No Exit From Hogwarts
by The Scribe
Warning: Existential Alert! Existential Alert! If you value sane thinking and sound logic, this is your cue to leave. If not, I recommend some Advil and a penchant for masochism.
Disclaimer: Hogwarts and all of its inmates are the creation and property of J.K. Rowling. The plot of No Exit was the creation and property of J.P. Sartre, but he's been pushing up daisies for so long I figured he'd appreciate the added exercise that rolling in his grave'll give 'im. At least it's a change.
Notes: Thank you Arabella for your excellent advice, which was never more needed than for this story. Set in Book Four...kinda...you'll see. Not really an AU fic. It could happen. g I guess it's an R/H fic. Wow. Cool. I didn't mean for it to have a ship. No fluff, though. Sorry.
Act One: Ron Weasley and the Silence of the Lanterns
The ceiling of the Great Hall was black. Not 'It's a moonless night' black. Or even a 'Goddam, if it ain't cloudy, Liza Manelli don't need a nose job' black. It was more of a 'is this outer space, or is there just no sky?' kind of darkness.
It was also impressively silent. The jack-o-lanterns from last night's Halloween feast were still perched high on the mantles of the huge, empty stone fireplaces, but the light had gone out of them too, leaving black eye sockets like those of a mummified skull, imperfectly preserved in some dank pirate's cavern or long-forgotten Egyptian booby trap. Hermione would undoubtedly have found them fascinating.
But Hermione wasn't there. No one was there, even though the old wizard clock, a relic left by one of Rowena Ravenclaw's descendents years ago — before the lines of the four Hogwarts founders had been obscured by time and marriage — had just struck lunch time.
The stillness that blanketed what was usually the busiest room in the castle felt unnatural. Wrong. Like Colin Creevey sitting placidly in a Gryffindor armchair while Harry Potter handed out splinters of his old Nimbus 2000. The empty chairs that flanked the long tables of the four houses stood at attention, like soldiers at a military funeral.
In short, something was rotten in Hogwarts.
Expectation wafted like Trelawney's stale perfume through the empty Hall, waiting, stifling, choking for something to happen.
It didn't take long.
The jack-o-lanterns' eyes kindled malevolently and the mammoth doors swung open like – well – like magic.
A tall, thin man, with an undertaker's quiet and conciliatory manner, slowly entered, flanked by a flustered, red-faced, slightly confused wizard, whose ears flushed a deeper shade of vermilion than his face or his flaming hair.
"Here you are, Mr. Weasley." the grave man gestured politely to a seat at the top of the Ravenclaw table.
"I'm a Gryffindor," Ron replied distractedly, heading over to his accustomed seat. Only to feel a cold hand on his arm, gently but insistently arresting his movement.
"We're past all that now," said the man. His voice resonated strangely in the corners of Ron's memory, as if the younger wizard had heard it somewhere before. He led Ron to the blue-clothed table, holding out a chair for him to sit in. Ron did as he was told without further protest.
After a minute or two of silence, Ron spoke up, voicing an observation he hadn't realized he'd made.
"This isn't Hogwarts."
"What makes you say that?" the man inquired.
"I dunno... I guess it's just... not. No one's here and it's too, uh... quiet, I s'pose..." He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. When he took his hand back down the sweat that covered it reflected the flickering flames from the pumpkins that provided the only light.
"'S really hot." He finished lamely.
After another short silence, the man smiled.
"You are a very intelligent young man, Mr. Weasley. And you are correct. This is not Hogwarts. And it is rather hot."
This somehow did not comfort Ron. He fidgeted nervously.
"Where are we, then? How did we get here? The last thing I remember is the feast... I think...I...it's all confused."
"You're the first here," the usher replied, ignoring the question. "The others will be arriving shortly."
Ron opened his mouth to ask who the 'others' were, but the man cut him off.
"If you need anything," he said calmly. "Use this." He curled his fingers into a loose fist, rotated his hand, then flicked it out, exposing a small, silver bell resting on his palm.
"How did you...." Ron gaped, searching for a wand.
"But I must warn you," the man continued, handing him the bell. "My bells have been known to malfunction." And he walked away, pulling the giant doors closed behind him.
Ron jumped up from his seat at Ravenclaw table and ran to the doors. He tried the handles; they didn't budge. Resting his back against them, he rubbed a hand across his sweaty forehead. The lanterns flickered silently and watched him slide to the floor.
Act Two: Hermione, Queen of... Which House Again?
"I demand to know who you are." The calm, assertive voice rang like a siren in the ear Ron was resting dejectedly against the heavy door.
"Hermione," He whispered. Then, shaking his head, he jumped to his feet, shouting at the top of his voice and pounding the dark wood with sudden, fist-bruising hope. "Hermione! Help! Let me outta here!"
"Ron?" the reply was muffled by his frantic yells. Ron was concentrating all of his strength into pulling on the wrought-iron handles. They still didn't move.
"Hermione!" He yelled again. He couldn't even hear her answer. He reached automatically for his wand, realizing with a frustrated groan that he didn't have one. "Alohomora!" he screamed, kicking the door and stubbing all five of his toes.
He fell back to lean against the nearest table, Hufflepuff, so he could check the damage. No sooner had he left the flagstones that circled the entrance, however, than the huge doors swung easily open, admitting the usher and a very pretty, if slightly bushy-haired, fourteen-year-old witch. Ron was too stunned to make a break for the open passage.
"Hermione," he said hoarsely.
"Yes, I know my name, and I heard you the first time – when you were bellowing it like a maniac and probably waking the whole castle! What they'll imagine we were doing, I don't even want to contemplate."
A little pink "oh" was all that could be seen of Ron's mouth. He was just about to answer when she caught her breath.
"And what are you doing out of bed this late? Traipsing around in the invisibility cloak with Harry, I supp—"
"Like you've never 'traipsed!'"
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded indignantly.
"I dunno, why don't you ask the Daily Prophet? I'm sure Rita Skeeter would love to spell it out!" he shot back, forgetting his fear in the familiar rush of battle.
"Ron Weasley!" she screeched, balling her hands into fists at her sides, "Harry, you had just better be standing between us, because if I get my hands on him, I'll—"
"Now, now," said the usher placidly, gliding a gentle hand onto
each of their shoulders. "There will be plenty of time for discussions." He lifted a finger from Hermione's shoulder and a yellow-draped chair immediately slid out from the head of Hufflepuff table.
"Thank you," she said politely, stepping back. "But I'll just head over to my House table—"
"You're very welcome," was the cheerful reply. "But slightly mistaken. This is your House table."
Act Three: In Which All Hell Breaks Loose
Ron snorted. He couldn't help it. The blood of Fred and George did run through his veins, after all; he knew a good joke when he came across it.
Of course, there wasn't a worse thing he could have done.
Hermione went pink.
"And what do you find so funny?" she asked, with narrow eyes.
"N-nothing," he choked, through tightly closed lips that quivered ever-so-slightly with the threat of laughter.
"I'll have you know, I'm just as much a Gryffindor as you!"
"There's no doubt about that, Miss Granger," the usher interjected. "You are quite as suited to Gryffindor as Mr. Weasley. But that isn't really the question at hand. You're 'just as much' of a Slytherin as he is, too. None at all. What you should contemplate is whether he is as Hufflepuff as you, or you are as Ravenclaw as he."
"Why should I contemplate that? It's a moot point. We're both Gryffindors; that's where the Sorting Hat put us. That means we are not Hufflepuffs, we are not — wait. Did you just say he's a Ravenclaw?"
"Yes, I did," smiled the usher.
There was a brief silence.
Hermione's scream was loud enough to wear the echoes out.
Then she got a hold of herself. She took a deep breath, and smiled pleasantly, almost too pleasantly. "I know," she continued with a sudden smile. "This is a nightmare."
The usher gave her a strange look. Turning away, he muttered something that sounded like "Closer than you think, my dear..." Raising his voice, he continued. "I must leave you, I'm terribly sorry. If you have need of me — Mr. Weasley, I believe you still have my bell?"
"Huh?" Ron's ears were still ringing from Hermione's wail. "Uh... yeah," he replied, his eyes falling on a small glimmer of silver on the stones by the door.
"Good evening, then," called the usher, not turning as he walked out of the doors that flew open at his approach. They slammed shut behind him with a cold finality that made the two fourth-years shiver, despite the unnatural heat.
To Be Continued. . .
* * * * * *
Send e-mail to THE TENDO DOJO @aol.com
Or you might find yourself in a room warmer place than Ron...
And look out for Act Four: Harry Gets Things Sorted Out.