Chapter 2A Deadly Assignment
The morning of the first day of school started in the same way as all the previous ones: hasty preparations, stationery suddenly gone missing and a peculiar whim of time to trot more briskly than ever before. At least that is how Harry felt about it at a time when betrayal was the last thing he and Ron needed: seconds before a Potions class.
"I'm afraid this year you'll have to abandon your persistent laziness at the door if you wish to make it to my NEWTs class."
Snape was in the middle of a decree when Harry and Ron skidded into the class, their bags slinging around the corner a second later. Snape and the rest of the class watched the flustered pair make a strict beeline for their seats. When the deafening scrapings of their chairs fell and they had taken out their stationery, Hermione seemed embarrassed to be sitting near them and called their friend.
"And I see we're finally graced by the presence of Mr Potter and Mr Weasley. Aren't we lucky," drawled Snape. He drilled his cold, dark pits into Harry, who held them without fail as he blindly arranged his things on the table and flipped his book onto the wrong page. "Detention, the both of you. Seven o'clock, in this classroom."
The Slytherins cackled. Hermione closed her eyes.
"You had just run into the middle a warning I was giving to the class that I should perhaps reiterate for your benefit. Or perhaps for the both of you, given your timely arrival, it's a lost cause," said Snape. He continued when the noises of amusement from the Slytherins subsided, "OWLs are one of the most crucial examinations you will ever write. I do hope, Mr Potter and Mr Weasley, that your tardiness is indicative of how serious you are to surviving this course—I might then have to deal with a class of few imbeciles, a mercy I have scarcely enjoyed at Hogwarts."
Harry was sure Snape was choosing his words carefully. Why would he need to survive Snape's course? Snape was staring at Harry again, his eyes, as usual, looking deadened and depthless. Snape slowly unfixed his gaze and turned it away onto the rest of the class.
"Your first assignment begins today... I beg your pardon. Do I hear an objection?" he asked with that murderously silky voice he sometimes used. There had been a surge of pained groans and incredulous mutters, loudest of which came from the Slytherins, who were no doubt outraged that Snape was dishing out assignments on the first day of term. Harry noticed Malfoy looking away from Snape and folding his arms in dissension. But the classroom fell quiet quickly.
"I did not think so," said Snape. He let the silence stretch for a moment, relishing it, and continued briskly, "So. You will compile for Monday the twenty-fifth, a twelve-page-" There was another wave of cautious but no less fuming murmurs. "-assignment on the Draught of Living Death, which you will thereafter make in class..."
"Draught of Living Death?" whispered Hermione in outrage. "That's a sixth-year spell! He's not allowed to teach it so early! We don't have the—we can't brew such a complex potion yet!"
"The definition of a bastard in my books," grumbled Ron. He then whispered back, "And aren't you supposed to be happy we're now going to be learning ahead of the lessons?"
Hermione grew even redder in indignation. "But that's mental! We can't do all that in three weeks!" She was beyond outraged now and frowning at Snape as though she thought him finally unhinged. Snape did have an unusually satisfied twist to his sullen features.
"I should warn you," Snape went on, "that an incredible amount has been written on Draught of Living Death. It is second only to Veritaserum in popularity among academics. You will have to do a considerable amount of studying to come up with an essay worthy of a pass mark. I should also warn you that this assignment carries ten percent of your final year mark."
"Ah. Phew," sighed Ron, wiping his brow and scoffing. "He made it out to be something like an exam. Nearly had me for a second there."
"I'm not even going to bother explaining it to you, Ronald," sighed Hermione, who in contrast looked sick.
"Miss Patil and Miss Lavender," said Snape as the class swivelled their heads in the direction of the pair, "I hope you're not busying yourselves with work from other teachers, or dare I say non-academic work at all." There was a swift noise of crushed parchment. "You may take out your textbooks," Snape ordered. "The instructions and criteria for the assignment are on the board." He waved his wand, whereupon his spidery scrawl appeared on the board, and headed for the door to his study with a lazily tossed instruction to the class to begin.
At the end of the period Hermione was fretting so much about the assignment that she seemed determined to keep a bad temper. It had been torture for Ron and Harry to familiarise themselves with new utensils and ingredients while Hermione reliably exploded at their slightest mispronunciation of a word.
"Congratulations! On the first day you managed to get detentions!" said Hermione as she stomped up the corridor. "That must be a record, even for you two."
"That bogey-eating prick!" Ron howled. "Can you believe him?"
"He was being rather lenient, if you ask-!" shot Hermione.
"I wasn't. Harry, do you believe the git?" fumed Ron, turning to someone who could match his indignation.
"Can't have expected anything else, I guess," growled Harry as satisfying images of Snape howling in pain flashed through his mind.
They met similar advice about their OWLs in their following classes, which depressed Harry.
Apart from the fact that they were writing OWLs this year, what was also unusual but far more baffling was the increasingly common sight of Malfoy surrounded by a pack of Slytherins who were competing for attention and a handshake from him. Harry, Ron and Hermione, as well as every other student at Hogwarts observed, as the week stretched on, that Malfoy was a hot topic among the Slytherins for some bizarre reason.
As this new adulation for Malfoy was obvious from the first day of school, whatever Malfoy had done to earn it and had the Slytherins lapping up Malfoy's every word and gesture, had happened in the summer. What is what, Harry simply could not fathom. He was certain of only one thing: there was a huge difference in how Malfoy was treated.
"Okay, what on earth is he so smug about?" said Hermione in a voice of genuine curiosity. She evidently could spot Malfoy's smirk from as far as the other end of the corridor. Malfoy, followed by his groupies, was coming towards them. When they drew near enough to make out Harry's, Ron's and Hermione's figures the corridor bulged with their jeering laughter. Malfoy was smirking the hugest smirk Harry had ever seen him smirk: the blond boy had never looked more proud of himself. It physically sickened Harry.
"Let's see how that Potter runt likes it, Draco," one Slytherin spat as the gang went loudly past them leering at Harry as they went past. The Slytherin who had spoken had an unbearably harsh laughter that made Harry's skin crawl.
"You'll have it in no time, Draco!" praised another Slytherin as he patted Malfoy's back.
"Fuck that, you'll be his favourite!" another declared.
Their rambling voices barely quieted as they moved further away. It was quite strange to see how Malfoy, one of the slightest and shortest of them all, commanded their fixation like a towering hero and had them so desperate to agree to anything he said.
"What makes him a Lockhart all of a sudden?" said Ron. "It's not like he got a Quidditch contract or something... did he?"
"I doubt it," snorted Harry. "Even Filch could run circles around him. If he's signed, it's probably with the Chudley Cannons." His brain had not been able to catch up to his tongue, and he realised what he had just done. He avoided Ron and struck up a breezy conversation with Hermione over him.
By dinner Ron had forgotten about it (Harry had relinquished some of his Dumbledore Chocolate Frogs, of which he had an excess anyway). After serving Snape's detention for an hour, he and Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower in sour moods which Hermione did not improve when she foiled their attempt to escape homework. She pulled out her trusty trump card: an ultimatum that she would not help them academically in the future if they did not buckle down. They were to write their OWLs that year, so Harry and Ron decided against sacrificing Hermione's assistance for one night's sleep. As a result they only managed to trudge up the stairs literally at the eleventh hour. They said goodnight to each before they dragged their curtains across their beds. Harry threw off his continental pillow and sunk into his bed, sighing deep into the sheets.
Two figures stood at a corner of a room cast in partial darkness. A fireplace cackled softly from the other end, throwing its dull, orange glow on a low coffee table. One of the figures stood with his hands behind his back. He had sweeping platinum hair that flowed over his shoulders and a pointy face. The other figure standing on the other side of the room paced back and forth before a window, upon which midnight darkness pressed. A wand twirled in his ghostly pale hands. The features of his face would be indistinguishable from the darkness of his hood were it not for the scarlet glow of his eyes.
"Your son, Lucius," said Voldemort, "looked startled at the gathering."
"My Lord, it was his first time ever to be graced by your presence," replied the other man.
"Is that all? You think he was shaken by the sight of me?"
"M—My Lord, your presence is impressive and-"
"Did he think I was hideous to behold?"
"He wouldn't dare! He didn't!"
"Are you confident in his conviction, Lucius?"
"I'm certain of it, yes, My Lord."
"Good," Voldemort hissed quietly, fingering the wand in his hands. "It's the kindest punishment I could put to you, Lucius. You know this."
"My Lord."
"I held that diary dear to me. It was worth six of your son's lives. You must only suffer for its loss. A loss which, worse still, was for your own gain. If your son is ready, there's nothing to worry about... Do you fear death, Lucius?"
"My Lord?" Lucius gulped.
"Death. Do you fear it?"
It was several moments before Lucius could speak again.
"Yes. Yes, My Lord. I fear it very deeply."
"So did I."
Lucius' throat was working hard as he eyed the revolving wand in Voldemort's hands intently. He wiped a strip of sweat off the top of his lip.
"You may leave."
"My Lord," murmured Lucius. He was nearly stumbling to the door.
Harry tightened his Invisibility Cloak around him, using it as a blanket against the midnight chill while he traipsed the corridors. He thought much at these times.
He was used to the startling visions from Voldemort. In fact, they had come more frequently and felt realer than ever before. The period immediately following Voldemort's resurrection, when Voldemort had begun to settle and organise his affairs, had been exceptionally painful for Harry: his scar had flared in step with Voldemort's fury. He felt the steady pulse of controlled excitement and finally the rush of cruel exhilaration upon the kill.
"Then something definitely happened in the summer," concluded Hermione when he told her and Ron about the vision at the back of the library a few hours later. "What were his exact words? Can you remember?"
"It's fuzzy like always," said Harry. "But I remember it clearest just before Malfoy's father turned his back and left the room. It's like when I—when he got really like excited—No, that's not the word… My heart—I mean his heart, whatever—leapt in my chest like I was happy or like when you pull off just before you hit the ground on your broom. You know that feeling, Ron? Voldemort nearly killed him. He had been going on about something he missed or lost or something..."
"Harry, please try to remember clearly!" begged Hermione. This had been the pattern of their conversation ever since they entered the library and started it. When Harry's words obfuscated all meaning, Hermione would nudge him to make him try to remember more clearly. She did it delicately, for she did not want him to lose his temper, as he in the day following the visions was usually sullen and cantankerous, not least because he had had little sleep. Harry also did not particularly enjoy recounting and therefore reliving his dreams.
Three tables away Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown were in deep discussion about something. Yet another piece of parchment lay between them on which they made an occasional correction or drew an arrow leading to a bunch of more words.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Something about... about... a diary! He was talking about the diary that I destroyed in second year! That must be it! He was talking about Lucius deserving his punishment for losing it."
"Harry, you've got to tell Dumbledore," declared Hermione. She always ended up saying this anyway—Harry did not know why he bothered. He wrestled with what she said. One part of him still felt abashed about always childishly running to Dumbledore to tell him about a mere dream. Yet another part of him knew that his dreams were anything but mere.
"He's probably too busy, Hermione," Harry countered. "You heard what he said on the first day back. He's got bigger things to worry about than a conversation between Voldemort and Malfoy's father. Anyway, speaking of visions, I need a potion or two to stop seeing double. Does that Wheelock bloke Ginny used to ramble on about seem more around these days? But he's always dodging behind some corner or looking jumpy if I ever spot him."
Hermione gave him a frown that told him she was diagnosing him quietly.
"I think you need to start seeing Madam Pomfrey more often. We should enquire if St. Mungo's has some kind of magical psychologists on standby."
The funny thing to Harry was that Hermione was completely serious about this.
After spending their lunch in the midst of dusty books, they headed off to Care of Magical Creatures. They stayed behind after the lesson to console Hagrid after Malfoy had taken every chance to ridicule Hagrid's efforts at teaching. He was even more biting than ever, if it were possible. They met him again in Herbology but fortunately they were dealing with creatures which had less of a liking for sedate conversation than intense limb-threatening physical activity which involved wrestling their tentacles and smashing the pods recovered from their mouths, depriving Malfoy of any time or breath to give his tongue reign.
Some hours later they were working in front of the fireplace completing Professor McGonagall's homework.
"I reckon his father bought the whole Slytherin team Sindaras like second year all over again," Ron said. "That has to be why they're all over him. I know I would've gone on my knees for one."
Harry had a feeling Hermione wanted to talk about his vision further. Fortunately Seamus had other ideas.
"On your knees?" said Seamus with a raised eyebrow. Harry caught his eye and looked away.
"For a Nimbus Sindara? Sure yeah," replied Ron, but then cried, "Not like that, no! Seamus!" Seamus gave a chuckle that was far more amused than those he had whenever Dean talked about girls. "Get your head out the gutter, mate! Merlin..." Ron shivered and pulled weird faces. "Eurgh... Imagine knobbing Malfoy, Harry." Harry's stomach heaved. "I'd rather die, I'm sorry. Take my chances with the Dementors. Maybe it'll have a change of heart halfway through Kissing me and leave me with a little something to live on."
"Changing the subject," Dean urged. His eyes wandered over to Ginny, who was doing her homework with a few friends.
Harry glanced at his wristwatch and made a great show of yawning. He had to repeat this several implausible times before Ron caught on and broke out into loud gestures of exhaustion. Hermione put a hand to her mouth and stretched, but her eyes were far from drowsy as they darted observantly between the faces of her Housemates.
"I'm getting really tired," Hermione declared in a clear and authoritative voice that was at odds with the affectation of exhaustion she was attempting. This, however, was lost on the others as they gave murmurs of agreement.
Dean threw his quill down. "Fuck it. This woman doesn't know what she wants," he bleated. This gesture of defeat was infectious: Seamus nodded in agreement and started packing up. Neville's nose was still stuck in a book, however, as the pudgy boy traced his finger on some print, a quill still ready in his hand.
"Neville, aren't you feeling tired?" Hermione demanded as though trying to make Neville feel exhausted. Neville's eyes grew owlish again.
"Professor McGonagall wants my essay perfect, Hermione. She said I could pass if I tried."
Hermione's nostrils flared as her annoyance gave its final thrashes and her eyebrows arched: she was torn between annoyance and sympathy. Onto this, Harry came from the left with a concentrated dose of puppy eyes, which made Hermione's mouth twist as though she had tasted a pepper-flavoured Every Flavour Bean.
"Oh, bring it here, Neville, I'll do it for you!" Hermione blurted.
"Sorry?" Neville said.
"I'll do your homework for you. Just go upstairs and sleep!"
"But I can't ask you to do-"
"Yes you can!" said Hermione aggressively. She yanked Neville's things from underneath his nose and Ron marched him up the stairs, assuring him that Hermione would take care of everything.
Hermione sighed woefully as she studied the progress Neville had made. "He's completely hopeless…" Neville's words had touched her so deeply that she work on his essay well into Ron and Harry's idle chat.
"You'd think they'd be afraid of her," Ron was saying in a tone of admiration. "But no, they just packed up and started a bloody joke shop. I swear if mum sees them again I wouldn't like to see the colour of their backsides."
"I bet she'll be happy when the money starts rolling in, though," Harry pointed out.
"Sacrificing their education to open a joke shop is actually their funniest joke I've heard in four years," said Hermione. Ron looked as though he had taken a blow to the face and Harry wincingly landed the People's Elbow on the table. "Actually it's a rather sad joke and it makes no sense whatsoever whichever way you slice it," declared Hermione, looking up at them sternly as though wishing to squash any inclinations in Harry and Ron to follow in the twins' footsteps and foreswear academia. "You'll have the money but you'll also have the intellectual capacity of a Blast-Ended—Sirius!"
The fireplace had surged and spat, and in it Harry could distinguish a familiar face.
"Sirius!" he called, forgetting himself. Ron and Hermione glanced around the common room.
"I have the intellectual capacity of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, do I now?" Sirius chortled. "It's not like you to state the obvious, Hermione."
The three of them had been hard-pushed all week to find a time when the common room was empty. Hermione risked today since the due date of Snape's essay was nearing alarmingly, so those who had slacked were burning midnight candles in the library and the rest who had already done the bulk of the work were sleep soundly right now.
The three of them talked with Sirius about what was happening at Hogwarts and might be happening out there. Ron and Hermione at some point extracted themselves gently from the conversation. Harry was so glad to finally speak with Sirius that he only realised Ron and Hermione were not around when he said goodbye to Sirius. He missed that endearing barking laughter and the warmth that filled his chest when he spent time with his godfather. They talked about everything, even a little the night Voldemort was reborn, as well as Cedric. Harry said goodbye to Sirius feeling much lighter than before.
But as elated as he was at seeing Sirius again, it did not save him from his nightly terrors.
