The week dragged on. The professors seemed determined to drive them to death via homework, and Hermione was so wound up she got into a shouting match with Ron over Quidditch-namely, its place of importance in the Wizarding World, and whether intelligence should take its place. It ended with Ron telling her she just didn't understand the Wizarding World and Hermione bursting into tears and running out of the common room.
"Well done, Weasley," Angelina Johnson said exasperatedly. "Maybe she doesn't get it because she didn't grow up in the Wizarding World, and prioritizes different things anyway."
Ron stood there woodenly. "Should I go after her?"
Harry got out of the squashy armchair he had curled up in, having thought he could actually get his Potions homework done early. "I'll talk to her." He cast a quick drying spell on the parchment and grabbed his books and essay.
"Quidditch practice tomorrow, Harry," Angelina reminded him sharply. "It's too close to curfew. I want you at the tryouts."
Harry gestured at the open portrait hole. "I know, but…"
Angelina shot Ron a nasty look. "Fine, be a good friend. Don't want another troll to attack her, I guess."
Ron sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. "Why does it always go wrong?"
"Because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, that's why," Harry said bracingly. "I'll go talk to her." Harry trooped out of the Gryffindor common room to general laughter. Their bickering was legendary in Gryffindor Tower, most of the time affectionate, but sometimes one of them would cross a line. They had eased up after Harry had snapped at them, so he really only had himself to blame for the explosion of tension. Harry just wished they would snog it out-but what if they broke up? He sighed. Well, if they got over Crookshanks, they could get over anything. Harry was momentarily panicked by the thought of his two best friends never speaking to each other, using him to communicate for the rest of Hogwarts, after which they drifted apart, leaving him torn between two worlds. No, Ron and Hermione should never date, at least to keep him safe. He could never approve. It would destroy their friendship. They just weren't mature enough for it, no matter how adult Hermione thought herself.
Speaking of Hermione, Harry found her crying softly in a disused classroom on the fourth floor, facing the Forbidden Forest, and framing the view of dancing stained glass unicorns. Hermione was leaning against the window, and the unicorns were snuffling at her hair. One seemed determined to break the fourth wall and chew on her head. Harry sat down next to her and gingerly patted her on the back. They sat in silence, as Hermione's tears receded into sniffling. Finally she attempted a smile at him and they went to library, where Hermione worked through her emotions by coaching him through his Potions essay. They complained about quills and talked a little bit about music as they went, and Hermione went off on a tangent about moonstones and C.S. Lewis and something her mother had said to her growing up, and she promised to lend the novels to Harry when they went back up. It was calming. When they finished the essay, it was nearly curfew. Hermione panicked; she had to put back their references
"Don't worry," Harry said quickly, not wanting to see an evening's work ruined. "I can do it. I have the map. You go ahead, I'll stay out of trouble."
Hermione sniffed. "You always say that, and you never do."
"It's not like I do it on purpose. Trouble's like, I dunno, attracted to me. Maybe it's a curse." At that, Hermione's eyes roved to his forehead. Harry flattened down his hair.
"Maybe…" Hermione said slowly. "Bad luck…" The clock chimed a quarter before curfew and Hermione jumped. "Sorry, Harry! I'll see you tomorrow, I'll leave the books on your bed."
"Bye, Hermione." Harry began gathering the books. He bet he would find Ron and Hermione sitting on his bed, talking urgently and apologetically, when he got back, and she would have forgotten all about the books. Madam Pince eyed him angrily as he flitted about the Potions shelves, cramming books back where they belonged. As he passed her desk, two minutes before curfew, he swore he heard her hiss. He sped his walk to nearly a run. Filch would probably patrol around Ravenclaw Tower, which was in the opposite direction, for the first half hour after curfew, and then switch to the area around the kitchens. He might be able to make it without any trouble-portraits were encouraging him to run faster, so he broke straight into a run, passing a couple of frantic-looking seventh year Hufflepuffs. He saw a shadow creep around a corner, cursed, and hid in a camouflaging doorway as Professors Vector, Sinistra, and Snape swept by.
"-Vance's proposition won't even make it past the First Moot, let along the Wizengamot," Vector said heatedly. "Malfoy's got them all in his pocket."
"I think you underestimate Lucius's political sense," Sinistra disagreed. "What with the auror searches a few years ago, he'd want to argue his own case publically, and win it too-shows more confidence, he's got nothing to hide…"
Snape turned his head and Harry swore he could see through the camouflage and stare right into his eyes, but kept going, drawing closer to Sinistra. He waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps, and pulled out the map.
"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he whispered.
"Is that so, Mr. Potter?" a saccharinely sweet voice purred. Harry blanched. It was the cardigan.
Dolores Umbridge was not a pretty woman, but she kept all the trappings of cloying sweetness anyway. Harry swore she smelled like gingerbread, as she marched him to McGonagall's personal quarters. Dread dragged his feet on the heavy flagstones. McGonagall was strictly hands-off when it came to what happened in Gryffindor House, as long as they left her alone too. She would be furious to be disturbed in her private time. She had office hours, but not even Hermione had been to them-and Hermione had even been to Snape's. Maybe she would go a little easy on him, since they were all in the Order together. At least she wouldn't ban him from Quidditch.
Umbridge knocked briskly on McGonagall's door. There was no response. Umbridge knocked again, a little louder this time. There was light under the door, but no shadows of movement. Umbridge coughed a little and knocked again, Harry tried not to laugh, but then the door swung open and McGonagall's grim face greeted them. She stared down at them. Harry gulped.
"Mr. Potter, Miss Umbridge," Professor McGonagall ground out. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"High Inquisitor Umbridge," the cardigan smiled. "I found Mr. Potter out of bed and wanted to ensure he was punished by the proper authority."
McGonagall looked at Umbridge for one long moment, then glanced at Harry. Harry hurriedly put a penitent look on his face. He hoped his mother's eyes would be good for something. McGonagall did not soften.
"Thank you, Madam Umbridge," McGonagall said. "I'll deal with Potter presently."
No one moved. Harry nearly laughed.
"Inside, Potter," McGonagall clipped, and shut the door before Umbridge could invite herself in.
Harry found himself in a spacious sitting room outfitted with warm mahogany and several bookshelves. There were a couple couches clustered around a coffee table and a cheerful fireplace, whose mantle held a collection of photographs. The couches, of course, were upholstered in McGonagall's clan tartan. A gramophone was playing something that sounded as if it belonged in a music hall. A tumbler of scotch sat on the coffee table.
"Sit, Potter," McGonagall directed. Harry sat. She clapped her hands. "Gilly! Tea!"
A lovely silver tea tray appeared. Harry started. McGonagall poured him a cup and handed it to him, without asking him about milk or sugar, and poured some tea into her glass. She regarded him. Harry felt a little like a goldfish in a bowl, with nowhere to swim away.
"Well, Potter?" McGonagall said irritably.
"What? Oh, uh, I-I was in the library working with Hermione and had to put back the books and-"
"Have a biscuit, Potter," McGonagall sighed.
Harry took a biscuit.
McGonagall rubbed her temples. "You do realize, Harry, that we are at war?"
Harry tried to respond through a mouthful of crumbs and gave it up as a bad job.
"That Madam Umbridge is a Ministry spy, and the Ministry is undermining us at every turn?"
Harry cleared his throat. "I know-Hermione said-the Ministry's interfering at Hogwarts," he finished lamely.
"I see why Severus says you are insufferable," McGonagall glowered. "Thank you for listening to Miss Granger, at least. Do you understand what that means?"
Harry wondered if he could bullshit himself out of this somehow, but there was no Hermione to mouth answers and no Ron to gauge the mood of the room. "No, Professor, I don't," he said sharply. "No one's told me anything. Professor Dumbledore-"
"Professor Dumbledore might tell you something if he thought you were more reliable, Harry!" McGonagall gestured at him. "If you weren't out late at night! If you weren't isolating your classmates in your dorm and disrespecting your professors in class! Tread carefully, Mr. Potter, how often do we have to tell you your life is in danger and we want you alive?"
Harry went very still. Nobody had ever told him they wanted him alive.
McGonagall softened slightly. "Professor Dumbledore is an extremely busy man. You must understand, there are greater political forces out there and he must answer to them first. Professor Snape and I are your Order allies, Mr. Potter, but we must answer to school administration first. Lucius Malfoy may no longer be on the Board of Governors, but his allies are. You cannot afford to get in trouble. Our ability to mitigate punishment may be revoked. Do you understand?"
Harry nodded, flushed. He stared into his teacup but couldn't see anything but too-bitter tea. He had forgotten about Malfoy and the Board of Governors, but now he distantly remembered Arthur Weasley complaining about him threatening everyone on the Board, and if they had enough power to send professors to Azkaban, what could they do to him? He thought about Ginny. Nobody had ever been punished for hurting her.
"Detention, Mr. Potter, for all of Saturday."
Harry looked up. "But-Professor-Quidditch tryouts-"
McGonagall eyed him inscrutably. "It's only fair, Potter. Now get out of my house."
The weekend passed. Harry wrote lines, ignored Seamus, bickered with Ron and Hermione, and tried to get his homework done. Angelina was annoyed with him, but at least Ron was on the team now. The professors kept piling work. Mitarashi wasn't letting anyone touch their wands, saying she wanted them thinking before they fired off a spell. He was getting restless, and annoying the Gryffindors because of it, especially when, struck by impatience, he skinned yarrow roots too roughly, which then caused his potion to blow up when he added the armadillo bile. Snape had assigned him an essay on yarrow reactants and emulsifiers-whatever that meant-and another zero for the day. McGonagall may have said he was one of Harry's allies, but he certainly wasn't acting like it.
"I did think he would get better, with the Order and all," Hermione muttered as they trooped glumly towards the Great Hall. "He's on our side…"
"Yeah, well, he's a spy, isn't he?" Ron pointed out. "For our side. He wouldn't want to seem to buddy-buddy with us, wouldn't he? Especially not with Harry. What would You-Know-Who think!"
Harry laughed. "Imagine Snape trying to act 'buddy-buddy' with anyone! Ugh, has anyone ever seen him smile?"
"You know, Ron's got a point," Hermione said thoughtfully. "You'd think You-Know-Who would want him trying to get Harry to like him, make it easier to trust him, get more information."
Harry frowned. He was trying to imagine a likeable Snape. His brain just couldn't do it. He opened his mouth to ask Hermione what she thought that would look like, but Cho Chang came walking up to him and he tripped instead. Ron hid his snicker with a cough. Hermione patted him on the back a little hard.
"Hi, Harry," Cho said. She was trying to smile. "Zach told me what you told the Hufflepuffs. I-I'd appreciate it if you could-if we could talk about it sometime." She took a deep breath. "It would be easier-I didn't know the Hufflepuffs had counselling, did you?"
"Uh," Harry said. Hermione elbowed him, and grabbed Ron and walked hurriedly off. "Mm-no. Uh. Yeah. When?" It came out a little high.
"Do you want to meet after dinner, in the East Wing's music room? It's on the other side of Ravenclaw Tower."
"Sure. Yeah. Uh." Harry took a bracing breath, and rushed out, "I'm sorry I didn't reach out to you earlier-"
Cho did smile at him this time, gently and mostly sad. "It's fine. We didn't really have a chance-" The warning wind rustled the windchimes decorating the courtyard, and awkwardly they smiled at each other and waved the other off. Harry hurried to where Ron and Hermione were waiting. He didn't know whether Cho had been referring to him, or Cedric.
They walked in silence towards the Defense classroom. Eventually, it got too much for Ron, who said, "She was wearing a Tutshill Tornados badge. You don't think she jumped on the bandwagon and-"
"Ron," Harry said. "Shut up." They entered the room in silence. To Harry's surprise, a pensieve was sitting on a plinth in the center of the room, though the desks were arranged in a circle as usual. Dean, Parvati, and Fay Dunbar were standing around Professor Mitarashi's desk; it sounded like she was telling a story.
"And he screams, 'Don't underestimate me! I don't quit and I don't run! I don't care if I get stuck a cadet my whole life-I'm still going to end up general someday!' So of course everyone stayed in the room, and I got stuck trying to break their spirits." Mitarashi was leaning back in her chair, legs on the table, arms over her head. She was grinning. Harry wordlessly took his usual seat, but Ron walked over to the group. Hermione stayed.
"I wonder what that is," Hermione said, eying the pensieve's mystical carvings. "I think that's Hebrew…"
The rest of the class shuffled in, Seamus looking disgruntled. He had accidentally set fire to Blaise Zabini's robes after Harry had blown up his potion, which had sent Snape into a tirade about Fire-Proofing spells and "not having to live up to national stereotypes, Finnegan!" They tried not to look at each other.
Mitarashi straightened up. "Ah, I take it by some of your faces Potions went especially well today. How many of you ignored basic lab procedure and left Professor Snape scrapping distilled student off the ceiling?" A couple students giggled.
"Just the usual disasters, Professor," Lavender Brown joked. She was actually pretty good with Potions, and annoyed Snape less than Hermione did with her answers. Parvati and Fay looked at Harry and smiled; Dean elbowed Seamus jokingly.
"I suppose we can't expect him to join us today, then," Mitarashi tutted. Harry sat up ramrod straight. The greasy git in Defense, had he finally convinced Dumbledore to let him in? But DADA was such a Gryffindor subject! "But we'll wait until Professor Flitwick before we start. I suppose I give some preparation. Has anyone here heard of the International Dueling Network?" Harry looked around the circle; Ron was nodding, as were Pavarti and Fay and Neville. Hermione had a frown on her face. Harry assumed she didn't know; it sounded sports-related. "Mr. Weasley? Care to explain?"
Ron leaned back in his chair. Hermione looked annoyed. She had a thing about posture. "Well, it is what it sounds like, innit? It's a worldwide dueling tournament sponsored by the International Confederacy of Wizards and the Wizarding League of Nations. My brother Bill competed a couple years ago." People looked impressed. Harry looked doubtful. Dueling was easier than those awful trials that the Triwizard Tournament did. But he didn't want to think about Cedric. He thought of Cho, her face hesitant. He pushed the thought away.
"Correct, Mr. Weasley. But do you know why it stands and what it stands for?"
Hermione raised her hand. "International cooperation?"
Professor Mitarashi grinned satanically. The class shivered. "Cold war."
"What?" Hermione demanded. Mitarashi proceeded to explain, and Harry was intrigued enough to listen for once.
Apparently the Wizarding World followed muggle politics, too. The former communist bloc had its own confederation of wizards, only somewhat integrated into the International Confederacy of Wizards. Little dialogue happened between the various states before the fall of the Berlin wall, except in international emergencies-wizards fighting off Stalin's men in the Ukraine, local warlocks trying to defend their villages against Agent Orange in Vietnam. The general attitude from the Far West was to let muggles suffer; the general attitude from the East was to avoid their dictator's wrath. The Statute of Secrecy had to be upheld, it was agreed, but at whose cost? Tensions rose, especially as terrorist groups cropped up in Italy, in Germany, in Japan, in Ireland-magical governments were afraid of fringe groups joining these movements, in order to strike a more effective blow against magical partition. The International Duelling Network developed into a way young, reckless, and talented duelists could represent their countries and fight against a perceived enemy, with East German wizards fighting against the West, Russians trying to take out Americans, the British trying to exert their superiority-without falling into an act of war.
"I participated in the 1984 tournament," Professor Mitarashi grinned. "Though I was much younger, and only in a team melee challenge. But you have some champions among your professors. I thought it good to show you what they are capable of, with Defense magic, and what you might be able to do too."
Blank faces surrounded her. Harry squinted, confused. Did she want them to fight for Britain's honor?
"Not like that. The days of cold war are over. But to release your disputes in a violent but legal and effective fashion, that will not kill anyone, that will not cause an international incident. Hogwarts holds a four-time champion, after all." Mitarashi leaned forward. "Guess who?"
Severus was not in a good mood. Potter had blown up a Potions and then looked appalled when Snape had told him to write an essay on his mistakes, Longbottom then managed to calcify his, and then Finnegan, always fiery, managed to set Zabini on fire. That was less of a surprise because Blaise was always lounging picturesquely, but he had expected more from one of his Slytherins, especially one with such a mother. Finnegan had also looked surprised that he had gotten angry, as Zabini attempted to douse the flames without ruining his already burning robes. When the class had finally filed out, Severus had an ache behind his right eye, some viscous liquid attached to the ceiling of the dungeon, and the stink of burnt wool filling his nostrils.
Filius had walked into his classroom to see Severus with his head buried in his arms. "Oh, there, there, Severus," he laughed. "It couldn't have been that bad, could it?"
Severus, without looking up, aimed a finger at the ceiling. Potter's potion flopped onto the floor and began to hiss.
"Ah," Filius said. "Managed to negate the effects of the emulsifier, did he?"
"Armadillo bile isn't even in the Iside Rosse." Severus peered over his arms. "I don't know what he was thinking, but the clearest explanation was that he wasn't, at all. They never do." They commiserated over the disaster that was a Gryffindor-Slytherin class, Severus slipped a headache draught into his pocket, and they strode off to the Defense classroom, ready to relive their glory days.
"Oh, let's make an entrance," Filius squeaked. Severus cast him an amused glance. "Full strength and thunder. I'll cast a long shadow, and you billow your robes."
"It's the wind," Severus said.
"It's the wind-you have the enchantment stitched straight into your clothes, you Slytherin. Remember, I taught you. And your brother. Just because you don't wear particolor hose like he did doesn't mean you don't share his same sense of drama."
"He still wears it," Severus said gloomily. "The ugliest hose. Albus would be proud."
They made their entrance. The Gryffindors looked awed, then horrified, then doubtful. Severus sneered. Potter, in particular, looked disgusted-probably at the idea of Snivellus going and representing the United Kingdom rather than one of his Golden Gryffindors. The ache behind his right eye began to pulse again.
"Professor Snape won the '78, '84, '87, and '89 tournaments," Mitarashi introduced. Severus inclined his head slightly. "Professor Flitwick won in '53, '67, and '72, if I remember correctly." She smirked at the Charms professor.
"It's been awhile," Flitwick chirped happily. "You forget that I fought Severus here in '84, and coached him in '78."
"I remember '84," Mitarashi dimpled. It was quite unsettling. Severus slid a glance down to Filius and met his eyes. "I participated in the team challenge, with Kurenai Yuuhi and Aoba Yamashiro. The Gallant Toad Sage Jiraiya was our leader-coach, as you said."
Severus started slightly. "Jiraiya the Sannin? I have corresponded with him."
"You also defenestrated him," Mitarashi said, trying not to grin but failing on purpose. Severus' lips thinned. Filius was outright giggling. "But for honorable reasons. Anyway!" The professors put their professional faces back on and faced the class as one, rather unintentionally. Severus could tell Dean Thomas noticed and was amused. He made a mental note to tease him in class. He watched Thomas begin to doodle on a piece of parchment: a caricature, no doubt. Yes, he would definitely get back at him in class, and he could feel Filius plotting too. "I have gathered the professors here today to show you a clip from the '84 tournament, so they may answer any questions you may have about professional dueling. And if there is time, Professor Snape and I may have a practice match." She flashed a grin at him. Severus remained stoic. He could see Lavender Brown's eyes calculating, and could already imagine the gossip. "Gather around the pensieve, please."
The class did not move.
"The dish on the podium," Severus said. "Do use your powers of deduction."
The class moved. The professors moved with them. Mitarashi pulled out a glowing vial. "A pensieve is a memory storage device that allows one to watch a memory from a third party perspective. We're going to be watching a memory of one particularly salient," somebody had been hitting the dictionary, Severus thought, "match from the 1978 IDN tournament, woven from our memories." She poured it in, and the fog circled the circumference of the disc before settling in the center. "Plunge in!"
