“beyond wandpoint” 115 by gingerbred
Oct. 20th, 2019 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beyondwandpoint“11 12-13b Wed - Thurs - Not So Good Night”
... in which a number of people aren't having the greatest of nights, and jewellery isn't doing a thing to improve the situation.
Severus, Hermione, Slytherins: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bulstrode, Ravenclaws: Luna Lovegood, Others: Sunny
Mentioned briefly: Staff: Filius Flitwick, Slytherins: Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Alberta Runcorn, Harper Hutchinson, Ella Wilkins, Tomasina Touchstone, Hunter Hutchinson, Wilfred Wilkes, Ravenclaws: Robert Knox, Others: Crookshanks, Maleficent, Magnificent, Madam Bulstrode, Madam Lyssandra
Originally Published: 2019-10-20 on LJ / DW
Chapter: 115
Characters:
Severus (HoS, Potions), Hermione 7G (Prefect, Supreme Swot)
Slytherins: Pansy Parkinson 7S (Prefect), Millicent 'Millie' Bulstrode (Reserve Beater, yes, that.), Ravenclaws: Luna Lovegood, Others: Sunny (the Snapes' house elf)
Mentioned briefly: Staff: Professor Filius Flitwick (HoR, Charms), Slytherins: Gregory Goyle 7S (Beater), Daphne Greengrass 7S (Sparkly! Fwoopers!), Alberta Runcorn 7S (Grumpy.), Harper Hutchinson 6S (Prefect, Chaser, flash Robe Model), Ella Wilkins 6S (Prefect), Tomasina Touchstone 5S (Prefect, Potions savvy heiress), Hunter Hutchinson 4S (Imp, one third of the Trio of Terror), Wilfred Wilkes 4S (Messenger Boy), Ravenclaws: Robert Knox 4R (eagle with principles), Others: Crookshanks 'Crooks' (Hermione's half-Kneazle), Maleficent 'Malley' (Millie's Maine Coon), Magnificent (Millie's Granian), Madam Bulstrode (Millie's mother), Madam Lyssandra (Proprietress of Dogweed & Deathcap)
Previously:
Luna, sporting mismatched shoes, joins Hermione in an alcove for lunch Tuesday and presents her with two turnips Transfigured into candleholders as a wedding present. (073a LJ / DW) Luna eventually explains the shoes as less of a fashion statement than the work of Nargles. (084 LJ / DW)
Hermione interrupts the attack on Newton Kurz by four of the fourth year Ravenclaw boys Tuesday night. (Technically she interrupts the attack on Dennis Creevey and Hunter Hutchinson who in turn had interrupted the attack on Newton and were now seriously under fire, but we wouldn't wish to be overly pedantic, now would we?) (080b LJ / DW)
Wednesday. Filius offers to lend an ear if Hermione should ever wish to talk, unfortunately he manages to offend her so much in the process, she fails to appreciate it. (097b LJ / DW)
Filius speaks to Robert Knox at lunch about who attacked Newton. Robert doesn't name names, but admits he wasn't involved. As Filius knows it was four of his fourth years, however deliberately or not, it very effectively points the finger at Robert's four roommates. (098a LJ / DW)
After Hermione lectures Filius on his students' poor behaviour (097b LJ / DW), and Severus expands on that (and thoroughly ruins both their appetites) by relating some of the seventh years' comments about him and his bondmate, Filius decides he needs to call a House meeting and speak to his Eaglets. (100a LJ / DW)
The Slytherin girls hold an intervention for Millie in an effort to make sure she understands why they're ostracising the seventh year boys, because she just doesn't seem to want to get it. Ella goes on to tell her ratting out Harper's hiding spot in the cat habitat to Vince had been a crummy move, and Pansy (the witch) takes her to task before one and all. (Or at least it feels that way.) Millie finds it all more than a little frustrating, feeling the others aren't getting a whole bunch of things themselves, but what they are getting is on her nerves... (112a (LJ / DW) and 113a.2 (LJ / DW))
In pursuit of a perfectly sensible elven scheme (aren't they always?), Sunny talks Hermione into relinquishing the blanket Poppy had given her. (114 LJ / DW)
Severus pauses to wipe the perspiration from his brow and catch his breath. He feels exhilarated; he'd really missed this. He'd needed this. Sunday he'd been in no shape...
Sunday he'd gotten bonded.
Hmm.
If ever there were an acceptable excuse for breaking routine...
Although the coma was probably a close second.
He rolls up his sleeves instead of applying a Cooling Charm; there's something pleasant in working up an honest sweat. It feels earned. His eyes linger briefly, as they almost always do in private, on the Mark marring his forearm, its darkness of the last two and a half years an ominous testament to how precarious their situation has become. Not a day goes by he doesn't regret taking the thing.
But the usual thoughts accompanying that sight don't come.
'The Dark Side'. How ridiculous.
Although if he's fair, it's not as though 'Death Eaters' were remotely better. Presumably less so. But then that's most likely a question of his connotations...
He turns on his heel dropping smoothly into a crouch and wandlessly and silently fires off a series of hexes, one right after the next, ending the manoeuvre with a tuck and roll to the side just as a pile of stone crashes onto his last position. He laughs at the narrow escape, brushing the hair from his eyes.
'The Dark Side'... It wasn't just that it was ridiculous. Or that it trivialises something that has caused him no end of pain; on the contrary, he's perfectly fine with that, he's done it often enough himself. It's a key element of sarcasm, and the facetious is a close friend.
It's that it's so unrepentantly Muggle.
He spins and hits the closest practice Dummy. It collapses with a groan of metal and Severus smirks as he shoots three more hexes in rapid succession at the next trio of Dummies.
In its own way every bit as disturbing as her flattering blouses is her penchant for jeans and trainers... She couldn't even pass for a half-blood. Not, he supposes, that there are likely to be too many people in Wizarding Britain who wouldn't recognise the woman and don't know perfectly well she's Muggle-born. But in the exceedingly unlikely event she weren't recognised, anyone would instantly spot she's Muggle raised. Given the present political climate, it's an incredibly oblivious approach. He wonders if that's it, could she - despite her intelligence - truly be that ignorant, is she too proud or stubborn to assimilate or simply oversure of herself and her position?
How could she possibly be after Friday?
Hermione's wardrobe is nowhere near the statement Severus seems to fear it might be. She wears the things she owns, the things she's familiar with, the things she feels comfortable in. After Friday, comfort is becoming increasingly important. As for passing for anything or anyone other than herself... She's reasonably convinced she hasn't had a prayer of that since her fourth year, and she's well past worrying about it.
A series of flames shoot up from the floor but he stands firm. Dragonhide boots and clothing suitably Imperviused and Protegoed to brew in a school simply brimming with the dunderheaded? He has nothing to worry from this. He walks confidently through the thigh high flames not even bothering to extinguish them, and takes out the trio menacing his flank once and for all. The Room will need to throw an Inferno at him if it wants him to fold.
Some days, the way it plays, he thinks the Room just might.
He supposes it must boil down to her not recognising the extent of the threat. For that he blames Albus. Albus and his outward appearance of merrily fiddling as Rome stands in flames. And he doesn't even have the Potions Master's Imperviused clothes... Severus chuckles darkly at his wit. If Albus keeps this up, it will soon be more than just a withered arm.
And now he wonders why he laughed.
The closer that inevitable end draws, the sooner he will be forced to act on his Vows. He finds absolutely nothing humorous about that.
His next shot leaves the Dummy it hits a twisted mass of congealed metal on the floor, slightly improving his mood again.
But what the woman needs is a good set of bog-standard Wizarding robes.
And to cease with the trainers.
Yes, decent robes and to practise wearing them until it becomes second nature.
And if they should happen to cover up those fitted blouses, even better.
The Room sets four new Dummies in play and Severus happily darts between them and the others scattered about the room, firing hexes and curses as he goes. It's not always an advantage to have the greater numbers. Somehow the room doesn't seem to favour that strategy, one truly strong opponent. Severus imagines this is the more probable scenario anyway (which given the nature of the Come and Go Room, is almost definitely the explanation for that preference). The two strong... potential opponents that instantly come to mind, he'll never openly oppose. It renders the point of practising for that scenario moot.
Another salvo, and he hastens to take cover behind a column, his chest heaving at the exertion, but the new vantage point leaves a few Dummies vulnerable to his next attack.
He'd been embarrassingly eager to have her try his Salve, to see her reaction. What little dignity Albus and the Dark Lord leave him had scarpered, right out the window, lakewards at the first chance of a little praise. He'd almost been tempted, a handful of times in the past year since its invention - there thankfully hadn't been much call - to apply the Salve in secret to a few of Poppy's patients he thought it might have helped. But the Mediwitch is far too observant, how would he ever have accounted for the results? He'd honestly gone so far as to consider the use of a Confundus to avoid those impossible explanations, but had rejected the idea as too self-serving. For the sake of an experiment? With an untested Salve. They were best left without. And if it had gone wrong... No. It had been too risky, all round. The danger of exposure...
And the bitter truth: even if he had resorted to such lengths, it wouldn't have been nearly as satisfying... because they wouldn't, they couldn't know it was his. Her reaction, although pleasing, is one thing, but her knowing it was his creation is another entirely. Her knowing makes a difference, a very real difference to him.
Presumably also in how she regards him, which now has him thinking about the nature of his vanity...
A well timed curse brings one of the Dummies to the floor, it disintegrates before his eyes.
He'd had a spot of luck on that front. It had been quite... unexpected when she hadn't blamed him for not sharing his invention. A relief, of sorts.
Yes, the term fits.
Naturally only for pragmatic reasons... The bond would have made any other response exceptionally wearing.
A Diffindo ends the nearest Dummy's attack; he steps past the wreckage as it tries, fruitlessly, to land a blow.
He so often has to bow and scrape, kowtowing at the Dark Lord's feet. Sometimes all too literally. He isn't even sure that, figuratively, something similar couldn't be said of his relationship to Albus. He's allowed to voice complaints, objections, certainly, but in the end, in every sense that matters, they fall on deaf ears. Theirs is not in any way something that could be taken for a partnership, something on equal footing.
The next hex stops two of the Practice Dummies' wheels cold. They crash into each other as they topple, barring the way for those behind. Their solitary opponent has no difficulty withdrawing to a more advantageous position.
No, it really was't simply a question of witnessing the success and appreciation of his Salve. It was also the recognition. It serves as a poultice to his oft battered pride.
And then he'd taken the time to explain the Ichor Malus to her. He has to wonder about that decision, what had led him to it...
He hadn't wished to simply use her for ingredients. It felt too... predatory. Her knowledge, her understanding of what he was doing... Her permission put his actions in a different light. That's straightforward enough. Although very much at odds with his generally pragmatic nature... But then he hadn't much liked being used himself.
There was a difference.
Those using him had applied the curses deliberately in their attempt to achieve that result. To create and then harvest the Ichor. Their situations hardly compare...
And yet he hadn't wished to use her that way...
Is it some residual concern for her stemming from their experience Friday? Or more of his deep-seated beliefs on marriage? He'll need to watch out for that. Then he considers how he'd just told her about the Skullcap when she asked. She was appreciative, sincerely, and impressed. What's more, he knew it, believed it thanks to the bond... And there he was, spilling his secrets... It had hardly mattered. It wasn't of any significance that she knew... There was no risk involved, that isn't the issue. No, the issue is it isn't something he's given to doing. He'll definitely need to watch that as well.
The next series of spells brings with it a feeling of calm. Somehow admitting the weakness makes things better. He's aware of the problem and will keep a gimlet eye on affairs. Everything as usual then. He's used to having to watch all manner of things, a few more hardly matter at this point.
What's more pressing is the issue of their damnable bond. It's been all over the place again tonight, and his efforts to hold the onslaught at bay are proving only marginally successful. He doesn't believe it's been too compromising yet (Hermione might see that differently, but then he's thinking more in terms of what Voldemort would do to him than of any personal embarrassment), but he has no idea how long it will be before something unforeseen occurs and his emotional response gives too much away. There's Occluding, but at full strength it was never intended as more than a stopgap. He's not even sure it's an option to never feel anything at all.
Unless he were on a Draught.
Which brings the witch's onslaught to mind.
Well, she probably couldn't help it, and it's undoubtably challenging to adjust to trauma when those feelings are turned off and on like this. He'd known that when he'd suggested the approach, and still he deemed it the better choice, parcelling the load out in more manageable lots. They hadn't really had a choice with the boys still at large in the school and what seems to be the entirety of the castle up in arms about their bonding. They'd agreed this was safer. And it is. It most definitely is, and he truly appreciates that she's taken his advice on this.
But she's doing his head in now.
A jet of water comes at him from behind, strong enough to bowl him over, he gets his Protego Duo in place only just in time. He greets the near failure with another rather self-satisfied chuckle.
Traditional Occlusion suppresses the feelings, achieving something like a meditative state in which he is able to withhold his thoughts, crucial against a powerful Legilimens like the Dark Lord. Or Albus, for that matter. He wonders to what extent it might be possible to still feel and withhold just his feelings, almost the inverse of his usual approach. He had tried a variety of things this evening, and he has the sense some things had shown hints of promise, but presumably only because he'd Occluded and hadn't been sorely tested. He suspects solving this will be of paramount importance in the weeks and months to come. It's as much about protecting himself from her as it is about keeping her from sensing too much from him...
With enough effort to draw a grunt from him, Severus pushes his Shield Charm into the two Dummies flanking his right, knocking them off their wheels. It should take them some moments to right themselves once more. People often forget the Shield is a tangible thing, capable of being weaponised as well.
What really demands some attention is the question of how she knew with such certainty that he was lying about the Salve being experimental... If she can tell that accurately when he's lying... Albus and his ill considered liabilities... And yet she hadn't detected his falsehoods with regards to Miss Davis' potion. Guilt makes all the difference, Severus is sure, but it had been only a hint of it... It was little more than an awareness of the lie. The bond, or perhaps the witch, seems incredibly sensitive in this regard.
That will definitely prove problematic.
A simple Protego is sufficient to cover him as he shifts locations.
His moral relativism hadn't been sufficient to the task. Another dark laugh accompanies that thought. So does the answer lie in suppressing his guilt reflex instead? One would think that should come easy after all these years... He wonders if a potion could accomplish that. Some modification of an inhibition lowering draught... If there were one in existence already, he's quite certain the Dark Lord's forces would be making use of it. Merlin, he'd probably be expected to brew it for them... Perhaps he could create one... (In his copious free time, and then take it forever more, and he doesn't just think - at all, not once - about how closely related it might be to a Lust Potion, except he most certainly does. Bugger.)
And yet isn't guilt essentially his driving force? What would happen were he truly able to take it out of the equation? Would it affect his motives? His endurance?
Could he afford that?
He throws himself on the floor, just under another attack, and fires his next series of volleys.
Albus had always avoided tinkering with Severus' guilt for fear of that very thing. Or at least Severus thinks so. With a sardonic chuckle, he asks, 'how would he know?' But if Albus had felt confident about doing so, Severus can't imagine he wouldn't have opted for that - some minor memory adjustment at will - instead of resorting to this bonding scheme of his.
The desperation of that plan proves Albus hadn't been able to tamper with him.
Or at least: that he could do so no longer.
Some unholy sensation crashes through the bond, a disturbing cocktail of lust and guilt he'd much rather have known nothing about. Ever. Any thoughts in response to it can only be too revealing.
The safest options are Occluding or becoming angry. He opts for the latter, his nerves somewhat frayed, or at least he thinks he chooses it. It's unclear how much her mood is influencing his at this stage. What is clear is he's unable to get her off his mind when the bond is this active unless he's Occluding more or less full tilt.
He's not used to having to spare so much thought for someone else in this fashion. There's something claustrophobic in effectively sharing his mind, whether he chooses to or not. No, he's accustomed to keeping to himself.
'Doesn't that get lonely?' He can just hear her ask. He dispatches another round of curses. It's absurd. Of course it gets lonely. What a ridiculous question, and how thoroughly impertinent of her to have asked it.
A brutally strong gust of air finally succeeds in knocking him off his feet, he lands somewhat hard on his back, winding him, but is able to turn and scrabble to the side before the cudgels land where he'd just lain. Some days he thinks the Room has it in for him.
"Try harder," he tells it with a sneer, and it does.
The next crush comes so hot and heavy, he's forced to draw his wand to stave off the attack. He tries to hold out as long as he can, to practise, to push his limits. Someday, having unexpected reserves may save his life. The way things have been going, that day is likely to come sooner rather than later.
More metal meets the stone floor in a terrible clatter as he wrings for breath.
It is absurd, and of a certainty it was impertinent, there's little point in arguing otherwise, but it also might be... nice to be seen as a human being. Not an archetype, not some bogeyman, not a means to an end. He looks at his ring reflexively, which is when he notices his ring has grown in size. Fractionally. But it has. He could swear it's a little less black, too.
That's worrisome.
He does his best to ignore it, but the next blast, a percussive Bombarda Maxima, is much stronger and takes the entire contingent of practice Dummies out in one. Obviously it helps that he's using his wand, but he's fairly certain that isn't the only factor contributing towards that result. The room is so good as to supply him with new Dummies almost immediately, it pauses only long enough to let him celebrate his success (that doesn't happen, if anything, he's uncomfortable with the external signs of his disturbance...) and then new and more robust foes appear.
Without any hesitation, a Wingardium Leviosa grabs the nearest and dodging and weaving, slams him masterfully into all the rest; it's slightly reminiscent of his handling of Draco Friday. The thought only angers Severus more, and now he swings the Dummy, again and again, using it much like a Beater's bat to flatten the lot of them. That's an issue with practising as he does, a pitfall it pays dividends to be well aware of. The spells he uses are frequently different to those he'd need in an actual battle, there's simply no way around that when one practises with Dummies. Against a human opponent he'd have needed to use the Mobilicorpus, or his own Levicorpus. Battling Dummies trains the mind and reflexes, but it's imperative one never lose sight of that difference, that one remains prepared to make the leap when the situation calls for it.
"Enough," he tells the Room authoritatively, again mopping the sweat from his brow. If he thought the last wave via the bond was a problem, the current one eclipses it entirely.
"For fuck's sake," he complains. It's the least the situation demands.
He holds out his hand and examines his ring. Holding his wand over it, he casts two of the spells he used only hours before to quantify its characteristics.
He was right. It is lighter. Larger, too, of course, but he'd trusted his eyes implicitly on that score. Perhaps the witch on the other end of the bond had made a similar discovery. It's the only explanation that readily occurs for the maelstrom she's presently subjecting him to.
When he fails to think of a suitable response - what possible response would be suitable? - he resumes practising. More thoroughly preoccupied than before, which is saying something, the rest of his session isn't nearly as fruitful. It won't be long before he feels forced to call it a night.
Millie stands in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at at her reflection, utterly aghast. Rubbing her eyes for a third time, so shockingly, hadn't made the least bit of difference.
She could cry.
The pendant around her neck is now a dark charcoal grey, and she is royally fucked. Buggered. Screwed? No. No, none of that, Nimue, no. She's... in dire straits. Circumstances? Probably that. She's in dire circumstances. No, it's probably straits. What the fuck are 'straits' anyway? No! No. No no no no no no no...
Things are looking very bad for her indeed...
She could swear the thing just got darker, and she's one step closer to crying.
Perhaps she should just cry now and get it over with. She's not actually sure if that makes a difference, crying, because she only does so when she's also angry. To be on the safe side, she's struggling to avoid it either way.
She'd waited until the others were done getting ready for bed to come in here. The last thing she needed was another run in with Alberta, and Panse... No, Millie certainly didn't need that. She takes the pendant in hand and tugs at it for what must be the millionth time, but it just isn't going anywhere. And if it did, there were probably ways of telling that as well.
She braces her arms against the basin and lets her head sink, her despair visible in her posture.
"Millie?" comes a soft voice from behind her, unmistakable. All melodic and improbable, because the sound of 'tinkling bells' only happens in the cheesy romance stories that particular witch favours and Millie would never read. Well not unless they're lent to her. But who actually sounds like that?
Fucking Panse is who.
Damn! Damn damn damn.
Panse. Panse is who.
Millie checks her pendant again... It's no use. If she were smart, she'd blag a Sleeping Draught off Tomasina and give up for the night. Probably Dreamless Sleep while she's about it, because she isn't altogether sure her dreams don't count against her either.
"Millie? Are you alright?"
"Shove off," comes the bitter reply, immediately followed by a groan. That wasn't remotely the right answer, of course. "Just leave me alone," Millie tries again. Better.
"I wanted to check on you, to make sure..." Pansy had waited for a chance to get Millie alone to sort of apologise, or more like: make peace; she has a hard time saying she's sorry, and she isn't the least bit convinced the situation actually warrants it. And Millie, naturally, is having none of it.
"The best thing you can do for me is to just turn around and go. You're most of the reason the thing is this black to begin with, Pansy. Just go."
Pansy winces at that. "'Pansy'? Not 'Panse', hmm?" Now she knows she's in trouble. "Are you that mad at me?" Millie doesn't answer, staring stubbornly into the drain once more. It's probably like one of them metaphors people forever bang on about, everything, absolutely everything going down the drain, but the reflection in the chrome fixtures of the dark grey necklace against her skin is only making her madder.
"Look, Mil, it wasn't personal. You know that. Of course it wasn't. If it had been anyone else, I wouldn't have gone any easier on them." On the contrary, she'd probably have given them a much harder time. She and Millie have been friends practically from their enchanted cradles. "But you left me no choice..."
Millie can't help thinking Panse had any number of choices, but there's little point in arguing it further; it will undoubtably make things worse.
Much about her friend's response, the whole attitude of her posture, in fact, has Pansy readjusting her thoughts as to Millie's reaction. It made sense, really. Mil was something of a hothead, and there's no way that conversation, confrontation before wouldn't have sorely tried her.
"How bad is it?" Pansy asks her, indicating the necklace, not that Millie sees the gesture as she's gone back to letting her head hang and doesn't reply.
Everyone knows Millie's creature of a mother had saddled... Oh, that was an unfortunate choice of words... Had stuck her with that particularly perfidious Pettichap's Perfect Performance Pendant last year to make sure Millie's manners were... erm, quite up to snuff. Typically with those sort of things, it turns darker the worse she behaves. Merlin knows, they've seen enough of them in the past in the House - although far from common, they weren't unheard of - but Millie's had gone a step further than most and apparently reflected her thoughts as well. Whatever else, her mother had tackled the problem... thoroughly. It also demonstrated just how little the woman understood what it meant to be a Slytherin; the freedom of one's thoughts is sacrosanct. Must be. How else could one properly evaluate one's options? (In a great show of mental discipline, Pansy manages not to allow Draco's desperate need to learn Occlumency in recent years to cross her mind more than fleetingly as she thinks that, or to consider the ready availability of Slytherin alumni as teachers which would seem to belie the sanctity of a person's thoughts. Denial has become surprisingly common in the dungeons.)
But then Madam Bulstrode had gone to Beauxbatons; something like this was only to be expected.
Thought monitoring... That had proven a major problem. Still, after initial difficulties, Millie had adjusted. Really, she'd done reasonably well, especially when one takes the witch's temperament into account and the situation in which she found herself. Right up until Potter attacked and nearly murdered Draco last spring, that is, and Dumbledore let him get away with it, just let him off, Scot-free, and then Millie had responded exactly like most of their House had, and the thing had turned jet black.
That might not have been too bad, but it was shortly before end of term, and no amount of positive thinking, assuming any was possible to begin with, was going to turn the thing alabaster again. Millie had slunk home, her mother took one look at the pendant, turned around and dispatched a number of owls, and by the next morning Millie's beloved Graninan Magnificent was gone.
Sold.
For potions ingredients.
Her father later said the winged horse had gone to a nice farm, located somewhere rather nebulously described as 'on the outer Hebrides', but Millie's never found mention of such a place in her reading (not that she usually does much, but for that subject, she'd made an exception). She strongly suspects he only said it because she'd locked herself sobbing in her room and hadn't eaten in a week. (Her mother merely applauded the resulting weight loss, and Mille made a point of regaining a stone more.)
Those suspicions as to her father's motives were only reinforced when she returned to school in the autumn, and one of the fourth years said that horses of all sorts had long been used for a variety of Sticking products, Granians in particular to form the adhesive for Spellotape. (Millie had immediately thrown hers out.) Wilfred always was an insensitive plank, although to be fair (not that either of the girls in the seventh years' lav has a mind to be at the moment), he was presumably just eager to impress Tomasina (who had happened to be standing close by at the time) with his potions knowledge. And in his defence, he had waited until Millie was gone to retrieve the Spellotape quietly from the bin and gave it to Hunter later.
This year, Madam Bulstrode had threatened, if Millie's behaviour didn't see a marked improvement, her Maine Coon Maleficent was for it. And to make matters worse, her mother now wanted regular updates.
"Do you suppose you could just give Malley to me?" Pansy tries to help her friend.
"It doesn't work that way. And she isn't even mine. She remains technically my mother's."
"But you've had her since she was a kitten."
"Oh no, my mother arranged that from the outset. I love her, I feed her, I care for her, she accompanies me to school and stays with me when my parents swan off to holiday in the south of France each summer. But she's my mother's cat. Always has been. So no, I can't just give her to you."
"And if she were to... run away?"
"There are spells to locate lost pets you know. It's on her collar. And you can no more remove that than this," she hisses, tugging at her necklace again in naked frustration. "Believe me, I've tried."
"Daphne might know of something; she's taking CMC..."
"I've asked." Millie's biting off the words now and doing her best to ignore the implications. She is in that very same Care of Magical Creatures class with Daphne after all.
"Gregory might know; he's very good with animals..."
"If I hadn't asked before now, I'm probably not supposed to anymore." Millie gives Pansy a baleful look and then resigns, sighing, and answers, "I've asked him, too. He said the whole point was for the collars to remain on so the owners can find them - theft prevention is an added benefit, don't you know? - and only the owner can remove it." The tone of her voice betrays just what she thinks of said owner. Reflexively she checks her Pendant, which is still darkening. Even Pansy knows just how screwed the woman is.
What makes Millie even angrier about the whole thing is she'd agreed to the wear the Pendant of her own accord. She'd wanted this. She had practically asked for it. Her parents had made it clear, she'd need more polish - a lot more polish - if she ever wanted to enter into the family's animal trading business. Bulstrodes have supplied every Thestral Hogwarts has had for centuries, at least until Hagrid decided to try his hand at breeding them. Gringott's dragon passed through their hands and Lord Withers' infamous Aethonans came from their stables as well, every last one of them. They've been at this forever.
But Millie hadn't a hint of what was required to go into sales, they were certain about that, and she was honest enough to recognise change just wasn't going to happen on its own. The Pendant had seemed such an easy solution. And her father had sweetened the deal by offering to take her to France with them if she succeeded. It seemed so straightforward... Almost a sure thing. But then her mother fucked it up, just like she fucks everything up... Oh for fuck's sake...
Millie just can't win...
Her mother made a complete dog's dinner of it. Yes. That.
"Hmm." Pansy thinks about it for a moment. Realistically, there isn't anything constructive to be done here. What remains is cheering up her friend. "Transferring ownership then. We could always have your mother murdered," she quips, confident thanks to their lifelong friendship that Millie will take it as the joke it is, or what often passes for one between them.
Millie does let out a bark of a very dark laugh at that and then shakes her head, torn almost equally between tears and hysterics at this point. "Wouldn't help I'm afraid." Pansy is quietly certain it would, even if not practically or in the case specific, but that's neither here nor there and saying so unquestionably won't help matters any. "Would you believe she's left Malley to Madam Lyssandra in her testament? She told me so. Apparently they're old chums from school." Looking at Madam Lyssandra, it might be hard to reconcile the two as friends - Róisín wasn't wrong, Lyssandra truly is something of a crone - but some might say the same of Millie and Pansy. Some have, in fact.
"The, um, proprietress of Dogweed & Deathcap?"
"The very same." Millie grinds her teeth before continuing. "I take it as an implied threat that Malley would also serve for ingredients."
Pansy's inclined to agree. In fact, she's having difficulty finding that threat particularly tacit. Beauxbatons. As subtle as a Bludger.
"Do you suppose convincing the others to go easier on the Quidditch team could be taken as a good deed?" Pansy tries.
"Was it? Really?" Millie snorts, she's positive the bloody thing... blasted thing? The annoyance blackened once more. "I'm pretty sure it was self-serving enough, I know that. It certainly wasn't mannered, and I think that's what actually matters. I don't think it cares if I do good or not, just if I'm polite while about it."
"So murdering your mother might not be off the table after all, as long as we remain gracious..." Pansy winks. Her reflection isn't at all certain what to make of that, but as the mirrors had long since been silenced - who had thought magical mirrors in the lavs was a good idea? - the girls don't much care.
"Well could you at least try visualising the positive difference your campaigning for the team did? Just think of all the good you've done..."
"Won't make a bloody bit of difference..." Damn. Drat. Won't make any difference. That.
"Well, helping Granger-Snape..."
"Annoyed me further." Panse is trying what's left of Millie's patience, "Just drop it," she half begs, half commands. "Please," she adds, having sort of learnt her lesson.
The pendant flashes slightly, growing warmer against her skin, Millie groans. Of course it likes that.
Having failed to console Millie on all fronts - if anything, she may just be making things worse - Pansy changes tack and chooses to expose a weakness of her own. Sometimes a display of trust helps. She undoes the Glamours on her face and looks at herself in the mirror next to Millie's. Millie flinches at the sight, recognising the gesture. Thing is, she's still very mad at her friend, and she's in something of a mood, and looking at her now just makes her angrier. Which isn't going to do the colour of her pendant any good.
Pansy touches her cheek gingerly and sets about washing her face. "How long do you have?"
"I have to send a picture home with an owl on Sunday." Sunday. Merlin.
"Harper takes them?" Millie nods stiffly. "Maybe he can come up with something?" Millie groans again, sincerely doubting Harper actually could do anything, that was rather the point of her mother's solution - there's no Glamouring in photographs (or just why did people think all of Celestina Warbeck's album covers were portraits?) - but even if he could, Millie is probably the last person he'd lift a finger to help. As Ella had been so eager to have her understand, Millie had only just landed him in it. Squarely.
On the floor. Gasping.
There's no way he's helping her.
She's fucked. Fuck! No!
Millie tries not to be cross. Panse only wants to help. Probably. But there's no help for her, and this is the witch, her so called friend, who took her to task in front of half the House. Millie's had enough. "Pansy can we just not? No more, not tonight. I can't anymore," and with that she turns and leaves the smaller woman standing there, towel still in hand, staring after her.
Even Pansy's reflection is sure: that's not a good sign. Not that she can say so.
"Hey, Hermione," comes a very familiar voice.
"Holy Cricket! Luna! Where'd you come from?" Hermione shouts, practically leaping from her bed, only to immediately decide that was the hands down the stupidest response she's ever had. By a mile. Crooks tends to agree, but mostly because she disturbed his sleep.
Yet again.
Luna's little lagomorph lops onto the bed, and Crooks has now officially had enough for tonight. This goes too far. First he's expected to share space with elves, now with spectral herbivores, assuming such a spectre can be seen as eating anything at all...
He's uncertain.
But either way, he draws the line here. This goes too far.
He retreats to a spot very close to Hermione's pillow, so he's only just still on the wondrous duvet, circles three times and then turns his back on his witch's escapades, intent on ignoring her to the very best of his ability.
Luna's Patronus continues as though there hadn't been an interruption, which obviously makes perfect sense. Hermione is just glad there was no one to witness her foolish reaction, especially after Luna had sent her Patronus just yesterday. This shouldn't have come as such a surprise. "I didn't see you around today so I just wanted to check in on you. I hope it isn't too late...
"We had a House meeting that kept me from doing it earlier. Are you alright? Still eating?"
The hare vanishes and Hermione composes herself, with a guarded and rather mirthless chuckle at her obviously blank nerves, before sending her otter right back to her friend. She's still using the thought of the Professor's rescue Friday to fuel it, albeit a mite more self consciously than yesterday. "Luna, so sweet of you to think to check in. Thank you. I'm fine, and eating. No worries, I kept my promise." She smiles softly at that, it really was sweet of Luna to have worried. "All very sensible, honestly.
"Have your shoes reappeared?" Somehow it still seems safer to talk about this than... most other things. And naturally she has no idea how many people can hear her Patronus' message... That all depends on where Luna is. "My offer stands if you'd like me to Transfigure something? We could meet for lunch tomorrow?"
"What a nice idea, but I'm afraid I can't." There's something strange about a conversation with such great lags of time in between. For a moment Hermione thought Luna felt the Transfiguration was a nice idea. "I have some work to do during lunch." This from the woman admonishing her to eat properly. Hermione smirks. "Not to worry, though, I'll get something to eat." Hermione hadn't actually worried, especially as she had little issue skipping meals - that had been the source of Luna's concern, after all - but the girl's consistency makes her smile, just like the fact Luna feels the need to reassure her. It's nice to have someone taking her feelings into account, however incorrectly.
"And thanks for the offer, but there really isn't much point. Whatever the Spell was, it's definitely to do with sets of things... I imagine if I try to circumvent it, it'll just happen again." There's a longer pause now, as Luna appears to have considered the situation, or perhaps how much of it she should reveal. "It must have been sometime Monday night in my room, because I've checked, and the second candles are definitely gone, but the second candleholder was still there... So I imagine after I put the tapers and tea lights in my bag, or I'd have noticed, but before I'd Transfigured the second neep." Luna is fairly sure she can narrow it down almost to the minute, which puts Felicity and Latisha very neatly in the frame, not that she'd have expected it to be anyone else... "But this way they'll grow tired of it sooner rather than later. It's for the best."
Hermione pails when she hears it, "You're saying your roommates did that? Oh, Luna, that's terrible..." By an act of sheer will, her denial is strong, she doesn't think of her own Housemates or their responses to her bonding. (Fine, not more than briefly.) With a sinking feeling, it occurs to her that it really couldn't have been some random jinx in the corridors. Luna had had two mismatched shoes when Hermione saw her. If she'd gone back to fetch a second shoe, she'd have simply changed, wouldn't she? Even Luna. And she'd practically said as much yesterday, hadn't she? She didn't seem to have any matching pairs at the moment... Only Hermione had been too distracted with the Professor waking outside her door to have paid proper attention. If it had been someone from a different House who'd jinxed her, it was highly unlikely the Spell could have targeted all of her pairs of shoes...
Hermione feels rather guilty for being such a poor friend.
"Could have been Nargles," comes the somewhat hopeful reply. Hermione isn't really sure if Luna actually means it. "The Spell must have been something about 'pairs' because all my trousers have disappeared as well." The hare sighs one of Luna's breathy sighs, and it would almost be funny if it weren't so sad. "I suppose they hadn't really thought that part through." Hermione resolves not to ask about her knickers.
The resigned tone suggests Luna might know better after all, but her professed denial is almost as vigorous as Hermione's.
Hermione thinks about Professor Flitwick, and how he'd offered to help her after class today. She hadn't really been of a mind to hear it, not then, not after he hadn't recognised just how unacceptable his fourth year boys' behaviour was and then suggested the Professor was somehow the root of her problems, but for this... Surely he must be able to help when his students are bullying their Housemates.
"Would you like me to speak to Professor Flitwick? I'm certain he could be of some assistance..."
As the one with a great deal more experience with regards to Professor Flitwick's actual helpfulness and the effectiveness of his generally well intentioned efforts, Luna happens to feel otherwise, but she doesn't wish to argue the point.
"I'd rather you didn't." Another pause for thought. Luna apparently decided Hermione wouldn't let it go without an explanation and promptly supplies one, not that it makes Hermione feel any better about things. "They turned Robert Knox green, gave him warts and flippers, and then locked their pet 'toady' in a cupboard after the meeting tonight just because they thought he'd informed on the others to the Professor. Not because he had, but just because they suspected it.
"I'd really rather not go that that route or I'll spend the rest of term looking for my things..." And really, considering Robert, that's only if she were lucky.
"Hey, I need to get going, Hermione. I think I'm starting to attract attention. Good night, and try to get some rest will you? I know it can be difficult, what with all the changes, but just try to hang in there..." And with that the leveret is gone.
Hermione sits there staring at the space it had just occupied, wondering if it's a good idea to respond or not. She's beginning to worry it isn't the best of plans.
"Luna, where are you now? Is it... safe to answer?" If it wasn't, that may well have made it even less so. Brilliant. Hermione is becoming less and less certain by the minute. "If not, please don't worry. Thanks for checking in, and... sweet dreams?" It seems a stupid way to sign off given she's now worried for her friend.
When the answer comes, whispered, Hermione feels even worse.
"It's alright, I'm in a cupboard of my own. I'll try to check in tomorrow. Good night." Perfect. And now she's sat there wondering if Luna was in that cupboard of her own volition, in a bid for privacy or just being Luna, or if her Housemates were responsible for that as well. And, sure, whispering meant the others might not hear her message, but there's little chance, she imagines, of the Patronuses entering and leaving the Tower without getting noticed... Hermione tries to console herself that if Luna were doing all too badly, she wouldn't have even been able to Conjure a Patronus, and then rejects the thought. Luna is likely to scrape one together under the most miserable of circumstances. She's just that sort of person.
Which doesn't mean her situation is easy, or safe, or good. Hermione's beginning to understand that it certainly isn't pleasant.
Hermione had gotten somewhat lucky over the years.
It's a weird thought, in light of recent events or the battle at the Department of Mysteries, say. Although, really, she'd been lucky even then. (Even more so in retrospect, given what the Professor had had to say about it only this evening, and especially having just had his Salve for her scar, obviously.) But considering Luna's situation, the statement definitely stands. (And as Hermione would rather not see herself as a victim, desperately so, the other things aren't given much weight anyway.)
It wasn't that her Housemates were always nice to her; they very much weren't, often including even her closest friends amongst that number. But no matter what they'd done to her over the years, it had never progressed beyond ordinary meanness. Unpleasant, surely, but then that was the end of it. (Technically, she'd been the one to attack Ron with her flock of canaries once, and she'd Body-Bound Neville back in first year. She'd never been on the receiving end.) Possibly because they had respect for her skills, but it seems unlikely that would have been sufficient safeguard as a mere Firstie, and the die is cast early in these sorts of dynamics, she knows that. Initially Percy had done some shielding, and not always intentionally at that. Deliberately or not, he'd been a real help with his officious rule cleaving, and he'd acted as something of a lightning rod, drawing much of the negative attention from her. Later her friendship with the twins (and certainly Harry and Ron) had provided some cover, and the others had eventually come to respect her reliable point gains for the House. Or wanted to use her notes. Or needed her help on their assignments... Generally she'd made herself useful. All of that had probably kept her safe, enough, and eventually she'd been a Prefect and able to protect herself.
Luna hadn't had her good fortune.
She didn't have someone less popular who was more 'her' than she was to take the heat or scrutiny off of her. She clearly hadn't had a Prefect in the House watching over her. She hadn't had popular Housemates looking out for her or close knit friendships amongst the Ravenclaws. In a House full of the academically superior, Luna isn't the brightest amongst them and certainly not the strongest point winner. And she isn't a Prefect now. And Hermione knows perfectly well that even her Housemates feel free to call her 'Loony' Lovegood with impunity. They don't respect her and have no fear of reprisals.
No, Luna takes it all with a resigned smile, while speaking of Nargles and practically soliciting the next round of... abuse. Because that's what it is, by any measure.
Hermione sits there trying to think about how Professor Flitwick had offered to help her. A little belatedly, she tries to be grateful for that, thinking how she'd been a bit short with him this morning really...
Well, he'd given her cause, and she's got enough things to fret about; she isn't going to worry about that, too.
And then she tries to think if he could be of any use in this situation. Hermione knows Robert Knox is one of the fourth years. The only one who hadn't participated in the attack on Newton Kurz Tuesday night. And having spoken to Professor Flitwick only this morning about the need to punish those other boys, she can just imagine why Knox is now stuck in a cupboard with what is apparently a disturbingly strong resemblance to Trevor... Her experience with the man this morning reinforces her conclusion, he may mean well, in fact, he probably does, but his handling leaves something to be desired.
In fact, his handling of things is part of the problem. There had been incidents in the past where Luna's things had gone... walkabout. Nargles, she'd always blamed Nargles. Luna may be... Well she's definitely unusual, but whatever else she's far from stupid. If she hadn't turned to Professor Flitwick for help before now, there were probably reasons for that. After his indelicate approach to Hermione's situation this week, she can't honestly say she disagrees with that assessment. Which leaves her wondering how to - at least try to - solve this without making things worse in the process.
She doesn't have an answer.
It feels like that's happening all too often of late.
If she was sad to hear her friend was being bullied, the realisation there's nothing to be done about it just makes her sadder yet, and after the week she's had, it's all becoming a little much. She curls up in the self warming comforter, lovely sure, but somehow not as... comforting as the one from Madam Pomfrey, and tries not to give in to tears. She's just tired is all. Tired and maybe hormonal and just feeling a little weepy. That's it.
It's not as if the situation warranted it...
Sunny, keeping careful watch on his witch, nods, satisfied. He couldn't say he's quite pleased with events - not that he'd say anything at all, but if he were to - no, he isn't pleased. 'Satisfied' describes the situation perfectly.
He's sorry she's sad, truly he is, but the sooner the Master realises his responsibility here, the better. Things are coming along just as they need to, the little elf is sure.
Soon, soon the Master will be home. He knows this, naturally, because as an eminently competent house elf, he's checked on him as well. Sunny settles in to wait for him, Disillusioned on the fireplace mantle, until he feels the telltale ripple in his wards.
Still, he's rather proud of himself when he doesn't cave and bring the witch the blanket again.
Re: Are you ok?
Date: 2020-01-01 02:45 pm (UTC)Hoping you're both well. Oh, yes, toasting emoji would have been good... lol