“beyond wandpoint” 108 by gingerbred
Apr. 12th, 2019 09:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 12u Wednesday - Evening 2”
Severus, Hermione, Slytherins: Draco Malfoy, Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Harper Hutchinson, Ella Wilkins, Flora Carrow, Hestia Carrow, ValerieVaisey, Hunter Hutchinson, Crankshaft, Gryffindors: Ron Weasley, Kev Peterson, Dennis Creevey, Hufflepuffs: Oliver Rivers, Newton Kurz, Others: Crookshanks, The Bloody Baron, Sunny, Peeves, Temperance Mathew
Originally Published: 2019-04-12 on LJ / DW
Chapter: 108
Characters:
Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)
Slytherins: Draco 7S (Prefect, Team Captain, Seeker, Swot), Theo Nott 7S (Swottiest, Nervous Wreck), Blaise Zabini 7S (Keeper (but only in the Quidditch sense...)), Vincent 'Vince' Crabbe 7S (Beater, Winged ex-Couch still-Potato), Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Tracey Davis 7S (Swottier), Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, that.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Flora Carrow 6S (friendly twin), Hestia Carrow 6S (Chaser, sporty twin), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey 6S (Chaser), Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp), Crankshaft (Harper's half-Kneazle)
Gryffindors: Ron Weasley 7G (Prefect, Keeper (but also only in the Quidditch sense), the Boy-Who-Exists-to-Annoy-Hermione), Kev Peterson 5G (in a class of his own), Dennis Creevey 4G (almost as bad as Colin)
Hufflepuffs: Oliver Rivers 7H (who needs to be taught the meaning of ‘duel’), Newton Kurz 4H (Dennis' and Hunter's recently hexed potions-challenged friend)
Others: Crookshanks 'Crooks' (Hermione's half-Kneazle), The Bloody Baron (Slytherin House Ghost), Sunny (the Snapes' house elf), Peeves (the not so friendly neighbourhood poltergeist), Portrait Temperance Mathew (ex-Healer, ex-Governor, BAMF Muggle-born), Boadicea Waterhouse (Headmaster Black’s favourite lady of the paintbrush)
Mentioned briefly: Staff: Poppy Pomfrey (Mediwitch extraordinaire), Argus Filch (Squib 'Care'taker), Slytherins: Astoria 'Tori' Greengrass 5S, Gryffindors: Seamus Finnigan 7G (fiery Reserve Beater), Hufflepuffs: Wayne Hopkins 7H (aspiring Egyptologist), Others: Eileen and Tobias Snape (Severus’ parents)
Previously:
While thoroughly bladdered Tuesday evening, Severus built ledges for his new (half-)Kneazle flatmate, proof he shouldn’t over-imbibe if ever he needed one. Discovered 103 And while he was about it, he may have made the creature a proposition... 074
Severus has... issues with the centaurs’ portrait. Ongoing. He’s been treating it with Spirit of Turpentine, as one does.
Severus is forced to confront the fact Vince is a potions dealer, and is unable to identify three of his potions without further testing. 097 He identifies two, discovering to his great pleasure that one of those potions is the Liquid Lust Hermione was given Friday, a third is still in the process of being tested. 104
Sunny makes a perfectly lovely cottage pie for Hermione for dinner. 104
The Slytherin girls nominate Daphne and Ella to research bonds. 083 The selection of books had been largely picked clean 100, and Daphne isn’t enjoying the rubbish she was able to find. 105
Gregory applied a Scourgify to... himself after his loo roll was stolen. The highly disturbing (not to mention painful) results landed him in the Infirmary. 101
Vince likewise has spent the day there after the assorted hexes by the other boys in his House left him with a host of problems. (Chapters and chapters worth... The wings were a pretty big deal.)
Millie blagged some Pain Relief off Tracey, ostensibly for herself. 102 She gave it to Draco instead to get him fit for practice. 103 Said practice didn’t go too well for Millie, she took a Quaffle to the head from Hestia. 104
After applying particularly brutal Legilimenses on the seventh year boys and concussing Draco, Severus asked Poppy to deny his students Pain Relieving Potion before losing consciousness in the Infirmary. 007 She did as he asked, but unfortunately hasn't had a chance to end the charade until now, and is still withholding the potion from his students. They agree he’ll ‘brew some’ 102 and he provides it after her dinner. 107
Ron and Seamus opened a phial of
Ron was having a bad evening, hexed the stuffing out of Colin, Dennis fetched their Head of House to help, which went over... poorly. (Neville obligingly reported the incidents to Hermione between dodging cursed inkpots and Confunding staff. 080) Hunter and Dennis may have been out trying to plot revenge for Colin when they encounter their friend Newton Kurz being attacked by a bunch of Ravenclaws. 080
Minerva assigned Ron detention after dinner. He’s currently helping Filch look for a portrait. 100
Some Hufflepuffs (Rivers and Hopkins) insult Hermione and Draco demands satisfaction - not that he receives it, of course - and then he promptly tricks them into hexing themselves. Well, Hopkins and the now two headed Justin Finch-Fletchley, anyway. 100
Still uncomfortable with the further proof of the extent of his incapacity from the previous evening (although the idea to have Miss Ginger administer the Gnomicide had demonstrated that rather succinctly), Severus heads for his laboratory. The half-Kneazle follows him along the wall as he goes, leaping from one ledge to the next. Severus may not like the things, but even completely pissed he’d apparently done an excellent job. They work a treat.
He reaches the door to his lab and the half-Kneazle stops on the ledge right beside him. Severus pauses, and it mews at him. It’s a pleasant sort of sound, less imperious than the ‘mrawrs’ it’s prone to making. It’s more of a... polite request.
He didn’t think the creature capable of it.
“Was there something else?” He prompts facetiously, and the animal suddenly leaps. Severus raises his arms reflexively - afterwards he’ll be unsure if it was to protect himself or to ensure the moggy wouldn’t crash to the floor, he shouldn’t care to explain that to Miss Granger - and the next thing he knows he has his arms full of purring fur.
Mangy fur, at that, he is sure.
“Foolish thing,” he scolds. He moves to set it down and instead it climbs his chest, placing its forepaws on his left shoulder and extending its claws. Thank Merlin for thick robes. Thick robes that don’t come cheaply... Indeed. Severus immediately ceases his attempt to pull the creature free. That much he knows about animals. He needs to make it retract its claws first, or he’ll be joining Hutchinson Friday evening in the clothing repair session.
Perhaps they could make a regular thing of it, start their very own mending bee...
Heaven knows, he’s now spending his free time with students...
“I have work to do.” He informs the half-Kneazle sternly and to no avail as he tries to unhook its paws.
“Enough of this.
“Desist.” About as effective as Miss Granger’s ‘Crooks!’ it would seem.
“Release me.
“Now.” Still nothing.
The docking of House points most likely won’t sway it either...
And then he has a thought.
“Fine, I believe I have a job for you. Come with me.” The claws retract of their own accord, and Severus is left wondering if this is what it had wanted all along. He should be wondering who is teaching whom.
“But there will be no jumping on countertops, are we clear?” He hastens to add. The look the half-Kneazle gives him could wither an entire one of Pomona's greenhouses. Apparently it considers the stipulation obvious.
And well it should be, not that most around Severus can be relied upon to recognise that, even when it levels a wand at their noses.
He places the creature on the ground and it follows him into the laboratory. Severus waits by the door to close it behind the feline after it saunters in, feeling a bit queer playing doorman for a... pet. If all else fails, perhaps he can find employment at the Ritz. It sits on the floor almost immediately beside his work area, sharply to the left as they enter, which Severus finds odd until he decides it was unquestionably a matter of scent.
He takes his place next to the animal and removes the centaurs’ portrait from the wall, explaining to the painting as he goes. “No turpentine for you today. We’ll be trying something new,” he assures them cruelly. Not one of the centaurs makes the mistake of thinking this bodes well for them.
He sets the portrait on the ground and addresses the half-Kneazle. “I believe we discussed this yesterday. I promised you a portrait. If you’d stick with the edges, it would be preferable.” The ginger fiend looks at him enquiringly and he gestures towards the portrait. “Have at it,” he invites. “Unleash your claws.”
Crooks doesn’t know a great deal about leashes. He extends a paw tentatively towards the portrait, stealing looks at the wizard as he goes. When the man makes no move to stop him, he connects with the painting. When still no objections come, he allows one claw to catch lightly on the side, and still he isn’t stopped. He drags it down a short length of the painting, attempts to gauge the wizard’s reaction again - if anything he seems bemused - and then Crooks begins to intensify his efforts.
By the time he’s done, the edge he’s working on will have many long and deep scratches to show for his efforts.
Of course, had Severus told him why he’s got it in for this particular portrait, Crooks would have reduced it to shreds. And then feline and wizard would have had to have a discussion on tactics. But as it is, it’s an acceptable start.
Severus checks his potion, the third of Crabbe’s he hadn’t recognised, while the half-Kneazle busies itself with the portrait. He has a little time yet before he needs to do the next step. He can’t say for sure how much, the timing of that step is determined by which potion this is. It’s a key part of the process which will enable him to identify it. This had simply been the earliest point at which his attention could have been required.
He leans back to watch the moggy some more. He’s pleased to note he doesn’t need to remind it to stick to the edges, it... he seems to have understood.
Severus’ dinner appears on the counter beside him, a perfectly delicious smelling cottage pie. Sunny, notably, hasn’t put in an appearance, preferring to resort to magic to deliver the meal. Severus speculates that it has something to do with the half-Kneazle, Crookshanks and can’t resist a smirk.
He trusts Sunny will be sensible about this. Crookshanks he’s a little less sure about, but he’s beginning to suspect the half-Kneazle has the wherewithal to learn. Rare thing that, certainly at Hogwarts. But that capability will undoubtably prove... helpful.
His expectations are close to what actually transpires. Crooks will spend much of his unsupervised time in quarters Thursday and Friday stalking the house elf. Unfortunately, Friday afternoon Sunny will finally lose patience with Mistress’ beastie and deal with him. Decisively. Hermione will be thoroughly mortified when she returns from classes to discover Crooks, apparently stranded, on the highest of the kitchen shelves. A stern... chiding will ensue - it won’t merit the term ‘rebuke’. ’But he made you ledges! And what are you doing in the kitchen of all places! I doubt he’d approve...’ Of course, that will be rather the point. Sunny will have selected the spot with care.
She’ll ultimately punish her pet by withholding kippers and Kneazle treats, and Crooks will reevaluate his entire approach to attacking the elf as he quite clearly can’t hope to win with a frontal assault. And Disillusioned, it’s extremely difficult to tell where precisely his front even is... Even Crooks won’t be able to misunderstand the elf’s message - perhaps it’s best to leave well enough alone - and it would sort the matter well enough moving forward. Not that that proves nearly as crucial as one might expect after the events of Saturday change things between them for good.
But that’s a story for another day.
Severus watches the floorshow as he eats, pleased to confirm the meal is every bit as scrumptious as it smells. When Crookshanks believes he’s done, he steps back and looks at him with a suspiciously proud sounding ‘meow’. Severus smirks again, Summons a Petri dish, loads it with a couple of forkfuls of his dinner, and places it on the floor next to the little beast.
“Worked up an appetite, have you? Here.” Apparently Crookshanks needs no further invitation, he dives for the food and begins to gobble it down. His table manners, it would seem, would be perfectly at home with the Gryffindors in the Great Hall, and that’s the only perfect thing about them. Perhaps that was where he’d learnt them, by observation of an assortment of gingers over the past four years, and they may improve with time. And better influences.
Severus won’t hold his breath.
As he returns the portrait to its reversed and crookedly inverted position facing the wall, he makes an effort to reason with the animal. “You have the elf to thank for that dinner, by the way.”
Crooks thinks that may make the elf a good deal more useful than the not!rat - he certainly can’t fault the food - but doesn’t begin to explain why it spends so much time lurking about the place. He’ll be keeping a watchful eye, or nose as the case may be, on the elf for his people just the same.
Humans can’t be relied upon to take care of themselves, after all.
He’s pleased with the work he’d done on the portrait. He’d tactically kept it to just the one corner. It hadn’t escaped his notice that there is at least slight damage to a substantial portion of the perimeter of the painting. He presumes if he plays his cards right, this could become a regular thing, and Sirius not!dog had been correct: portrait destruction was highly satisfying.
And if it ends in a meal like this? All the better. No matter who had cooked it.
Millie and Daphne sit at one of the long tables in the Slytherin Common Room, hard at work on their homework, or at least, Millie assumes they are. Daph’s got a pile of books on bonds with her, and she’s still ploughing her way miserably through them. Every now and again, Millie looks up and throws a question the younger girl’s way. She’d rather work with Pansy, given a choice. Daphne is just too... Well, you’d never see Pansy with sparkly bows for starters. And she doensn’t blush or ‘coooo’. But there’s no denying the witch sitting across from her knows her stuff, and Panse is with most of the others in Astronomy, which settles it. Normally it’s just the three of them Wednesday nights, her and Daphne and Gregory, but Gregory hasn’t made it back from the Infirmary yet... Hell’s bells, er, Nell’s bells, his bollocks... Well, they were. Bollocks.
But to be honest, of the two of them, Daph was the bigger help with the exercises anyway.
Sometimes even in courses she wasn’t taking, strangely enough...
Sure, Professor Snape’s assigned reading for his self defence course might help explain Daph’s proficiency at DADA, but it didn’t account for her being able to help answer Millie’s and Gregory’s History of Magic questions or how she could usually explain the Magical Theory homework when Millie got stuck. Millie prefers not to think what that might say about her own standing, mostly because she can’t reconcile sparkly bows with Daph’s apparent, if not entirely evident, intelligence.
Wizards aren’t the only ones with prejudices.
Hestia and Val and some of the sixth years enter the common room and join them at the table. “Hey, Millie, how’s your head?” Hestia asks, still feeling guilty for the Quaffle earlier.
“Doing alright, thanks,” she replies with a nervous look at Daph. The witch had been there when she’d gotten the Pain Relief for Draco from Tracey after all, and she’s supposed to think Millie had taken it herself.
“What happened?” Daph asks, naturally, with some concern.
Millie silently curses her luck (and promptly has to adjust her fecking language, for Merlin’s sake), and then explains the accident at practice. Daph’s concern only increases because that must have been some accident if the Pain Relief hadn’t been enough to help... Bollocks. Er... But before Millie knows what hit her - other than Hestia’s Quaffle, that is - Daph’s applying another Cooling Charm, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s even better than the Chaser’s.
Millie decides that’s because Daph’s a seventh year, and then doesn’t bother trying to justify why her own are worse.
Ella asks Daph how her reading up on bonds has come along, while she shows her the selection of material she’d retrieved from the library this afternoon. Daph hasn’t got sufficiently negative words for the unmitigated, contradictory fluff she’s been skimming, she really doesn’t, mostly because that’s just not how she’s given to expressing herself. Ella stifles a grin in response, but she can feel the seventh year’s pain.
She’s currently a good deal more positive about her stack of books, although that wouldn’t be difficult, but will soon come to find it won’t prove all that useful either. By the weekend, however, once they’ve both accept that fact, they do manage to derive some pleasure from critiquing the seriously wanting works. It’s too funny really, once one gets past the frustration of making little or no progress. Somehow there’s no requirement for truth in the printed matter - fair enough, that’s the publisher’s fault - but apparently there isn’t one for the library’s selection either...
Daphne decides to make the most of her break and asks Ella if she’d heard anything from the others about Gregory’s tail from lunch, but this is the first Ella is hearing of it. Most of the sixth years had missed lunch, after all, and she’d been with Daphne on the pitch at the time. So Daph tells her what Tori and the fifth years had to say about it, and Flora slides over to join them, very interested in the subject, and the three witches discuss the sort of Transifguration presumably involved.
Millie just wishes more of the Quidditch team were there. That sort of talk has a way of making her feel left out, and, worse, Hestia and Val seem to have no trouble following it, they just aren’t particularly interested.
Which isn’t to say Millie is.
She’s not.
Transfiguration. Ugh. Boring as virtue. Like watching paint dry. They can just fuck off. Get stuffed? Er, no thank you. Yes, that. Her mum would be so proud... Ha!
Anyway, she sort of wishes Aaron and Gregory were here...
The Professor had blessedly come through for them with Pain Relief, and Vince thinks the perfectly legitimate thoughts about the sort of people who run an Infirmary without such things. Gregory’s whimpering had nearly driven him spare. Vince would almost like to pull a Draco, ‘my father will hear about this...’, except his father has never had that kind of influence, these days the man’s trying to go as unnoticed as possible so as not to be returned to Azkaban, and even Draco’s father hasn’t anything like that sort of influence anymore.
Azkaban has a way of annihilating... everything.
And it’s not just because of the Dementors.
Vince misses that he could just as easily connect his and the Malfoys’ families’ misfortunes to their association with the Dark Lord as with the wizarding prison, but that’s par for the course. He also neglects to feel all that much gratitude for his Head’s attention to their unmedicated state - it’s his job, isn’t it - or guilt that that’s the man he’d somehow managed to... get bonded... He’s still trying to work that one out - it’s something of a puzzler - but the news about that Mudblood Jones leaving the school as she had has made him uneasy in connection with that fact.
Pomfrey finally forks over the Potion, and he’s feeling worlds better. His back is healed, as are all his cuts and scrapes, his allergies are under control, and his ears have ceased their flapping. Speaking of flapping... His wings have finally disappeared. He thinks they may have held as long as fifteen hours, noteworthy for a Jinx, or maybe that was a Hex. As no one seems to know what it was, it’s hard to say for sure how the Spell had been classified. And that’s assuming one lends any credence to the idiots who classify these things. With the wings gone, his lacerations healed, his pain managed... There’s no real justification to stay in the Infirmary any longer. He’s free to leave.
Apparently he’s stuck with the mouldy green hair and black nails, but that too shall pass. Pomfrey seems to think they’ll grow out. He looks kind of like Snotter had last month, but it’s still better than running around with wings on. Lots. And the people he cares most about impressing these days aren’t at Hogwarts anyway, and haven’t been for a very long time.
It’s time to be in Astronomy, but Vince isn’t exactly the most... studious of people; it borders on a wonder that he applies himself to his potions business the way that he has, and that’s only because the profit is all his. If he has half an excuse to skip the course, any course... Well, it’s tempting. Additionally, it looks more and more like Gregory is almost ready to be released, and Vince has an idea they might be better off keeping in pairs, making sure someone has their backs for the time being. So it’s perfectly logical that he chooses to wait for his friend.
He gets back to work on his letter home to occupy the time while he’s waiting for the Liquid Skin to finish its job on Gregory’s, er, apparently his ballsack and arse. Vince’s legs shift, crossing uncomfortably at the very thought. Bollocks.
So strangely, it’s a fair sight easier to write now that he’s upright and no longer cursed with those damnable wings. The Matron seems to think he’s busy doing his homework, and leaves him to it, satisfied with the activity.
It’s nine o’clock before Gregory is able to leave, by then Vince has completed the letter. He talks his friend into stopping by the owlery on the way back to the dorms. Well, hardly on the way, but still...
He wants to get the information about Jones to the appropriate parties as soon as possible.
The Potion Deconstruction process is taking its sweet time. There isn’t much to do at this point but watch over it. Severus needs to be present when it turns, and depending on how it turns, he’ll need to add the appropriate final ingredient to know what it is for sure. It’s hardly complicated work, but the knowledge required to execute the task was non-trivial.
So he’s stuck there watching and needs to be ready to react at a moment’s notice.
Grand.
He looks at his hand and decides he could do a few experiments on the ring while he’s marking time. That’s something he could stop quickly without risking anything going off.
He fetches another burner and sets about it.
Perhaps because it’s his wedding ring - and he doesn’t like those words; just the thought makes him want to shudder - he finds himself thinking about his parents. Their relationship had practically defined everything he believes a marriage should not ever be. Except there were a few things, little things, that seem to have worked their way into his subconscious, things he seems to have absorbed and expect after all.
He recalls his mum fretting about his father. The need to always know where he was... Work or the pub, and then when there was no more work, and it was only the pub... His mum worrying when his father still hadn't returned and it was long after last orders... It wasn’t as though she had been eager for him to return, certainly not in the years Severus remembers more vividly, and yet she'd still worried. It would seem... eagerness needn’t play into it. Perhaps this is something he thinks goes with the terrain, even without a Geas involved.
And then he has to wonder why he couches it as ‘worry’. He's not worried. Especially as he'd know - unequivocally - if he had call to be, thanks to the vexsome bond. And yet he's clearly been... preoccupied with the idea.
It’s... strange, but perhaps it really does come with the territory.
The potion simmering beside him brings the other potion of Crabbe’s to mind, the one they have to thank for all of this, and it recalls his earlier thoughts about whether he had taken advantage of his bondmate’s vulnerable state last night...His thumb is back to running over the ring as he thinks about how she’d slept beside him and he’d held her.
There’s a strange dissonance as his thoughts wish both to immediately move on and to... linger that he finds hard to reconcile.
He worries, and that is the correct word this time, that those actions, too, might be connected to some... expectations he’d had in relation to... marriage... And then, even worse: how he’d enjoyed it and wishes he hadn’t. At all. And certainly not with her.
Or anyone else in student robes; it wasn’t an objection to her person, per se... (On reflection, he’s not certain if that makes it better or not...)
And most definitely not after her recent experiences.
Because what would that make him?
Except he’d been vulnerable as well, hadn’t he? And hardly in any position to have more control than she had.
Less, probably.
He can pretend all he likes that he hadn’t completely taken leave of his senses, but he’s had ample proof that he can’t recall substantial parts of the previous evening... Presumably she can’t say the same.
Finally, he decides he wasn’t culpable, not for last night, and stops blaming himself for it. Which doesn’t mean he isn’t supremely uncomfortable with the facts of it. There’s been a lot of that lately.
It quite evidently hadn’t been the wisest of choices drinking to such excess in her company. While he can justify that decision at the time, he has more information now, and knows not to repeat the combination. He’ll need to remain in control moving forward.
Splendid.
Because that was precisely what was missing from his life.
Crabbe’s potion seems determined to match his mood. It waits until the last possible moment to change colours, this time to a scintillating blue. Hmm. That result hadn’t been improbable. Off the timing and the colour, he knows which ingredient to add. With just a bit of precision stirring, it releases an erudite ‘Aha!’ and changes again, now absolutely clear.
The clarity was almost impressive, really. Someone has come up with an interesting addition to a Wit-Sharpening Potion. He bends to examine it’s colour, or the absence thereof, a little closer. Yes, the trick is it has a bit of shine, luminescence.
When he repeats the potion rebottling and stretching process from earlier, he retains a little of the Potion for himself, interested in running some more tests to reverse engineer it.
Ha! In the copious amounts of spare time he has...
Still, someone had had a good idea - he’s certain they’ve improved on the armadillo bile, which has always been a bit of an annoyance - and he thinks he has a better idea of where to take it from here, if only that step were managed...
It strikes him, as he goes about decanting the phials, that he doesn’t object to this potion. Not simply in the specific, because it had been excellently brewed, but in the general sense. They teach this to fourth years... He doesn’t use it, preferring to rely on himself and his own talents, but he doesn’t object to its use.
Merlin, he wouldn’t mind seeing the majority of the student body permanently under its influence, were that an option... Not that that would work, but the idea is highly appealing. Yes...
But it does call his position on the recreational use of Liquid Lust into further question. If that were... cheating, isn’t this a cheat as well?
It will have to remain a question for another day, he smirks to himself as he has no intention of pursuing it. It was purely rhetorical, a topic for the pleasant sort of intellectual debate the war seems to have all but eliminated. There are more than enough conversations he has with himself, and there’s no time for it now at any rate. He can feel the shift, the quiver in the wards.
Miss Granger has returned.
Hunter had returned with the other fourth years to the dungeons and spent an hour and a half or so working with them on their homework. He’d noticed Harper go into the Kneazle room, and after their talk earlier he can guess why. From the look of things, he’s doing his homework in there, and periodically tossing a ball of yarn around to amuse Crank. And maybe the Shafiqs’ half-Kneazle. Hunter had flashed his brother a thumbs up for luck, and Harper may have winced as the Creeveys came to mind. He still can’t believe he hadn’t guessed at their involvement earlier. Half past eight, Hunter’s Tempus chimes, he makes his excuses and leaves not long after, ostensibly for a quick run to the library.
Oddly, he isn’t taking much with him. What little he does, he Reducios and stows in a pocket, and won’t be retrieving any time soon.
The other two he’s meeting are already there when he gets to their prearranged location. Newton is able to provide information as to where tonight’s target is lurking, he’d passed him on the way down from the library, and Dennis has secured a special Wheeze just for the occasion. The three set off in their sneakiest fashion, a fact frankly only guaranteed to attract more attention should anyone notice - fortunately no one seems to care - and soon find an alcove they can comfortably spy from.
Not far off is a broom cupboard the Weasel has been tasked to search and he’s complaining a great deal about it, making loud whiny noises about it being the twelfth this evening, and isn’t it enough already, only to have old Filch tell him to suck it up. More or less. The old Squib had rhapsodised about the days of chains and thumbscrews and invoked Umbridge’s name a couple of times, and that was about it. It proves exciting for a minute or two, three tops, and then even the boys have to concede: there’s not a lot they can do from here, and watching the door is sort of... boring. They settle in for a wait, perhaps the next cupboard will be more accessible, and Newton suggests a game of cards.
Dennis quickly agrees. “Oh! Exploding Snap! I love that game!” and Hunter has to shush him.
“You were the one that wanted to get back at the Weasel, now be quiet before we get caught.”
“I rather doubt Exploding Snap is the best option available there either, Dennis. It’s completely out of the question that they wouldn’t hear us...”
Something crashes rather loudly in the cupboard, closely followed by one of Ron’s trademark ‘Bloody hell!’s, and Dennis just grins, “You never know...”
“That’s failure by design, Dennis,” Hunter explains. “We’d have to get lucky not to get caught. You’re kind of rubbish at being sneaky, aren’t you?”
Truthfully, both Creeveys by nature are about as subtle as Bludgers, and Dennis doesn’t even bother trying to offer a defence. What can he say? Hunter is right. “Well that’s what we have you for. Slytherins are supposed to be good at this stuff.”
Hunter chuckles. “I’m pretty sure that is not one of our House qualities.” He pulls a well used packet of cards out of his pocket, quickly putting the lie to that statement, as he presents them to the others, “Here. Silencioed Snap.”
“Silencioed Snap? I’ve never heard of it...”
“From the ‘children should be neither seen nor heard’ selection.” The way he says it suggests he’s heard that more than once. “It may not be as much fun as the Exploding version...”
“But it makes for a more sensible choice on a stakeout I should think,” Newton is quick to agree. The three set about playing a few rounds, quickly becoming so engrossed, they almost miss when Ron moves on to another cupboard.
They grab their cards and rush off after him and the Caretaker, only to cannon into fifth year Gryffindor Kev Peterson. Hunter sort of stumbles back from the impact and Kev laces into him immediately. “On your bike, Hutchinson.”
Hunter just looks confused. “It's like a broom,” Dennis explains, which solves the first problem, but not the more pressing one of figuring out just what Peterson wants from him.
If they’d just told him they were trying to waylay Ron, Merlin, Kev would probably help them, but it doesn’t occur to any of them; they’re too caught up in the moment, and Kev naturally has no way of knowing what they’re about in order to suggest it.
When Hutchinson still looks rather blank, Kev tries again, “Get lost. Naff off. Fuck off.”
“Ah, why didn't you say so in the first place?” Newton asks solemnly. He appears dim and a bit stodgy, but truth be told, he’s developed some excellent skills for managing bullies. They just don’t help as much when the odds are four on one and hexes are flying.
Few things do at that point.
“Moggies,” Hunter agrees in much the same tone, he recognises Newton’s gambit for what it is. “No offence, Dennis.”
“None taken, I'm sure,” Dennis replies sincerely. That's the thing about Moggies, after all, they generally don't mind being Gryffindors. Of course, much the same might be said of the other Houses. That's usually a large part of the reason people are sorted where they are.
Kev just stands there, his brow wrinkling more and more, trying to figure out how properly intimidate these idiots if they’re just too thick to know they should be quaking in their stupid boots. He’s about to raise the stakes, not having recognised that even if he is a year older, one against three isn’t the greatest of odds (but then he may be thicker than he takes the fourth years for, and maths aren’t really covered at Hogwarts, as Hermione is happy to repeat), when they’re interrupted.
“Kev, may I ask what you were planing to do with your wand?” He’s brandishing it sort of menacingly, and Hermione has had rather enough of that this week. And she is a Prefect, when all is said and done. (She tries not to think of Michael Corner and the Bat-Bogey Hex she’d let loose on him. Experimentally.)
“Uh...” Kev begins, less than brilliantly.
“I thought as much. Ten points from Gryffindor,” she smiles as she says it.
“But... But... But that’s your House.” Kev’s grasp of the obvious is frequently tenuous at best, but that much he knows.
“I’m well aware,” she smiles ever so sweetly at him, channeling the Professor. This is rather fun. The fact she’s getting enough grief from everyone anyway, doesn’t have to return to the common room - or the Tower as a whole, for that matter - or their table... No, no this is easy as can be. Goodness, she might make it twenty if he gives her anything like a reason...
“On your bike, Peterson,” Hunter quips. Kev casts another look at Hermione, gives it up for a bad job - she’s got that sort of stubborn set to her face the Gryffindors know only too well - turns tail and leaves. Stupid traitorous witches.
Hermione shoots Hunter a bit of a look for his remark and Newton hastens to explain, the picture of innocence, ”Peterson just taught us the expression. Something Muggle, I believe. Apparently it’s quite like a broom.”
Dennis suspects he should expand on that, “Except with wheels and doesn’t fly.”
“How is that like a broom?” Hunter is lost. Dennis is about to try again, he may need parchment and quill for this, but Hermione interrupts them once more.
“Gentlemen, may I enquire just what you're doing here tonight?” She asks, tenting her fingers a mite dramatically and still playing ‘the Snape’ - it’s surprisingly effective - and Kurz looks like he’s trying, desperately, to come up with some sort of passable excuse. It probably doesn’t hurt that he lives in absolute dread of her bondmate, Professor Snape. Hermione laughs, “Because I don’t believe for an instant the terrible trio just happened to be hanging around here, for no reason at all.”
Heh. The ‘Terrible Trio’. Hunter kind of likes it... It might need a bit of tweaking, but they really should have a name for themselves...
Dennis is considering, weighing his options, Hermione can be quite the stickler after all, but Hunter, he has a good feeling about this. She’d been pretty cool last night with the Turkeys, hadn’t she? So he opts for something resembling candour. He’s betting she doesn’t like being taken for a fool.
“We were watching the Weasel,” he starts, his voice low. He still has some hope of catching up to said Weasel, and the little group begins walking in that direction, subconsciously following his lead. It doesn’t hurt that that’s direction he and Madam Snape need to head anyway.
“Ron,” Dennis translates, whispering.
“Yes, thank you, I’d guessed that,” Hermione replies, lowering her voice to match theirs. It’s hardly the first time she’s hearing the sobriquet.
Hunter continues, “See, he hexed Colin something fierce yesterday, and then they were giving Dennis grief for fetching McGonagall,”
“Professor McGonagall,” Hermione and Newton correct. So far she follows. It’s consistent with what they’d claimed yesterday.
“Right, her. And, uh, well it isn’t fair is it?” He looks at her with big eyes.
“Noooo. I suppose not,” she agrees slowly. “But I imagine that all depends on what you were planning to do about it.” She’s no one’s fool. Plus she’s been around Harry and Ron - and the twins, for that matter - for too many years. She knows how these things go.
About now, the other two boys are getting very nervous, but Hunter, he’s dead sure. He saw how angry she was with the Turkeys last night. Eighty points. This witch doesn’t like bullies. He’s positive.
He’s just a little less sure about how she’ll feel with him trying to convince her that her friend kind of is one.
He thinks the answer lies in honesty, not that he’s above lying if there’s need. The trick with people like the Weasel and his brothers is they pretend to your face they’re nice and reasonable and wouldn’t harm a fly... They position themselves as the ‘good’ guys. You know, not the sort to ever put a rival Quidditch team’s captain in a coma, say. Except he’d seen the way the Weasel made Robbins cry last year, and she wasn’t the only one. And everyone has heard, repeatedly, how he tried to make Draco vomit slugs.
Draco was inordinately fond of that story.
“McGonagall,” Hunter quickly raises a hand to forestall the objections and beats them to it, “Professor McGonagall gave him detention, and he’s off cleaning cupboards or something. And Dennis snagged a Draught of Dirt from him, y’know.” She blinks at that, but yes. Heaven knows, Ron and Seamus had talked about the Draught often enough. ‘Boom’ indeed.
“And, um, we thought if the opportunity presented itself, we would set it off during one of his detentions,” Hunter squares his shoulders and looks her dead in the eye.
“It seemed especially fitting as he'd done the same to Malfoy last Sunday,” Newton finds a hint of courage and tries to explain their logic. “Poetic justice, if you will. Turnabout and all that.” Hunter just nods. Admittedly, by this point he’s inclined to opine that Draco deserves whatever happens to him, but still... There’s little point in undermining his own arguments. Plus Weasley had no way of knowing what Draco deserved. And what the Weasel had done both then and to Colin had been wrong, and they mean to do something about it. Even if that something was only opening a Wheeze on him.
At least they were trying.
“‘Boom’,” Dennis helpfully supplies, just in case it’s escaped Hermione and evidently recalling it exactly as she had. “Y’know, like he and Seamus kept telling us.” No, she certainly wasn’t likely to have forgotten that lovely little story about how they’d made a gratuitous mess and hoped to have nearly killed Malfoy in the process. She can still hear Ron’s whistle and ‘splat’ as he related the Slytherin’s fall down seven stories, which he’d gladly attributed to exhaustion from righting their mayhem. Back from when Ron was still talking to her and she sort of wished he wasn’t.
Hmm.
Be careful what you wish for...
Right.
“So you took the Dirty Draught from Ron’s things?” Leave it to Hermione to focus on the unexpected. Dennis looks nervously to Hunter, he’s really landed him in it, but finally nods. He’d done it, there’s no use trying to worm his way out now.
“Madam Snape,” Hunter begins, and Hermione blinks again, “it wasn’t locked away. He just took it from his chest.”
“I’m not sure it makes it all that much better...” she sounds just a little amused.
“As a point of law it does,” he replies confidently.
“Hmm. But then I’m hardly an Auror, and this isn’t the Wizengamot,” she retorts. “Look, this is a rotten plan. He’s going to figure out it was you, and then you’ll be in trouble for stealing the Draught, too.” All three boys think she’s over estimating the ginger’s mental faculties, but hold their tongues. She can tell they don’t quite agree. “He’ll know it was someone from the House,” she tries again.
“He has kind of a lot of people angry at him in the House right now. There’d be a bunch of, erm, suspects to choose from,” Dennis objects, and at which point it finally occurs to him he should have solicited Kev’s help instead of fighting with him... Oh well.
“Trust me, these things have a way of getting out, and then where would you be?” All three boys look a little glum.
Hunter is the first to wizard up. “So are you going to take points?” He asks as they arrive outside the cupboard where Ron is now working and grumbling up a storm.
The boys haven’t actually broken any rules, yet, Draught nicking aside, and really, Ron's been working her nerves something horrible.
“No, just promise me you’ll put the Draught back as soon as you can.” Considering she just let them off the hook, they still look far from cheery, and she feels a little guilty leaving them that way. It’s a bit like kicking a basket of kittens, and she’s a cat person after all. So she flicks up a softly buzzing Muffliato and tries to reason with them.
“Really, you boys are going about this all wrong. You shouldn’t be using a Draught he’ll just trace back to you. You should be going for something more subtle and more effective. Spiders. He hates spiders. And he could run into a nest of them, just by coincidence, and he’d never know it was you. That’s how you do it without escalating things. You just have to keep your mouths shut and not tell any and everyone who will listen stories about your exploits that go ‘boom’.” And they all know precisely who she means by that.
Hunter is wicked chuffed.
She’s now giving them advice.
Best.
Prefect.
Ever.
Well, except for maybe Harper who’d hexed the stupid Turkey for him, but that was more of a brothers kind of thing...
She leads them away from the cupboard towards the staircase.
The Baron, who has been following silently and invisibly behind them stops doing so now. The little Estray is absolutely brilliant, and he... likes the way the witch thinks. Yes, that’s precisely the word. She was clearly in the wrong House altogether. He races, chains still silenced, to the nearest of the Slytherin portraits and sends word out: they need Peeves... Immediately.
Within minutes the poltergeist appears, the deal sweetened by the promise of mischief to be wrought. By then, the Baron has done a quick reccy and has discovered an incredibly promising nest of spiders in a pail full of rubbish; there are... advantages to being a ghost when all is said and done. (Generally in a whisper, if the Baron is doing that speaking.) Reminding the poltergeist that this was the stripling who’d taken his bread yesterday morning is almost unnecessary, but makes the plan positively irresistible to the spirit.
It’s the work of a moment for Peeves to drop the bucket’s contents on the ginger’s head. He tosses the pail after, exerting a bit of force to push it down further over the boy’s face. The bucket’s handle almost magically - or not - slips in under his chin, affixing the thing to his head, and the spiders appear to panic nearly as much as Ron does, swarming down from their newly formed enclosure. He can feel them crawling down his face and neck and there’s no stopping him as he races shrieking for all he’s worth away from the cupboard.
Not that it will help matters any, as he’s taking the spiders’ nest with him.
When he’s only prevented from falling down the stairwell by the timely arrival of one of the castle’s moving staircases, a few of the portraits heave disappointed sighs. The tumble he takes down that sole flight of stairs, however - vision is so useful - might indeed be deemed ‘poetic justice’ by more than just Newton.
Hermione and the boys are too far away to recognise Ron’s screams for what they are by that time. They simply assume Peeves has been up to his tricks and have no idea how right they are. And Filch’s cries of ‘Weasley! Weasley! Where do you think you’re going?!’ - which might have helped explain things - never reach them at all.
Argus can’t be arsed to chase the boy down. That’s going too far. He’ll simply set Rivers on straightening the mess. He peers into cupboard, evaluating the disarray the ginger had left in his wake, shaking his head in disapproval and tutting, when he suddenly spies the corner of a portrait that looks a great deal like what they’ve been seeking...
Sure enough, when he stops to investigate, there she is, Healer Mathew! Or was that ‘Governor Mathew’? Possibly both. The witch in question, at any rate. Thoroughly pleased, he tries to tug her free. “Rivers! Rivers! Get your worthless hide in here and give me a hand.”
“What...” the portrait clears her throat with some trouble and starts again, “What...” more coughing, “I say,” still more scratching of her throat. “My good man, can you tell me...” She searches the portrait and reaches for something to drink. It helps greatly. “Can you tell me the year?” But she still sounds almost as bad the Bloody Baron.
Well, she’s clearly well out of it. No one, but no one calls him a ‘good man’.
He answers her question, but it only leads to more. It would seem she’s been here since her passing three quarters of a century before, and initially the portrait appears to have some difficulty following things. But Temperance was a very bright woman, and she’d been painted by someone who definitely recognised her as such. Her portrait is no less gifted. As Argus works and replies, she quickly regains her footing. By the time they’re done, she’s quite herself again.
Well, with the possible exception of her voice.
But it’ll get there, too.
Argus and the Hufflepuff manage to remove the obstructions and spend a bit of time cleaning the portrait up. It’s not long before she looks good as new. It’s one of Waterhouse’s, he can tell. They have a fair few of hers hanging about the castle. An extremely talented artist if ever Hogwarts had had one to call its own. The way Headmaster Black had put her to work, she’d practically been the resident portraitist.
He’s ever so pleased to have found what Professor McGonagall had wanted, and so quickly, too. He’s fond of a job well done. People tend not to understand that about him, but he takes pride in his work.
And when he brings the Transfiguration Professor the portrait, he’ll just have to put a word in her ear about Weasley’s absolutely shameful behaviour.
Running off like that. Mid detention. It just isn’t done.
“Do I have to call you ‘Madam Snape’ now, too?” Dennis sounds unsure.
“Of course not, don’t be silly. I haven’t changed. I’m still ‘Hermione’.” Hunter shifts position just a little, calling himself to mind, and she smirks, “You’re all free to call me ‘Hermione’.” She thinks she was right about the reason for his movement, because he’s simply beaming now.
“I’m on a first name basis with the Head’s wife!” His cheeks puff with pride. He really can’t contain his enthusiasm. In some ways, he reminds her a little of Daphne.
Just without the bows.
They part ways at the stairs just as a group of students comes into view. It’s apparently most of the seventh year Astronomy class - the Ravenclaws are conspicuously missing having dashed on ahead to the Tower - and Hermione tenses fractionally at the sight of Malfoy, Zabini and Nott.
Well, maybe not Nott so much.
Possibly not even Malfoy...
It’s really more of a reflex.
She’s just considering her reaction when someone touches her arm and she practically leaps, her wand already in hand before her feet touch the floor again.
“Whoa! Hermione!” Lavender puts her hands up in a gesture of surrender.
It’s a little embarrassing, sure, but mostly it’s worrisome. Hermione can’t believe how jumpy she is despite the Peace in her system. She recalls a similar response to Professor McGonagall’s touch as well.
Bugger.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. Haven't seen you around much...” Lavender starts, but Hermione still needs to meet the Professor, and the Snakes are beginning to head dungeonwards without her. The thought is particularly odd as only days ago, they were the group she’d been worried about encountering entering or exiting chambers.
It’s weirder yet when it occurs to her that all four of her... erstwhile roommates, as the Professor would have it, are apparently in that class, and the rest of them don’t seem to be waiting all that patiently for Lavender. Hermione could swear, Fay’s foot has begun tapping. How theatrical.
(It’s funny, too, how that word isn’t always an insult... Apparently it depends on the person to whom it’s applied. Greatly.)
“Sorry, Lav. I’ve got to dash,” Hermione replies and hurries to catch up to where Davis, Hunter and... apparently Parkinson have stopped to wait for her.
The world really does feel all topsy turvy lately.
Not that Parkinson seems all that inviting, but still...
Tracey begins making innocuous conversation about their Transfiguration homework for tomorrow, and they walk along talking superficially about things that don’t much matter. It’s easier when Daphne is there, but they now have enough of a basis to manage, if a bit stiffly, by themselves.
It helps - significantly - that Madam Snape apparently doesn’t feel pressed to deride the oh so manifold inadequacies of Divination once again. Cassandra. Tracey rather doubts Pansy would have stood for that.
When the conversation hits a natural lull, Pansy interjects, “Was it true? The story about Draco defending you against the ‘Puffs?” Because evidently she hasn’t grasped the whole ‘superficial’ thing. Tracey wishes she were elsewhere. The continent, say, doing her apprenticeship... She’s spent a great deal of time lately wishing just that. She has no idea if the Muggle-born witch knows she has the boys to thank for her bonding, but this seems like to open a particularly nasty can of worms. Pansy is an idiot. Wild Thestrals couldn’t have induced Tracey to ask the Head’s bondmate anything involving those boys.
Uh... Hermione can’t believe her ears. Malfoy, the little ferret, purports not to listen, he’s walking a bit ahead of them, but she can see by his posture that he heard every word and is now straining to hear more.
She tries to sum up the afternoon’s events to herself. Technically, and she is certain that’s what counts with the blond, all he’d done is demand an apology from the Hufflepuffs for their slights. That’s far from a defence of her person. Or her character, skills, blood status or bonding for that matter. She’s confident it was more an issue of principle than anything else with him, and realistically he’d probably just been shit-stirring...
“Is it true, Hermione?” Hunter asks, his voice just brimming with hope. Um... “Draco protected you?”
Holy Cricket.
If anything, that version of events is worse.
Which took some doing.
But Hutchinson looks so blooming... hopeful... And he’s so darn enthusiastic, and proud of his House and good-naturedly bopping along beside her...
It’s sort of funny, with the rest of the terrible trio he tries to be the ‘cool’ one (and given Kurz and Dennis it wasn’t exactly difficult), here with the other Snakes, he’s so unapologetically... chipper.
Her first impulse is to laugh.
Her second is to cry: ‘No!’
Truthfully, she’s sure it might never have come to a hexing if Malfoy hadn’t tricked the Hufflepuffs with his silent Protego. To say he’d protected her... Goodness, he’d instigated the whole thing, the ferrety little... ferret face, effectively causing the altercation.
Oh, she won’t claim Hopkins and Rivers weren’t being complete and utter arses, they had been, but those were just words...
“They were... rude, and he challenged them.” Her lips thin to a tight line, but she continues, “And then they were sort of stupid and tried to hex him and Nott for casting Protegos.” She can live with that.
“Incredibly stupid,” Draco allows, confirming her story as far as the rest are concerned.
“For Protegos?” Blaise asks disdainfully, and Filius would have a thing or two to say about that. Theo nods. “Blazingly so then.” He winks, mostly at Pansy, but she’s no longer easily charmed, much to his abiding confusion. Sure, he can imagine why she’s giving him the cold shoulder, it just doesn’t make much... sense. Not when she could have all this...
“‘Hermione’?” Pansy enquires of Hunter instead.
He nods, “We’re on a first name basis.” He’s really seriously proud of that, what with her being the Head's wife. Hermione can’t begin to think how to reply to that and settles on blushing, which is a nicer way of saying she blushes reflexively and comes up empty.
“She took ten points from Gryffindor,” he informs the others, grinning even more broadly.
“Oh, what for?” Pansy asks her casually.
Hermione is about to answer when Hunter supplies, “From Peterson for being a plank.”
Actually, that was close enough to the truth that she lets it ride. In retrospect, she hadn’t exactly had a good reason, she just thought he was up to no good. And so strangely, she had known the fourth years were up to mischief, and still hadn’t taken points from them.
She thinks it had probably made a difference to her that Kev had encountered the fourth years and menaced them, whereas Ron hadn’t been impacted in the least by the boys following him. He wasn’t any the worse for wear for their having done so. Yes, that had presumably made all the difference between the situations for her.
Of course she has no way of knowing that as a result of their combined input this evening, Ron was presently close to a nervous breakdown.
Which might be a pity, as it would most likely prove a cheering thought. At least until the guilt set in.
The group de facto escorts her to her door, in as much as it lies on their way back to the Slytherin dungeons, depositing her right in front of her chambers. It’s stranger still when she recalls that Harry and Ron hadn’t even been able to see the door. (Not that she could have last week either...)
“Good night, Hermione,” Hunter chirps.
“See you tomorrow,” Davis adds. Parkinson bobs her head, the same is true for them as well. In fact, it’s true for all of them.
Well, except maybe Hunter.
“Good night, Hunter,” Hermione replies, and he glows. “Till tomorrow then,” she addresses the group, and it’s weird, because every last one of them acknowledges it, although Nott is still desperately trying to avoid eye contact, but by and large, it’s beginning to feel like... acceptance.