Summary: "The problem here, professor Dumbledore, is that you keep wondering what my position on the board is. I started off as your pawn, then at some point I became a useful bishop; but suddenly you see yourself wondering if I might not just be the black queen." Hermione looked at him then, and smiled, "And what you don't realize is that we're not playing chess anymore."
Disclaimer: None of the characters in the Harry Potter universe belong to me. Any who are not mentioned in any of the books, do. I make absolutely no profit out of this (which is sad, because I really should be working right now)
Warnings:
- No Hermione/Pansy Femslash (as main couple. Some of their interactions might come close to being defined as such). They are just, both, the main characters.
- There will be (both heterosexual and) homosexual pairings, or in general homoerotic sexual innuendo. Might include mentions of open relationships.
- This work will contain non-consensual relations and mentions of rape, violence, torture, gore-ish details, and murder.
- This work will explore the darkness within each of its characters. I do not approve of many of their actions. Anything written here is from their point of view, and therefore not necessarily my own opinion. It's not my intention to romanticize or justify any of their actions.
Setting: This starts a few days after the beginning of the sixth book.
Last Edit: 13.01.2019 – Minor grammar corrections
Coven. Ch. 1: Book
"The Coven is to the witch as the wand is to any wizard: the means to bring out her true power to its culmination."
Hermione frowned and closed the book, checking the cover once more. In golden, almost faded letters, stood the words "The Coven", and nothing else. She had assumed the name of the author had been eroded with time, as it was obviously an old tome, but now she started to suspect it might have never been there at all.
As far as she knew, covens were a muggle, misguided concept. They had never existed, and the only purpose the word had ever served had been to condemn women –generally muggle– to die burning at the pyre. She had been thrilled to find a reference to them in a book in the Hogwarts library, and had assumed it would be a proper analysis of muggle and wizarding history, possibly related to the Salem Witch Trials. Merlin knew it was something purebloods loved to use against anyone promoting muggle-wizarding relations.
However, this old volume seemed to be some sort of serious description of a coven, which as far as she knew, was utter bullshit. If something such as covens existed, they would have been mentioned, at least, in history class. Not to mention, the missing author's name on the cover… Not a book to be taken seriously. It must be somebody's private property, having ended in a shelf without the approval of Madame Pince, by some sort of mistake.
She opened it again at random, not even checking the page, and read another sentence.
"It is through blood that the Coven is truly tied, it being the link between flesh and soul, the true connection between the cores of the sisters."
Hermione's brows went up as she read further. Was it saying that covens were made by true, biological sisters? Well, who cared – whatever the book implied, it clearly did not belong in the history section. She took it and headed for the entrance, intending to bring it to Madam Pince's attention either to be reclassified or properly disposed of.
As she turned around, a sharp sob drew her attention, and she was faced with the unwelcome mug of Pansy Parkinson. She had just come out from behind some shelves, rather dishevelled, quickly making her way without looking, headed straight for Hermione.
"Hey!" she drew her attention in order to avoid a collision. Parkinson halted in surprise, her eyes widening in horror. Upon realizing it was Hermione, her expression quickly morphed into a familiar sneer, and she went on her way. However, Hermione's harsh gasp made her falter, and her question stalled her. "What happened to you?" she asked, too surprised to stop herself from speaking.
Parkinson blushed furiously, and snapped harshly "It's none of your fucking business, mudblood."
The slur stung, as always, but Hermione could see she was merely lashing out, mortified at being seen in such a state, specially by her. "Who did this to you?" Hermione insisted. Now that they were facing each other, she was certain someone had struck Parkison –quite hard– on the face.
As Parkinson seemed about to snap again – probably say something even more hurtful, perhaps in hopes it would deter her questioning – Malfoy came out from behind the same obscuring shelves, and stopped at the sight of them. After a heart-beat of awkward, three-party silence, he glared at them both of and kept on, as if he had not just been caught by Hermione in an obviously incriminating situation.
"Did Malfoy hit you?" The thought was preposterous. Parkinson had always followed him around in adoration – was their relationship not good? Hermione's mind drifted to her mother's texts on abused women, trying to find an analogous with Parkinson's situation.
Parkinson, however, had gone even redder. While Hermione was momentarily distracted comparing behavioural patterns, the girl drew her wand and pointed it at her. The speed and precision of her movements were not something she would have thought the rather lazy Slytherin girl capable of. Hermione let out a strangled "eeep" and quickly ducked to dodge the blasting curse that had been aimed at her head.
In a second, the furious, hellish shriek coming straight from the depths of Madame Pince's throat made them both halt – Parkinson in the middle of throwing some other curse at her, herself with her wand already in hand in order to retaliate. They turned around at the same time, faced the angry woman, scraps of pages from the books that had been behind Hermione dancing all around them.
Parkinson had been caught mid-spell, and so she did not even bother to feign innocence. But Hermione had already started to look up to the woman hopefully, truthfully scared about almost losing her head all of a sudden, when she was completely interrupted.
"What were you thinking!" she shrieked again. "Fighting like this! You're not at an age where you'll cast a silly expelliarmus, huh? This is real duelling we're talking about!" she said, pointing at the gaping hole Parkinson had left right above her head. "And in the Library!" she waved at the mess all around them, voice shriller, clearly considering that the worst amongst their infraction. "I'm extremely disappointed," she said, fixing her gaze on Hermione, "I didn't expect such actions from any of you two."
Right now, the both of you will repair all the books you damaged and settle them impeccably in their rightful places! I do not care if you miss dinner, I do not care if it takes you the whole night, and I definitely do not care whether you think it's unfair!" she finished, thunderously.
"But I didn't do anything!" Hermione protested – she had been the victim. Madame Pince took one look at Parkinson's very red cheekbone, which was certain to turn a beautiful violet come morning, and seemed unconvinced. She looked at Hermione warningly and, after a final glare, just turned around and stormed off.
Parkinson smirked smugly at her, and Hermione just frowned and pointed at her own cheek, raising an eyebrow. That made her glare once more. They shared a couple minutes of indignant, angry silence, before any of them took action.
"We just better get this whole mess fixed soon, I don't feel like starving tonight." Hermione suggested, opting to be the adult in the situation.
She turned to the books and looked at the scene, troubled. Where to start? The little bits and pieces were all mixed up. What was a good spell for that? A sorting spell, then a reparo? Would that be enough? What if Parkinson had damaged some of them beyond repair?
"Why should I clean this, like some ordinary house-elf?" Parkinson complained, looking down on the paper scraps as if they had personally offended her.
"Well, firstly, because you are the reason we're stuck here; having made all this mess while trying to kill me" she emphasized, already irked at her attitude. She just got an eye-roll. "And, secondly, because if you don't help me, I certainly have some nice blackmail material to use against you."
Parkinson gasped indignantly, bringing and extended palm to the centre of her chest, "You wouldn't!" she exclaimed, but clearly cared enough to be fearful of the possibility. She dramatically huffed, and got down to look at their problem herself, grimacing as if it physically hurt her to succumb to such a plebeian task.
After half an hour of frustrating results they discovered that the only way to reconstruct something so very small and so very well mixed, was to treat it as a whole – as a fluid. The right spell got them a nice pile of the millions of pieces. After that, Parkinson actually made herself useful by suggesting a spell to separate different densities; parchment always turned out slightly different when made, and therefore each page should be separable if they casted with enough precision. Hermione reluctantly admitted it was a good idea, and her to the separation, while she tried to repair the pages one by one.
Setting all the pages back into the right order, into the right book, and with the right cover, would require a few hours of actual reading, at which Parkinson audibly groaned.
"Granger, what do you think this is?" she asked, after three hours had passed between purely professional comments related to their work, and almost no disrespectful insults. Hermione turned around and looked at the ornate and elongated crystal. It looked like some kind of ornamental element, roughly shaped like a wand, with a multitude of engraved details and small, pointy adorns. She reached for it, wondering if it could have fallen from a chandelier, and if they were expected to repair that too. But, as her hand settled upon Parkinson's, the other girl gasped and moved away so fast she roughly cut both of them with the crystal piece, its weird shape scraping against her fingers, making blood drops fly all around.
"What the hell?" Hermione yelled, after a high-pitched cry, bringing the bleeding wound in her finger to her lips. Parkinson was doing the exact same thing, hateful glare back in place.
"Don't touch me, you filth!" she venomously yelled, eyes wide open and looking horrified.
Hermione flushed red with rage at that, and spat back, "I may be filth, Parkinson, but at least no man could ever dream to backhand me like that and live to tell the tale!" She knew she would hurt her more going after her pride.
Parkinson snarled and showed her teeth, going after her wand again, but this time Hermione was already pointing hers at her, breathing heavily, and that made her stop, impotent.
"You think yourself so much better than me," she growled, frustrations accumulated through years of unfairness suddenly piling up, "but what are you good for? You'll be used as coin, Parkinson. Your father will trade you to get himself some good business deal, and then? You'll belong to another man," she told her, and enjoyed the way the girl flinched. Her chest felt warm, filled with rage. "Whatever you learn here at Hogwarts, whatever you think, or feel, or want; it doesn't matter. It won't ever matter!" She enjoyed the following words with a sweet kind of cruelty she did not know she owned. "One day you'll be packed away to some man – a violent one, maybe? Twice your age? Didn't that happen to Farley?" She had heard the Slytherin girls lamenting the prefect's luck. She had felt sympathy for her, but now she only wanted to hurt Parkinson. Hurt her, hurt her, hurt her. "Who cares – you will have to smile, and spread your legs, and breed like the cow you are." She realized she was shaking with rage, unable to control herself. "So don't fuck with me, Parkinson. Smile, be pretty, and shut your trap; like you're supposed to do."
Parkinson just stared at her, so still she might actually be seeing through her, and then suddenly stood, disregarding her pointed wand, and left the room with an indignant stomping, the glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Hermione woke up suddenly to the sound of her alarm spell, briefly disoriented. She usually woke with the morning light in a much more pleasant and gradual way, but, she remembered, she had gone to bed quite late the night before.
She groggily sat up and drew the curtains, receiving a surprised look from Parvati, who was already taking her bag and heading for breakfast.
"Hermione, it's not like you to wake up so late" she commented, worried.
Hermione smiled softly – out of all her roommates, Parvati was the best to wake up to. They were not the best of friends, but five years of companionship had developed into at least some mutual respect, very different from the shared contempt during their first years.
"Parkinson." She groaned, as everything slowly came back to her. "Blew up a book-shelf trying to blow up my head, and actually got me detention along with her," she complained, standing up and heading for the bathroom. She had better hurry, or she would have to skip breakfast, along with the previous night's dinner.
Parvati gave her a sympathetic look, and offered, "Just take your time here. I'll grab you something and you can eat it right before Transfigurations."
"Thanks, Parvati. But I actually had to give up dinner yesterday, and if I don't eat something substantial I might not make it to lunch. I'll just head down without a shower, my hair be damned."
Parvati furrowed her brows at the mention of no dinner, being absolutely unable to skip a meal. In her position, she would have passed by the kitchens and begged the elves for something, even if it meant going to bed even later.
Parvati left after assuring her she would save her something just in case, and Hermione tried not to look at her impossible bed hair too much while in the bathroom. Lavender would certainly snicker all day long; but Harry and Ron would not even notice, and at least now Parvati had her back. She could count on her to scold Lavender for being a superficial, immature bint.
She went back into the room to dress, catching sight of the two empty beds by the window. Sally-Anne and Mandy had not come back that year. She had only ever maintained a cordial relationship with her other roommates, but the knowledge that some people were pulling their kids out of school now that they knew Voldemort was back worried her.
She could finally head down for breakfast – heavenly, ambrosial breakfast – her stomach rumbling audibly. She was starving. She turned to pick her books, and The Book fell from her bag. She grimaced. After being harshly scolded by Madame Pince, she had completely forgotten about the thing, and collected it along with her stuff. Meaning, she had taken it from the library without appropriately checking it out… She would have to smuggle it back in. Well, she should wait a few days, until she stopped feeling the hawk-like gaze of that woman crawling down her neck.
Breakfast was a quiet, fast affair. Harry and Ron were still cross with her for actually worrying about them blindly following some handwritten instructions in a book. Like, handwritten! They did not even know who the book belonged to! It was crazy. Oh, but did they listen? No. It must just mean she was jealous they were doing better than her, as Ronald had kindly suggested. She snorted, alone in her bench, everyone already heading for class. They were not doing better than her, she rationalized; someone else was doing better than her. They just copied. Well, monkeys could copy too, and that did not make them smarter than her.
She grumbled grouchily all the way to Transfigurations, deciding she would sit as far away from them as humanly possible. They did not get to be mad at her – she was mad at them, the irresponsible dolts.
McGonagall was almost spelling the doors shut when she rushed in, raising a thin eyebrow at her lateness, and perhaps showing a slight hint of worry. It was, after all, unusual for her to not be sitting first-row twenty minutes before the class started.
At her late entry, a few students turned around curiously, Parkinson amongst them. She sneered, all crunched-up pug-face, and caressed her own soft, straight, black hair; a clear mocking gesture. Hermione just rolled her eyes at her, not caring much what she thought. Still, she could not help but notice that her face was neither coloured nor swollen. She did not think, for a second, that Parkinson had gone to Madame Pomfrey's for help – she was way too proud. So, was she that good with healing spells? Or was it makeup and a glamour? That last option, she thought, ought to fall al lot better within Parkinson's skill set. Still, it was awfully well done, she had to admit.
She sat down at the back, next to one of the few remaining Hufflepuff girls, who she recalled was named Garcia. She glanced at her, curious. She was focused in some sort of arithmantic calculations, scribbling in a notebook – her rather short, dark, curly hair bouncing sharply with her quick movements – despite the Transfigurations class having clearly started.
Professor McGonagall had conjured mirrors for everyone, starting them on the practice of human transfiguration. It was an incredibly complex subject, and Hermione had only just barely managed to change the colour of one of her eyebrows the previous week.
She focused on the lecture, trying to ignore how her new benchmate was disregarding the professor. She gave the transfiguration a first try and, surprisingly, succeeded with ease. She blinked, her two eyebrows now a bright shade of red – red was easy to spot even if she only managed a slight tinting – despite not having practiced even once since her last try. She was so stunned she almost forgot to feel proud.
However, most surprising of all, were Professor McGonagall's words.
"Miss Parkinson!" she exclaimed, drawing attention of the whole class. "This is perfect work," she continued, trying to sound less surprised and more praising, as she had not quite managed with her initial outburst, "Ten points to Slytherin. You shall move on to trying to change your hair colour now."
Hermione frowned and completely stopped her practice. Parkinson had gotten it too? She could not remember having ever seen her get a good mark in Transfigurations, and had assumed she was only following Malfoy blindly into the class – she was certainly untalented. Still, she had almost beaten her to mastering the most complex Transfiguration spell she had ever performed. No wonder Professor McGonagall had almost shrieked in surprise.
To be honest, Parkinson herself looked the most surprised of all, staring at the mirror as if she had not even heard the Gryffindor Head of House actually awarding a Slytherin ten points. Nott had to shake her and repeat Professor McGonagall's instructions. He, too, looked completely dumbfounded; the most readable expression Hermione had ever seen in his usually impassive visage. Close to her, she heard someone say it must have been a fluke.
You did not just perform such complex spells by fluke.
By the end of the class, both her and Parkinson had managed to change colour and overall texture of their hair, to the absolute amazement of their professor. She looked bemused, even, at Hermione's success; so she could only imagine what she was feeling about Parkinson.
Next to her, Garcia had actually stopped her scribbling – which looked nonsensical to her – and succeeded in changing the colour of her eyebrows by a considerable amount. That seemed to be what Professor McGonagall expected of anyone, at most, during that class. She looked so relieved that she actually pretended not to notice what the other girl had been working on.
Pansy sat next to Theo, again, in Charms that afternoon. He was still looking at her like she might suddenly lose the effect of a Polyjuice potion and become someone else. She was sure that would have actually put him at ease.
To be honest, she did not quite understand what had happened that morning. Her cheek still hurt badly, even if she had managed to mask it to perfection, and she had trouble focusing. She had tried extra hard that morning – Hey, it might help distract herself from the pain, right? – but that surely could not be reason enough to explain her success.
She had tried truly hard in Transfigurations once, during her first years, before realizing and later on accepting she had no talent for it. It was fine, really. She was good at Potions and Care of Magical Creatures – even if she had not taken it for the NEWT level classes. It was not what was expected of a proper pureblood young lady – and had only taken McGonagall's subject because she needed to take at least five. At least one more than Millie, or it would be too humiliating. Also, Draco was taking it.
At Charms, she was usually better, but non-verbal spells just gave her a headache. Also, seeing Granger succeed time and time again before her was mortifying. She held the hope that, someday, she would be discovered to be an abandoned pureblood bastard and everything would fall back into place.
Next to her, Theodore managed the non-verbal summoning charm – mostly; his feather approached him slowly and erratically – and looked quite satisfied. She frowned and tried to focus again, feeling unusually rested after having exerted herself so harshly in Transfigurations that morning. She intensely pronounced the spell in her head and moved her wand carefully, pushing her magic out.
She yelped. Her feather actually accelerated dramatically and rushed forward, straight into her face. Luckily, it was light, and it harmlessly crushed itself against her forehead without damage.
The yelp drew, once again, attention from the whole class. Theodore stared, so white he looked like he might faint; which she would have found hilarious had she not been scared shitless herself. What in Merlin's name was going on?
She was not that good, and she knew it.
Behind her, Draco was also staring, looking rather sullen. Well, that she did find satisfactory. Yes, she had always been simpering around him – he did like it – but she was enraged at having been hit in such a manner. A gentleman did not strike a lady, no matter what; and Pansy was a lady.
Granger could say all she wanted, and while some of it had hit a bit too close to home – the remarks about her father, she could have done without – there was no way she would ever let any husband of hers beat her. Blaise's mother had managed to escape a marriage unscathed seven times, and she would manage once, if necessary.
Flitwick awarded her points again, and gave some advice on controlling the intensity of the spell. On the last row, Granger seemed to have succeeded without a hitch – of course – and she considered the oddity of being congratulated before the little know-it-all. Pansy was a proud woman, but she was not stupid. Granger received recognition later because she was favouring the last row of the class as of late, which hid her from the professors' view.
She turned around and noticed Saint Potter and the Weasel seemed to be ignoring her again – it happened about once per year, more or less. She knew because it was generally the best time of the year to mess with Granger. She surely felt self-confident enough to tell Pansy she was letting her father walk all over her, but she seemed to be doing no better. How easy, to see the faults in others! After all, it was true that Granger had no breed, but at least the woman was supposed to be smart. Certainly, she should be able to notice she could do better than those two, even if it had to be among those of her own class.
She shuddered slightly at remembering their contact, skin to skin, the previous night. How frightening, she had thought, that touching one of them would feel so weirdly normal. She had been startled at that soft, warm contact. She looked down at her hand, her finger slightly sore after her very rudimentary healing spell – which had worked better than expected, actually – and wondered at her own reaction. Her mother had always told her they were rough to the touch, much as their manners were, and cold like the Manor's stones in winter. She frowned at that thought. Well, her mother also believed you could not successfully brew potions while on that time of the month, so…
She looked up to Granger again, thoughtfully. She was sitting next to some Hufflepuff, another mudblood, whose name she certainly had never bothered to learn. The girl was not even pretending to follow the lesson. In fact, Granger was glaring at her, as if burning with the desire to chastise her conduct. Pansy sniggered; how very much like her.
"Pansy," Theo called her attention, "how on Merlin's name did you manage to make the movement so smooth?" he asked, looking rather desperate. Pansy frowned, partly because it was the first time ever he had asked her for advice – on something unrelated to fashion – and partly because she actually had no idea.
"It just did," she shrugged. "I just focused intensely, that's all. Kind of pushed my magic out."
Theo frowned, looking unconvinced, and kept on trying. He would probably get it right with just a bit more practice. Her easy success, though, frustrated him.
Hermione threw herself onto her bed, having had the weirdest day. She just could not believe Parkinson had gotten so many spells right before herself. Not that the girl was the dead last of the class, but she was definitely average in most lessons. That had been frustrating. After all, the only thing she had going for her in the wizarding world was her obvious talent; it was only that, she could brandish in order to defend her right to be there.
Lavender entered the room, just barely glancing in her direction, and headed for the bathroom. Hermione followed her movement distractedly, still replaying the events of her classes. She remembered how Parkinson's feather had bolted speedily, as if she had somehow been given an extra burst for the day. She snorted at the thought. Magic did not work that way.
"Coven?" Lavender asked a while later, curiously looking at the book. Hermione started at that, having completely forgotten about her. "Why are you reading that? Covens are, like, the silliest old tales."
"What? You mean, they exist?" Hermione exclaimed, sitting up. Lavender gave her a look that clearly insulted her mental health, and so she amended, "No, I mean, I know they don't.
But, are they a legend in the wizarding world too?"
"Of course! Like, what all grandmas scare kids with. Course, it's just a lie, like when they say muggles will come to steal your teeth if you don't brush them."
"They say what?" Hermione cried out, indignantly. No wonder wizards were so very prejudiced! Lavender just rolled her eyes and swung her hand around, as if dismissing her concerns. Hermione fumed. Her roommate correctly identified her expression of rightful indignation and quickly escaped into the Common Room.
She laid back down and stared at the wooden mattress base frame above her, which had always remained unoccupied. The work that needed to be done in order to change the wizarding world's view on muggles and muggleborns was just appalling in its immensity.
Still, she forced herself to drop the topic and go back to what Lavender had said. Covens were apparently wizarding folklore too; which was extremely curious. After all, every element of muggle folklore she had ever come around, had an origin in a real magical entity. This was the first time she was coming across something that was legend in both worlds. How very interesting! Where could it have its origin? She would have to investigate it!
Her first instinct was to stand and go tell Harry and Ron – even when they most likely would have just pretended to be listening while she went on and on – but quickly remembered they were at Quidditch practice. The whole Qudditch thing was incredibly annoying. Not only had Ron gotten completely mad at her, for her involvement in confunding Cormac, but he was also snapping at her too often, as of late.
Whatever was causing Ron's bad mood – probably jealousy again; he never dealt well with Harry's success – her insistence they stopped using the damned second-hand Potions book had not helped.
Suddenly feeling lonely, she took her wand and dealt with the lack of company in her usual fashion. Even if it felt quite silly, it did help her.
"Avis," she whispered softly, waved her wand around precisely, and smiled as the birds started coming out of thin air one after the other. As she reached seven, and then ten, she smiled at her success – her previous record was six at once – though it quickly turned into a frown as more and more birds appeared near the tip of wand. She had not given the charm enough push to create that many! That might leave her completely spent!
Incessant chirping filled the room as some thirty to forty tiny, yellow birds flew around her happily, the sheer amount of them overwhelming. She panicked at the display of such chaotic movement, noise everywhere, and she hurried to yell "evanesco!" The sudden silence was so deafening it startled her. She stopped herself in time – she had been ready to cast again; her subconscious knowing she should not be able to vanish so many at once. Rationally, though, if she had conjured them all at once in the first place, it was to be expected.
She frowned, confused. She knew she should not have been able to do that. With frequent usage of magic came a rather instinctual knowledge of one's capabilities. She stared at her wand, slowly recovering her breath. What the hell was going on?
She was not that good, and she knew it.
Whatever the hell was going on kept going on, for at least a week. Hermione reached her room every afternoon and, when she had a moment to herself, cast the bird conjuring spell again. She put her all into it every time, very consciously keeping all variables the same, as she just knew there was something going on. Her magic was overflowing, and she had started to notice it in every class. What was more curious in all of that, it had just started suddenly, one day. Had she had some sort of awakening? She had never seen any reference to a sudden increase of magical prowess – and she had checked the library extensively during the past week – in the level of days.
Another very curious effect was the fact that, while she had managed to cast between thirty to forty birds on her first try, the following day she had counted thirty-one, followed by twenty-nine, twenty-five, twenty-one, nineteen and fifteen. In the passage of one week, she had lost about half of that weird new push she had. She could not help but wonder if there truly was something wrong with her. Was that sort of magic spike normal?
She had been musing about that all day, and when Charms class came around, she had to stifle a surprised gasp when Flitwick began teaching them the 'avis' charm. Thankfully, he had not decided to teach it the prior week! That would have been completely disastrous. While all teachers knew Hermione prepared ahead for all classes, she had a feeling that conjuring about forty birds on her first official try would draw way too much attention. Whatever was wrong with her, it was clearly passing; better to not mention it. If it was a weird occurrence, people like Malfoy might take the chance to accuse her of something crazy, like stealing magic from "true" wizards.
The previous night she had managed fifteen at her maximum effort, so she would most likely get something around twelve. It might be wise to try and control herself in order to produce two or three. Anything else might be suspicious.
She focused. Now that her total available magical power kept on changing, her control was slipping. Very carefully she repeated the familiar movements and, as she raised her head, she saw five birds floating around. She frowned. Had she miscalculated again? She should be getting the hang of it, after a week of guessing at her current power level.
"Hey, hey," Garcia said next to her, "two of them are mine, you know?" she pointed out. She seemed offended that Hermione has considered them all hers.
"Oh!" she managed, more relieved than anything else. "I didn't think you would bother trying," she excused herself, and too late realized she had said something quite rude.
Garcia raised one dark eyebrow. Her brown eyes shone bright, slight smirk on her lips. "Now, why would you think so?" she drawled in a mocking way that reminded her of Snape. She seemed to find her comment amusing.
Hermione blushed, embarrassed, but knowing herself to be in the right. "Well – To be honest, for a Hufflepuff, you don't seem very hard-working."
Hey, the girl had asked.
Garcia had the nerve to actually scoff at that. She slapped a hand on her chest in a dry thump, dramatically opening her eyes. "Are you implying I'm not a good, sweet, hard-working Huffly-Puff?" she laughed. "Of course I work hard, Minnie, just – only when I care about the subject." She shrugged, unapologetic.
"Did you just call me Minnie?" she exclaimed hotly. She could not believe the gall of the girl, who she actually considered a stranger.
Whatever response she was going to give was interrupted by the loud chirping of a flock of seven or eight birds flying around Pansy Parkinson. Garcia let out a loud whistle, "Parkinson's on fire lately" she commented conversationally, and then went back to her unintelligible arithmancy.
Well, she was right, Hermione had to admit.
Parkinson turned around and their gazes met. She was the one who had been caught staring, rather intensely, but for some reason Parkinson was the one who was white – she grimaced and quickly turned back to look down at her desk.
Why look so anxious? She had conjured more birds than Hermione, shouldn't she be gloating? Even if she had been repressing her magic, her "normal state" maximum had been six, which was actually less than…
And then it hit her.
Parkinson was on fire. What she had been doing since exactly a week before had not been normal. Transfigurations, Charms, Defence… Those three subjects were definitely not Parkinson's forte, and yet she had been excelling at them. Actually, now that she thought about it, she herself had also managed very easily to change her hair colour in that first Transfiguration class, right after Parkinson.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Whatever was wrong with her, it was wrong with Parkinson too.
Pansy flicked her wand impatiently, and the feather hovered slightly on her bed before falling once again, having barely moved. She swallowed, holding back the tears that threatened to spill. It was going away. Whatever had been blessing her lately, that huge magic spike, was slowly decaying, and would probably end up disappearing.
She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When everyone else realized her newly achieved prowess was gone, it would be humiliating.
It was one thing to spend all her life being a rather average witch – she could compensate for that with her fashion sense and her class – but to excel academically for one week and then go back to average? That would be absolutely mortifying. Oh, she could already see the sneer in Draco's face, the quiet contempt in Theo's! Surely, they would assume she had been cheating.
She could not survive that. Not after having been demeaned so harshly by Draco barely a week before. She had to do something to get her magic back. But, how? She could only think of one solution, and it entailed the dreadful prospect of visiting the library. After carefully applying some glamours to hide her tears, which did not come as easily as they had the last time, she headed there.
If there was anything – forbidden or not – that would get her her skill back, she would find it.
Having said that, blindly searching for some sort of magic enhancing drug was certainly difficult. She dropped her head heavily on one of the numerous, useless books she had some across and sighed. She was not smart enough to understand all those arithmantical formulas, or the complexity of Magical Theory. She needed a bookworm friend, someone like Granger – she got the chills at the mere thought – who she could use to find information for her. She wished she had predicted that need during her first year; now it was too late to be nice to the know-it-alls she usually mocked.
Speaking of the Devil, that was Granger perusing the Magical Theory section, doubtlessly understanding everything she found in there. She snorted inelegantly – there was no one around who mattered – and followed her with her eyes. She was focused on the books, opening and quickly checking them with some spell that, she realized, must be searching for key words or some such. Damn, that must be useful!
Her gaze fell back to the table in which she had been sitting – there were at least fifteen open books on that one – and she was overtaken by curiosity. What was she reading about, perfect prefect Miss Granger? She stood and quietly made her way there, conscious she was just finding a silly excuse to stall researching about her impossible problem. She looked down at the girl's old, used bag – which could not have been pretty even when new – not without contempt, and judged her heavily on the cheap quills and parchment she was using.
She glanced at the open books, noticing there were a few words magically underlined. That must be the spell she had seen at work. Damn, how she wished she knew that one. However, her wishfulness quickly morphed into surprise, and then into incredulity.
Magical enhancement, magic spike, magic rush, magical fluctuation, fluctuating magic, magic decay, magic potentiation, increasing magic, …
Her heartrate seemed to slow as it dawned on her. Granger was usually brilliant, and so no one had noticed quite so clearly; but McGonagall had seemed surprised at her performance too, the very first day it had all started. And, that research topic clearly left no space for doubt.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. Whatever was wrong with her, it was wrong with Granger too.