youngest by far of the Hogwarts' House ghosts, still has residual habits, lingering from his time... before. With Sir Nicholas, both are strong possibilities. He's also not the quickest to learn, the poor boy. He can often be seen to scratch itches that can't possibly be present.
The Baron tests his suggestibility every decade or so with things like demonstratively yawning, sneezing or scratching in Sir Nicholas' presence. He's been at that game for easily four and a half centuries now - he'd given the man a handful of decades to acclimate before starting - and so far the Gryffindor hasn't caught on and it remains exceedingly effective.
One needs to find ways to occupy oneself as a spirit. Something to fill the centuries.
Besides herding Peeves about the castle.
Of course, Nick might say of the Baron that he can also occasionally be seen scratching itches that can't possibly be present, but that thought never occurs to either of them. The Grey Lady is a different story.
The Baron waits patiently for Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington to speak. To catch his breath, as were. Madam Snape wavers at his side. This close to their goal, she hates to have anything keep her. On the other hand, she's known Nearly Headless Nick for a very long time now, as she measures time, that is, and she knows his degree of agitation is something to take seriously.
The two of them had commiserated over their mutual experience with the basilisk a few years ago. All too typically for him, he doesn't quite recognise that it might have been more traumatising for such a young and living person to have been so petrified, and typically enough for Hermione, she doesn't hold that against him. She tries to be inclusive of other life forms and respect their rights and differences. That fact greatly improves their relationship.
While the Baron doesn't feel it says much for the witch's intelligence - Merlin knows, Sir Nicholas had rhapsodised - it demonstrates yet another instance of her exemplary consideration he's coming to... appreciate.
Still giving a rather good impression of the thoroughly winded, Sir Nicholas delivers his message, "The portraits... They report... there's fighting in the dungeons. The students... There is no Professor in the vicinity... Someone needs to..."
"Quite," the Baron answers, cutting things short. He turns to Madam Snape and enquires, "You will be fine the rest of the way without me?"
She gives him an amused but friendly smile, the doors to the Infirmary are mere arm-lengths away. She looks rather pointedly to them and back to the apparition beside her, "I've been managing to open doors successfully for quite some time now. Manually, even, no Alohomora required. I think I'll be able to make it on my own from here." From someone else, he might have taken it for sarcasm, but there's something in the way her eyes reflect her smile, a Duchenne smile, that tells him she's... she's teasing him. The witch truly is passing odd.
If he were still uncertain, it would have been settled as she takes her leave with a polite and most sincere, "Thank you very much for accompanying me this far, Baron. Please go take care of whatever you need to." There's a slightly shy nibbling of her lower lip and then, "Maybe I'll see you later?" Then she bids both ghosts a surprisingly friendly sounding 'goodbye', the Baron bows in reply, and she disappears into the Infirmary.
Nick casts a thoroughly baffled look first after Hermione and then the Baron as he in turn disappears down the corridor that will lead him most directly to the dungeons. Shaking his head, Nick finally flits off after his young Housemate, because someone really ought to tell her about that smudge on her face. It made his nose itch just looking at it.
When Dumbledore's Tempus chimes, Ron practically leaps from his seat. "C'mon, Harry. Hurry up." He's half out the door before Harry can follow, and follow he does. Ron has no desire to listen to even one comment more from the Ravenclaws or Macmillan, and even less desire to lose more House points arguing with them about... Well... things.
Harry is left wondering if this is another manifestation of Ron's food obsession, and it's true, he's usually quite punctual to lunch and dinner, both meals having the clear advantage over breakfast of not requiring one to leave the warmth of one's bed to consume them.
The other, very probable explanation, to Harry's thinking, is Ron's hoping to avoid having to spend any idle time with Hermione. He's been quick to clear out to get away from her after classes, and very obviously willing to be late to appear to them. He may not be the most conscientious student, but the behaviour has been noticeably strange, even for him.
Harry's quite right in suspecting a method to Ron's actions. The redhead will also want to make sure he's gotten something decent in his stomach as soon as possible, just in case he has to beat a hasty retreat when Hermione arrives.
As plans go, it's not a bad one.
However it doesn't account for a certain poltergeist who suddenly manifests with a particularly gleeful cackle. He floats forward, blocking their path to the Great Hall, even Peeves knows it's the lunch hour, and removes the hat specially made for him by Madame Bonhabille, a Parisian artiste of some distinction in her day, in fulfilment of clause three of his contract.
There's a curious thing about his hat.
Like all his clothing, in an incredible bit of Charm work, it's able to shift with the poltergeist between the material and immaterial, a crucial distinction between poltergeists and ghosts, as the latter are always incorporeal, merely visible or not. Developing that Charm had taken a monumental effort, but the school founders had been agreed, one really couldn't have the poltergeist wandering about the school naked. It simply wouldn't do.
When Madame Bonhabille crafted his hat for him, Headmistress Eupraxia Mole had unsealed the 'Headmstr's Handbook' - the name makes Summoning it quite difficult, but she appreciated the egalitarian approach - found the proper Charm, and applied it to the milliner's creation. What she most certainly did not do, as she wasn't a complete clot, was apply an Undetectable Extension Charm to the thing. One really would have to be an absolute tit to do such a thing.
Or a pair of desperate gingers, caught after curfew by a certain poltergeist.
Four years prior and not too long before they gave Harry a certain map, Fred and George Weasley, fifth years at the time, had been out late one night, sneaking about the castle. They had come to rely quite heavily on said map to guide them past hallway patrols and particularly Filch, who wasn't far off at that moment. What they hadn't considered was that it only showed Peeves' location when he materialised, which he promptly did, as luck would have it and as he's won't to do, only inches behind them. Caught, worse yet with contraband they'd stolen from Filch himself - if he ever found them with that map, they were surely done for - they begged the poltergeist to keep still. Whispered negotiations followed, and finally Peeves agreed to let them go if they performed the Charm on his hat.
It didn't come off exactly fabulously, but for a couple of fifth years it was a truly impressive bit of work. The space created wasn't huge, by any means, but it could store a week or two's worth of bread, and what more did Peeves have in this world anyway? But it sadly doesn't work to shift the contents of the hat through walls when the poltergeist dematerialises again. Observant students will occasionally note and wonder about piles of old bread lying immediately adjacent to walls, but the house elves tend to spirit them away before they look too much like Bundimun should Peeves fail to reclaim them.
Which helps explain the smile on Peeves' face as he bobs there in front of Harry and Ron, obstructing the corridor with a particularly mischievous grin as he reaches into his hat. Really, had the boys given it any thought earlier, they might have asked themselves how he'd been able to carry so much bread...
Unsurprisingly, they now find themselves headed in the other direction, once again with loaves of bread whizzing past them. That's if they're lucky and the loaves don't strike home.
Albus takes one look at the students still left milling about the classroom and decides Mr. Weasley has the right of it, and he's probably better off leaving too. Miss Patil has him in her sights, if her expression can be trusted, and he's quite sure it can. He avoids another Legilimens, both to conserve energy and because Mr. Macmillan is still rubbing his head from the effects of the last bit of Legilimency Albus had performed. Best not to take unnecessary chances. Miss Patil has positioned herself between him and Severus' office door, not a poorly considered choice given he's twice appeared from there in the past hour alone. She's correct, that's exactly where he'd meant to go now, as well.
Slightly annoyed at the added inconvenience, he hastens to leave the classroom by the main door, with Miss Patil pushing her way past her classmates in an attempt to reach him, rather hot in pursuit. A clear advantage to youth, their speed. Fortunately Misters Boot, Corner and Macmillan are deep in conversation with Miss MacDougal and blocking Miss Patil's path. They don't respond well to her jostling, and rather predictably fail to clear the way in a timely fashion, which gives Albus a chance to make the safety of the hallway.
"Professor! Professor Dumbledore, Sir!"
He pretends not to hear her call out as he rushes off, but she manages to break free of the others.
Padma had been meaning to speak to him at the very first opportunity, and it was too, too fortunate that he'd filled in for Professor Snape this morning. Ever since she heard the rumour that Salome Perks, Smith, whatever, of all people is supposed to have been granted an apprenticeship for next year... An apprenticeship! Well! Not that's she's ever heard of anyone getting one, but she'd have thought, as Head Girl, well it seems clear that her chances for something like that, if they were offering, should be excellent, and she'd like to discuss it with him...
She follows him around the next corner only to discover an empty alcove. There's not a trace of him. Thoroughly perplexed, unfamiliar as the young Ravenclaw is with the secret passageways in the castle, she returns to the main corridor and makes her way to the Great Hall for lunch.
Albus, naturally, isn't in any mood to waste time with secret passages. He'd Apparated directly back to his office as soon as he had privacy. It takes its toll, but he has the entire lunch hour to recover. He's skipping the meal and might have a bit of a lie down. He's exhausted. His arm is killing him and isn't that the literal truth. Intent on a restorative nap, he collapses into his desk chair. Well, perhaps not for the entire hour, not if he means to Apparate back. He gives some thought to having Winky bring him back to Severus' office if he still doesn't feel up to it.
While he weighs his options, he calls for the house elf and has her bring him a bowl of soup and some bread, but his head has nodded down to his chest and he's sound asleep before the elf can reappear with his food. She abuses her ears for a little while for returning with his meal too slowly - not that she had had a prayer of fetching his food before he'd dozed off - and then she decides she's such a disgrace to elves everywhere that it simply doesn't matter anymore. What's another failure more or less? Thoroughly dejected, she returns to the kitchen, her waiting Butterbeer, and the highly unsubtle disapproval of her fellow elves, not a one of whom has the poor taste to be freed.
Tracey Davis follows somewhat closely on the heels of Professor Dumbledore and Patil. Lunch calls, but to be honest, she doesn't like the atmosphere in the room and wants to be well clear of it. The Ravenclaws and Macmillan are nothing but trouble today, and her own Housemates... The boys have been behaving abnormally all morning, the Serpents are clearly weighing on their minds and Theo... He's being even more peculiar yet.
The letter from his father is seriously affecting him.
That Protego earlier to shield Patil from the exploding cauldron... Most unusual. And from Theo, no less. Well, it wouldn't normally be necessary because their Head of House generally sorts things like that before students need to take to shielding one another. How absurd. Clearly the Headmaster lacks the requisite experience with Potions or the appropriate respect for the material. She can't wait until their Head is back in charge of the course.
It had been bad enough with Slughorn last year. Although she still smirks whenever she sees Smith's stripes. That alone might have been worth it. Well, maybe not.
She watches as Patil reappears from one of the alcoves to walk a short way in front of her as they both proceed to lunch. How just like Ravenclaw to get lost on a path they've taken several times a week for over six years. And to think the stuck up Head Girl hadn't even bothered to thank Theo for his rescue...
Tracey's a clever young woman. If it hadn't been for the political situation with the return of You-Know-Who, there's no question that she would have been the Slytherin girls' Prefect for her year, and not Pansy Parkinson. Bright spark that she is, she had done a fairly accurate read of the room. The seven students left really aren't a good mix.
Hermione stands there, arms somewhat comically akimbo, worry and disbelief abundantly clear on her face and demands of Madam Pomfrey, "What do you mean he's gone?!"
Severus has done a runner. Well it's perhaps more of a 'slinker' than a 'runner', but he's steadily making his way back to chambers, intent on seeking the comfort of his own damn couch, ta muchly. Or if that bushy haired person's about, maybe his own bed.
He'd prefer the couch. And some privacy. Naturally.
Someone will no doubt have commandeered his office for lessons today, and there's really nowhere comfortable there to lie down anyway. Not that he hadn't done rather a lot of lying down in the past several days... No, he's quite tired of the horizontal aspect, but Poppy had been more than correct, it was a truly bad idea to have left the Infirmary so soon, and he desperately needs to rest.
Oh, for fuck's sake.
But he just couldn't take the Infirmary any more or all Poppy's fussing. That look of pity. Insupportable. Or, and this was probably the straw that broke the camel's back, the idea Miss Granger had been permitted to camp out there by his bedside once more looking equally pity-filled. He'd seen the memory of that all too clearly in Poppy's thoughts. Truthfully, it was probably more guilt than anything else, and almost definitely sympathy and not pity, but Poppy's memories haven't the advantage of conveying Miss Granger's emotions the way that the bond does.
He was certain, he needed to be well clear of that room and back in his own robes and on his own ground, and that's what he'd determined to do. Even if he accomplishes nothing else for the day, that much he was going to do if it killed him. And from the feeling the bit of exertion causes, it just might. Bloody hell.
But he's in his own clothes and well shot of the Infirmary. Now he only needs to make it back to quarters.
He should probably have called for Sunny, to have the elf bring him home, but Poppy hadn't let him out of her sight to do so, and then he was too proud to admit he wasn't up to the walk.
That's not a good sign. Not at all.
He should have taken the damn Floo. But there again... pride. Poppy had stood there, in front of the fireplace, arms crossed, just challenging him to admit he couldn't make it on foot... He probably deserves this for not standing up to her. If he survives it, maybe it'll be a lesson to him. Bloody Nora.
His magic is in fine form, however, even if he isn't, and he has himself under a strong Notice-Me-Not and Disillusionment, belts and braces, after all, and he's propped himself against the wall, inching - it certainly feels like inching, but maybe it's footing - his way dungeonwards.
He's close, so close. He can feel his wards, a certain bondmate isn't even present, and he wants nothing more than to enter his chambers, collapse in his chair... Right, not his chair. Fine, on the couch... And not move until said bondmate reappears and chases him from his space. That is the plan. It sounds like a perfectly practicable plan. Highly serviceable. Almost ideal.
And then he hears it.
Just a little further down the corridor, shouts. Hexes. Screams.
Coming from his classroom.
Bloody buggering fuck.
Minerva had spent a good portion of class thinking about what to do about Molly and her Howlers or if she should do anything about them at all. She's been teaching the Transfiguration material since the days before Molly herself had been a student at Hogwarts, well over four decades now. On days like today, Minerva does so automatically, teaching by rote while her thoughts turn to other matters.
Roughly halfway through the the lesson, the solution finally came to her. It struck her as so ridiculous, she had to struggle not to laugh - what would the students think? - but she permitted herself the rest of the class period to properly weigh the pros and cons. As properly as she's currently able anyway. It does not help that she'd listened to two Howlers from the Weasley Matron, well, one and a half, and had the one from Mrs. Devi to prime her. No, she's had quite enough of that.
Minerva watches as Miss Devi scarpers off to lunch, greatly relieved, her Head believes, to not have been blamed for her mum's Howler. And why would Minerva blame her for that? The girl can't be held accountable for her mother's actions, only her own. She considers her plan one last time before deciding she's putting far more thought into it than Molly had, it's probably justified, and then closes her door and takes a seat at her desk.
Parchment and Dicto-Quill are soon to hand, and she begins to dictate her message. The Dicto-Quill was key to her plan, because it wouldn't do to have her handwriting recognised, and the recipients are all too familiar with it.
Message written, she adds a Galleon to the letter, rolls it up tightly and seals it and heads for the Owlery before she can change her mind.
Bloody buggering fuck.
Where should Severus start? His classroom door is wide open, three Ravenclaws and one Hufflepuff are in the hallway, as is Zabini, and Hexes are being cast back and forth in rapid succession. The sounds indicate there are more participants, unseen, and his wards confirm for him there are two others in the classroom.
Splendid.
And of course that would be the thing. Not only is the door open, never mind unlocked... No, whatever are locks for? His classroom's wards haven't even been reset to keep the students out until after lunch. They simply monitor. How lovely. That only helps if someone is actually listening. That's about as useful as a domesticated Pygmy Puff. And it's enough to make his blood boil.
He can tell without looking that there's no sign of Albus, because that's one of the things wards are for, ta, and of course that's his first question - unvoiced - where the fuck is the Headmaster? Judging by the writing on the board, he had taught the class. And apparently bunked off at the first opportunity. Probably heard a bag of sherbets calling his name... 'Albus. Albus.' Which means it's up to him to sort this mess.
Fucking hell.
He has no choice, not as he sees it anyway, and in the absence of what he'd consider options, he settles for surprising the seven battling students quite thoroughly when he suddenly appears in the doorway with a handful of silent Protegos blocking the current volley of hexes. No one will notice he's misusing the doorjamb to keep himself upright. It's very effective.
Boot's hex rebounds strongly enough to send the boy sprawling. Severus approves, particularly as the technique the Ravenclaw employed is one he'd taught the boy last year in Defence, nice to know someone was listening, but mostly because he's in a foul mood and misery rather enjoys a spot of company. Boot looks miserable indeed.
Good.
Ah, he's knocked out a tooth or two. Marvellous. Well, Poppy will have it quickly sorted. That would be the beneficial side of the Densaugeo Spell in the hands of a competent wielder.
"Ten points from everyone for duelling in the corridors," he informs them, counting on his appearance and tone to put an end to this without further effort. There's an advantage to the never varying uniform of his teaching robes. The students are well conditioned to respond to him in them; when he draws himself up to full height and hisses at them, most jump at his command.
But not Mr. Nott, however, not today. No, he has to be a royal muppet and quibble. "But we weren't in the hallway, Sir."
Technically, the bothersome lad is correct: he was not. Nor was Malfoy, who was clearly fighting alongside Nott and sports a very red cheek and ear at the moment, the apparent result of an unblocked Stinging Hex. Severus appreciates that, heartily, but imagines he can't award whomever House points for it. Well, not today. He'll be sure to check who did it, though, and make up for that oversight later.
"Very well," Severus agrees easily enough. He's done the maths and has a better solution. "Only five from those who weren't in the hallway. Nott, Malfoy. Zabini, you should learn from them. And fifteen from those who were."
Slytherin has only clawed back five points off the distinction, but as it cost the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff contingent twenty more, Theo's deeming it as a success. He looks quite pleased with himself, which is to say he's nearly unrecognisable. Severus can't help wondering what on earth has gotten into the boy.
Probably nothing that would occur to the Ravenclaws and Macmillan. Guttersnipes.
Instead, Severus asks the motley group, "And what, pray tell, were you fighting about?" Everyone goes deathly quiet. Yes, he had thought as much. No matter. It was to be expected. He'll have a word with Albus about addressing staff on how to deal with this, so he isn't accused of a personal vendetta, and the witch gets at least a little protection against... this.
He does a superficial check with Legilimency of his boys present, Draco isn't even bothering to Occlude, which says much, and Severus has to suppress a snort of wry amusement. Ironically, it seems the Slytherins had come to his Muggle-born bondmate's defence.
He leans there letting that sink in for a moment. Will wonders never cease?
There had been a chance, albeit slim he now acknowledges, that the Slytherins had been attacked for a perceived defilement - on Severus' part, naturally - of the young Gryffindor, at the least by association. But no, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuff had been exceedingly... tawdry in their language regarding her as well.
Lovely.
The look on Malfoy's face would indicate he's very well aware of the irony of the situation. The others, of course, have no idea why that should be particularly strange, viewing it solely as House loyalty having defended their Head and his... wife. And Theo, bless, believes he's acting on his father's orders. Merlin's blasted blemished blighted bloated blue bollocks.
"Nott," he singles the boy out. Theo had apparently rather uncharacteristically led the Slytherin charge after the comments about Severus and his bondmate had been deemed... intolerable. He had challenged them, it would seem defending her... honour. Severus is at a loss for words. And Draco and Zabini fell in beside their Housemate when Boot had responded by throwing the first hex. Now he feels even better about Boot's dental work. "I asked why you were duelling?"
Theo squares his shoulders and stands up straight. Physically, he's grown quite a lot in the past two years, but slouches so much, forever striving to remain inconspicuous, not without reason, that it generally goes unnoticed. "Sir, it seemed the... best response. But perhaps you should ask the Ravenclaws to what, precisely. I'd suggest asking Boot."
Boot is clutching his mouth and appears to have settled on using the sleeve of his robe to stem the blood flow. To moderate effect.
"It doesn't look like Boot's going to be answering much of anything," Severus replies, but a little more Legilimency on Nott had revealed why he'd singled the boy out.
Quite.
And just like that, he finds himself incredibly comfortable with the damage inflicted.
The little tossers.
Severus' eyes narrow as he looks at the Ravenclaws and Macmillan. Three of them are members of Potter's rag-tag children's wannabe 'army', Miss MacDougal is not. But the utter lackwits had gone up against two of the sons of Death Eaters from the inner circle, and unlike Goyle and Crabbe, the two in question actually have something that passes for brains between their ears.
Norman Nott, in particular, had been a Death Eater from the outset and is a fount of knowledge sensibly to be feared, and the Malfoys have one of the best libraries in Britain, private or otherwise, highly specialised in the Dark Arts. When their children fight, they fight to win. Severus doesn't doubt both Draco and Theo had known more hexes when they started Hogwarts than these other seventh years do even at present. And think what he will of Zabini at the moment, which is virtually nothing, the boy is far from incompetent with his wand, and bright enough to learn from the others in his House.
No, those four had deserved everything they got, for their stupidity as well as for their... commentary.
Macmillan's eyes are swollen tightly shut and crusty, a well chosen attack by Nott that had rendered the Head Boy less than useless in the fight, uncomfortable enough to be punitive, but harmless enough to have left Theo undeserving of a stronger punishment. Severus commends his selection. He suspects Macmillan isn't all that much use anyway, but it had left him unable to cast with any efficiency, was easily reversible, assuming one knew the Countercharm, and obscure enough that one could safely assume none of the others did. Well he won't lift it himself, either. Let his friends lead him to the Infirmary and have Poppy sort it. She's suddenly found herself with time on her hands after all.
It seems Malfoy had subjected Boot to a variant of the hex Potter had meant to use on him in their skirmish in much the same location their fourth year. For reasons Severus can understand only too well, Draco found some justice in that, and even more amusement that a seventh year was unable to defend against what had been a fourth year's hex. So much for Potter's training of his troops. The variations applied have ensured Boot looks even worse than Goyle had at the time, which had seemed unlikely, but the proof is in the pudding, as they say. He looks very much like something that only grows in the darkest cave, and probably is best left there on balance. No, he wasn't a pretty sight. Well, he could escort Macmillan, then, sending Poppy two for the price of one.
Corner's nose was broken and Miss MacDougal's is swollen to the size of a small melon, both Hexes quickly done by Zabini, and the resultant inability to speak clearly had also diminished the threat they represented in the duel. Severus again appreciates the elegance of that, although breaking fellow students' bones tends to carry a stiffer punishment, or should do in a just world. Their world isn't particularly just.
But presumably if one is a member of faculty, he finds breaking a student's bones perfectly acceptable...
He wonders briefly about the incidence of two nose related charms, which seems an improbable concentration of spellwork. Legilimency answers that. There had been some speculation if his own nose size in anyway reflected on his other... endowments, he hadn't expected that from Miss MacDougal, and Corner had apparently wondered rather crassly about how he put said nose to use... during the act, as it were. The comments hadn't sat well with Zabini, and he'd allowed his anger to lead his wand.
Zabini is a vain and pretty thing, less orientated towards power than his roommates, and far more concerned with looks. It reflects both his personal assets and his upbringing. His mother's climb to success can be traced primarily to her exceptional beauty, although men's stupidity in the face of it and her own deftness with poisons played significant contributing roles. Blaise is an outlier. His roommates all have been raised to respect, to value power, strength, speed, and knowledge far more than beauty. One's attractiveness is of no substantial aid against a Crucio. The boy's priorities being as they are, Severus suspects, rightly so, that his own appearance is something Zabini finds somewhat embarrassing about his Head of House. That had left Zabini particularly vulnerable to the Ravenclaws' disparaging comments.
Severus isn't much fussed by remarks on his appearance, he's far too used to it and cares a good deal more about things that actually hurt him. Like Crucios or Sectumsempras. But the speculation about his sex life, particularly in the complete and utter and highly regrettable absence of the same, leaves him more than a little... peeved. Unsurprisingly, he decides to apply the Episkey to Corner himself, comfortable in the knowledge it will hurt and leave a rather noticeable bump. Corner can always have Poppy sort that, but then it would hurt again, and most choose not to. Severus is quite satisfied with leaving the boy that choice.
He somewhat grudgingly also sorts Miss MacDougal's nose with a 'Reducio Proboscis'. There's no added benefit to his having done so, it's simply expected of him as a teacher, if he knows the Countercharm that is. But no one in their right mind would ever believe he of all wizards doesn't know the word for 'nose'. She stands there rubbing hers, which he imagines is throbbing most markedly. He knows that from personal experience thanks to a similar Hex Black had applied on him in their fourth year. Bloody mutt...
Nott and Zabini are untouched. He'd probably be proud of that if he weren't so universally displeased with his boys. Although he may be thawing a little with regards to Nott. Draco is clearly sporting the results of a Stinging Hex, and Severus has to wonder why. That's something the boy should have been able to easily deal with. There's a possibility that he'd been too occupied with his own hexing of Boot, but... In light of the Unbreakable Vow that ties Draco's safety very closely to his own, under the correct circumstances at least, he feels the need to investigate that more closely.
The results are unexpected.
Draco had had the drop on Miss MacDougal. She had fired against Zabini, he'd blocked it, and Draco had her squarely in his sights. And then he froze. Draco would never underestimate a woman. It isn't sexism. Not with his overfamiliarity with what his aunt can do. No one who knows Bellatrix would ever think a witch less capable than a wizard. No.
He'd had Severus' words bouncing around his head, and they'd stayed his wand.
'If I ever see you behaving in an untoward fashion towards a female classmate again, the pieces in which I shall leave you will be so small and so scattered, they'll never recover more than a thimbleful. Have I made. Myself. Clear?'
And Draco hadn't cast.
He didn't hex the young woman, Muggle-born or not.
Miss MacDougal had taken advantage of the opening, furious at the attack on Boot, and landed the Stinging Hex, landing a good one. Severus approves, both of her technique - the intent was solid and there was no hesitation - and her target, although her quips about his own... attributes leave him less inclined to give her the House points for the Hex than he'd been disposed to a few minutes ago. And immediately after, Zabini had gotten in the Engorgio Proboscis Hex on her nose.
Even more interestingly, Severus may have to revise his position on the effects of physical attraction while duelling. It seems Draco finds the Ravenclaw... fetching, which had in fact made it at least slightly more difficult for him to Hex her. The blond Slytherin appears to have a weakness for highly intelligent Muggle-borns.
He certainly has a type.
Severus makes a concerted effort to avoid thinking about how that's something they might have in common; especially in his present situation, it's something he'd really rather not consider. But in fact their reasons for the attraction aren't entirely the same. For Draco, there's some appeal in a Muggle-born's knowledge of things with which he is unfamiliar, for Severus, by contrast, it's a comprehensible gravitation towards a shared history. But the allure intelligence exerts is very much the same for them both.
Hmm.
It's all very unexpected. Well, except for the all too expected, naturally. Severus finds himself wondering if he could have actually reached Draco.
"Ten points to Slytherin each for Nott, Malfoy and Zabini for defending their Head of House. And thirty from Ravenclaw and ten from Hufflepuff for... denigrating a staff member... and his... spouse."
Predictably, that's instantly met with noises of complaint from their quarter. His lip curls dangerously. "Would you care to repeat what you said that led to this?" And that's instantly met with silence. Yes. He does appreciate it, greatly, when students remain predictable. It does away with that nasty element of surprise.
"No, I thought not. I think ten points might have been too conservative. Macmillan, you're the Head Boy." There's something about the way Snape says it that could make one think he has no respect at all for the position. "This is unacceptable and thoroughly unbecoming behaviour." Given that's the second time Ernie is hearing that with the last half an hour, one might hope he would take it to heart, but the 'Head Boy' title has gone to his head, and he really isn't the soul of self-reflection.
Knowing Pomona's tendency towards leniency, Severus continues, "Twenty points from Hufflepuff, and report to Mr. Filch after dinner tonight. As for the rest of you, I shouldn't like to be unfair." Two of them have the sense to become worried, but Terry might be too distracted by his current circumstances to think it through as well. "Perhaps I'll allow your Head of House to decide how many points to remove. We'll just have Professor Flitwick make the final determination, shall we?"
When he tells Filius what they'd said - in explicit detail - over lunch tomorrow, the Charms Master will take thirty points from each of them. And have no desire whatsoever to continue his meal. It transpires he's no more fond of envisioning Severus... canoodling than Minerva. And of course Filius will be thoroughly disgusted by his students' behaviour. He will, however, have reason to regret the speech he later gives them in which he praises Severus' willingness to bond Miss Granger to keep her safe in the current turbulent climate.
"Boot, Macmillan, go to Madam Pomfrey and get... that sorted." He gestures mostly towards Terry's face. Morag's eyes track the movement, her gaze appraising. If she's been contemplating his... endowments, she's certainly given his hands a fair amount of thought. "Corner, I leave it to you if you think you still require the Matron's help. Now leave.
"You three, remain."
When the rest have gone, and the Snakes are alone amongst themselves, he turns first to Draco. "Malfoy, I'm surprised to find you fighting this particular battle." The accompanying smirk is enough warning to all present.
Draco does his best to echo Theo's posture. He stands tall, not quite as tall as Theo, of course, but that isn't the point. His shoulders back, he meets Severus' gaze and with just a touch of something about his eyes that belies the simplicity of his words, replies, "I was taught to respect my Head of House. And his wife."
Severus nearly laughs. Yes, he had been taught that. Via Crucio and just last night. He appreciates a spot of self-deprecating humour and occasionally a touch of cheek. It's a hint, a very faint hint but still distinguishable, of the boy Draco had been before everything went so badly wrong. With a slight nod that only Draco reads correctly he responds, "A lesson well learnt it would seem.
"Zabini, take your cues from Nott. He's blessed with at least a little sense." If Theo had looked satisfied before, he's rapt now.
Severus has to struggle a little to get the next words over his lips, but he also has to accept that their compromised understanding of the situation is completely his own doing. He needs to treat them consistently based on what they currently know, what they will come to know, and who he is supposed to be, at least as far as they are concerned. He'd still prefer to Hex the lot of them. "I... appreciate your efforts today on behalf of myself... and my bondmate.
"You've done your House credit, which definitely makes for a... pleasant change." The sarcasm works for every version of this. Theo's proud and eager nod and Malfoy's reddening face proves that quite clearly. "See that it remains that way." The warning is obvious.
"Going forward, I expect you to treat her," no specification is required, "with respect, am I clear?" Three heads nod immediately, and he proceeds.
"Do make an effort not to be caught duelling in the weeks to come. You may assume most Professors won't bother to make the distinction between who is in the corridors or not, and not everyone will be concerned with the reasons for the fighting.
"You are dismissed. Go. Lunch is waiting."
Having cast themselves very demonstratively as Madam Snape's defenders, and word spreads quickly, they'll be far too prideful and stubborn to reverse position in the days to come. Severus will decide to see the humour in that; it's better than the alternatives. And Hermione will find herself with more Slytherins guarding her back than she could have ever imagined.
A/N:
Miscellaneous stuff.
First - Credit where credit is due... Just to be clear: Peeve's contract is a thing according to Pottermore; but it does not appear in the books and definitely not in the films, where Peeves is sadly also a no-show, so I wouldn't exactly worry if you haven't heard about it. Original: https://www.pottermore.com/writing-by-jk-rowling/peeves Relevant excerpt: https://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Peeves'_contract
I've mentioned last year sucked; it really did. For one pithy highlight, I spent about three months pretty much not able/supposed to use both of my arms and hands thanks to a diagnostic thing going badly wrong. Probability of that was roughly 1 in 40k. I have some truly... incredible luck. (And of course that made the hand issues this winter even more welcome. It seemed like I'd only just gotten the use of my mitts back... For about three whole months... Brilliant.) Some of you will have recognised that as it was the diagnostic that went pear shaped, it still left the original problem to continue sucking as well. What can I say, it was a summer of great joys.
For want of a better idea, amongst other things, I spent a silly amount of time basically reading the Harry Potter wiki / Pottermore to distract myself. And I thought, as one does as an overly-cerebral type effectively locked in her head for a quarter, suddenly transmogrified from person to patient, wouldn't it be nice to take some of those obscure little bits of Potter-lore and weave them into a story. That, by the way, is also why it's so darn long. I had a lot of time to think.
So in an effort to not bore people like Trickster32, who know and can cite more Potter trivia than I ever will, I decided it would be fun to reimagine some of that. Like, say if there is a contract for Peeves, it might just be mentioned in 'Hogwarts: A History' or be the topic for discussion at dinner if one or the other of your parents were a solicitor...
If I'm doing what I set out to, it shouldn't always be clear where my stuff starts and JKR's ends. I'm also not sure how to handle that properly. 'Anything you recognise...' hardly covers it if I'm deliberately fishing out lesser known things. If anyone's got a constructive suggestion on that, it would be appreciated.
Failing that, there's always disclaiming like the above. *shrugs*
Second - I wanted to thank you for sticking with this through the admittedly unusual choice to hospitalise Severus this long. (Yeah, sure, that may or may not reflect some of my own recent experiences...) I know that's not the way it's generally done. Thanks for trusting me enough anyway to keep reading. Or enjoying it despite that. (Clearly, that would be preferable... ;-)) Every single hit sets my little heart aflutter... (Although that might be arrhythmia, who knows at this point...)
If it makes anyone more comfortable, I can assure you Severus doesn't even set booted (or bare) foot in the Infirmary for another two weeks (so what's that? fifty? one hundred? chapters... heh.), and then it's more of a visit for a brief chinwag. Ah, and he may take a spa day in a Swiss clinic about then, too, just saying, but that hardly counts.
As a matter of fact, I don't hospitalise him (or Hermione) again for months. And then only briefly.
So we're probably back to more common story telling devices now.
Third - I'd also really like to thank each and every one of you that's hit the Kudos button, bookmarked or subscribed. (Special mention to those loyal anonymous people who regularly do so, because I'm reasonably sure I have more Kudos than readers at this point. Thanks guys!) You do a lot to encourage me. Encouragement is good. *nods*
And I especially want to thank the magnificent peeps who regularly comment. You guys really make my day and 'thanks' isn't enough. <3. It really isn't.
Much love,
Ginger xox