Chapter Seven: Mrs. Hudson's Flight

In almost no time at all, Defense Against the Dark Arts had become most people's favorite class. Professor Watson was patient and kind to the students, and his classes were always interesting. Even Fred and George had given him their stamp of approval, which was rare for a teacher. Apparently he knew Professor Hooper, too, and Harry had heard that he sometimes stopped by her classes for the upper grades or helped her in the Hospital Wing. After boggarts they studied many other dark creatures and how to go about fighting them, including kappas, hinkypunks, and redcaps. The only people who had anything bad to say about Professor Watson were Donovan Malfoy and his band of Slytherins. Malfoy had started criticizing Watson's many jumpers whenever they passed in the halls, but no one else cared.

Harry wished he was enjoying his other classes as much as Professor Watson's. Anderson was particular vile these days, clearly not amused by the story of how a boggart had taken his shape, been turned into a ferret, and then been bounced around the staffroom by Neville Longbottom. It didn't help that the story had reached everyone in the castle within hours, and that everyone who had ever been put down by Anderson, which was almost everyone in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, or Hufflepuff, reveled in the story, and even sometimes acted it out. Harry was also starting to dread the hours he spent on the opposite end of the castle from the dungeons, high in Professor Yao's steamy room in the North Tower. There seemed to be no end in her enthusiasm for deciphering tea leaves, and she brewed pot after pot for them as Harry struggled to stay awake. Occasionally Professor Yao would bemoan his impending death for the whole class to hear, and Harry was having trouble taking her seriously now that he had thought about her prediction in the brightly lit and tea fume-free areas outside her classroom. No one really liked Care of Magical Creatures much. Malfoy was soon cast-free, his arm in perfect condition, and although Hagrid didn't seem to have been punished in any way for the accident, he seemed to have lost his nerve. The creatures they delt with in Professor Watson's class were far more interesting, than, say, flobberworms, whose slimy throats they had spent several classes poking lettuce down.

Fortunately for Harry, the Quidditch season soon began. The return of his favorite sport and team practices was enough to make up for his unsatisfactory classes. The team captain, Oliver Wood, had become possessed with a manic desire to win the Quidditch Cup, and he spent most of their first practice lecturing the team about it. Rather than bore them, as his Quidditch talks sometimes did, especially when given in the early hours of the morning, this session filled the entire team with a fervent desire to put their name on the cup that year. Due to unlucky circumstances, the first of which Harry couldn't help but feel the slightest twinge of guilt about, they had been unable to compete in the final the past two years, and Harry felt that it was his personal duty to fix that for Wood's last year at Hogwarts.

When Harry arrived back in the common room that evening, a knot of people had collected around the notice board. "What's up?" he asked Ron and Hermione, gesturing to the small crowd.

"Hogsmeade weekend. On Halloween," said Ron.

"Smashing," said Fred, who had just clambered through the portrait hole behind Harry with George. "I need to stock up on a few items from Zonko's."

Harry felt the balloon of happiness in his stomach that had filled at Quidditch practice deflate slightly.

"Don't worry, Harry," said Hermione. "They're sure to catch Holmes soon, they've already sighted him a few times. You'll probably be able to go next time."

"Maybe you could even go this time, mate," said Ron. "Ask McGonagall. Hogsmeade'll be full of people, Holmes wouldn't be able to try anything, even if he is in Britain."

"Ron," said Hermione disapprovingly. "Harry can't leave Hogwarts like that—"

"Yeah, I'll ask McGonagall," said Harry, making his decision.

"Harry," said Hermione in consternation, but right then Crookshanks leapt onto her lap, holding a dead spider in his mouth.

"Did you catch that all by yourself, clever Crookshanks?" said Hermione softly, rubbing his fur. She looked back up from her brief distraction to argue with Harry, but Ron cut across her.

"You keep that thing right there, Scabbers is sleeping in my bag," he said.

Harry was starting to fell the fatigue of the long training session and a full day at school, and thinking it was really getting time that he turn in, or at least go up and quietly finish a little homework. However, Crookshanks suddenly pounced from Hermione's lap and onto Ron's bag, which was sitting by his chair on the floor.

Ron bellowed "GET OFF, GET OFF, STUPID CAT!" and seized the bag, trying to yank it out of the grip of Crookshanks' claws.

"Ron, careful, you'll hurt him!" exclaimed Hermione, standing up. Harry was watching in bewilderment, along with the rest of the common room's inhabitants, and Scabbers soared from out of the bag. Crookshanks disentangled himself from the bag quickly, and bounded after him.

"CATCH THAT CAT!" hollered Ron as Crookshanks began a mad chase after Scabbers through the common room. They streaked across the floor and between legs and chairs, and George Weasley lunged for Crookshanks, but missed, knocking into Colin Creevey, who was still holding his large camera from last year. Eventually the pair stopped, with Scabbers quivering under a chest of drawers and Crookshanks staring him down unblinkingly from outside its cover. Ron and Hermione hurried over, and, predictably, began to shout.

"You've got to control that bloody animal, Hermione! Scabbers was here first, and he's ill! He needs rest!"

"All cats chase rats and mice, Ron! It's natural! How am I supposed to teach Crookshanks that it's wrong?"

"You're cat's different! It—it heard me say that Scabbers was in my bag!"

"Ron, that's ridiculous! He could smell him—"

"That animal has it in for Scabbers!" said Ron, taking his rat and marching up to the dormitories, many of the older students snickering.

The next morning was not a warm one between Ron and Hermione. Each was still angry with the other, and when Hermione tried to be nice to Ron to make up for it during Herbology, Ron snapped at her and scattered the orange-sized beans they from the pods they were stripping off their puffapod together all over the floor and table, where they burst into colorful blooms on the spot.

Their next lesson was Transfiguration, after which Harry had resolved to ask Professor McGonagall about Hogsmeade. At the end of the lesson, however, it was she who brought it up first.

"As you are in my house, I am to remind you that you need to bring your Hogsmeade permission forms with you when exiting the castle on Halloween, if you intend to go. Don't forget, because if you don't have a form, you will not be visiting the village!" she said as they packed up their bags.

"Professor?" said Neville nervously, holding up his hand. "My grandmother signed mine, but I think—"

"She mailed it to me directly, Longbottom, I have it," said Professor McGonagall briskly. "She seemed to think that would be more secure."

With much egging on from Ron, Harry sighed nervously and shouldered his bag, walking up to Professor McGonagall, who had now seated herself behind her desk and was rearranging her square spectacles on her nose.

"Professor?" asked Harry tentatively, trying to ignore the glance Hermione had just given him.

"Yes, Potter?"

"I, um, don't have my permission form for Hogwarts because my aunt and uncle—er—didn't sign it, they forgot. We didn't quite part the way we expected this summer."

The look Professor McGonagall was giving him was not encouraging, but Harry took a deep breath anyway and continued.

"So I was just wondering, if, er, maybe I could still go? If you signed it?" he added hurriedly.

"I'm afraid not, Potter. No form, no visiting, that's the rule."

"But I thought that if you said I could go—"

"But I don't," she looked at him, and if he didn't know better, Harry might have thought her face softened just a bit. Something about it changed. "I'm sorry, Potter, but that's my final word. You had better make sure you are not late to your next lesson."

On Halloween, Harry accompanied Ron and Hermione down to the Entrance Hall to see them off. They had finally forgotten about their fight over Crookshanks in light of how miserable Harry was feeling. There would be the feast that evening, which they had missed last year to attend a rather disappointing Deathday party, but Harry felt it would have tasted a lot better coming after a day exploring the shops and sights of Hogsmeade.

"We'll bring you the best from Honeydukes," said Hermione, looking at him almost apologetically.

"And we'll tell you about everything we do," added Ron.

"Don't worry about me, go have fun," said Harry. As unhappy as he was feeling about missing out, he didn't want to spoil it for his friends. "I'll see you later at the feast."

Hermione turned and waved as they left, and Harry waved back before letting his hand drop and starting the climb up the marble staircase to the huge tower of staircases that he would take back up to the common room. Halfway there he changed his mind. Perhaps he'd go to the library instead…though he'd never admitted it to Ron and Hermione, Harry quite liked the library. Full of its towering bookshelves an filtered sunlight from the huge windows that looked out onto the grounds, it was normally very peaceful (as long as you steered clear of Madam Pince) and seemed to have a book on everything. Bullied by Dudley for years growing up, Harry had often resorted to books for refuge, having no friends of his own. Now that he had friends, he had never shared this with them because he thought it would drive Ron crazy, what with Hermione's already intense love of the library, and he felt that her enthusiasm for it was already far beyond his own and didn't need any encouragement. Speaking of, he usually felt too busy to have much time to read for fun, and he wasn't sure where Hermione managed to get all her extra time for it.

Harry changed his mind again. He would go visit Hedwig. He wasn't sure when the last time he'd seen her had been, and he felt that sometimes he was a bit short with her and didn't offer her enough attention or affection when it wasn't the holidays and he had no one else to be with. He switched directions, heading for the West tower.

A few minutes later, he heard a voice call his name. "Harry?"

He turned around to see Professor Watson sticking his head out of his classroom door. "What are you doing?"

Harry shrugged, not wanting to give Watson the full explanation that would probably bore him.

"Where are Ron and Hermione?" It never took new teachers long to figure out the friend groups that students had within their years, and the three of them were almost always together.

"Hogsmeade," said Harry, trying his very best not to sound bitter.

"I see," said Watson slowly, surveying him with a kind eye. "Why don't you come in? You can see the grindylow I've just received for our next lesson. And I have a few other things for my older students you can take a look at, but I'm afraid your class won't be up against quite yet."

Watson stepped aside and held open the door for Harry, who went in curiously.

"Here he is," said Watson, leading Harry over to a fairly large tank that held several clumps of kelp and an orange creature. It had a round head and a skirt of tentacles beneath it, with bony hands and little horns sticking out of its head. It pressed its face against the glass and made a threatening squelching sound as it stared at them.

Watson looked at it thoughtfully. "I don't think he'll give us much trouble, not after the kappas. You just have to learn to break its grip, notice the long fingers?" He turned away from the grindylow and looked at Harry, who did likewise to look at him. Harry noticed that he wasn't that much shorter than the professor. "Would you like some tea? I was just thinking of making myself some. I'm afraid I don't have any loose tea leaves, but I don't think you'll complain?" he said, looking at him and smiling.

Harry was a little startled. "You know about Professor Yao's prediction for me?"

"Yes, a…a friend of mine…a friend of mine and I helped her out of a tight spot years ago. Now that I'm back in the castle she stops by the chat every once in a while, but she still is very reclusive. You're not worried though, are you, Harry?"

"No," said Harry, perhaps a little too quickly.

Watson smiled. "I didn't think you would be. Personally, I've never put much store in Divination. It seems to me there are some witches and wizards who swear by it and the rest don't seem to really care. Here you go," he said, passing Harry a chipped tea cup with the silhouette of Britain on it.

"Thanks," Harry said. He wondered why Watson was going to the effort of talking to him like this. He was clearly a very gentle man, but Harry couldn't figure out what his professor thought of him. Watson was looking at him with an almost nostalgic expression, amiably, but as though he too was thinking deeply about something. His face looked worn down and exhausted, as if he had seen a thousand wearingly things in his life. Harry couldn't help but think back to their first lesson, when it had been he Watson had suddenly jumped in front of to stop facing the boggart.

"Something bothering you, Harry?" asked Watson over his tea. "You look unhappy."

"No, I'm fine," said Harry. "Yes, actually," he said almost as soon as he'd finished his first sentence. Without preamble he went on "Why didn't you let me fight the boggart in our first lesson?"

Watson looked surprised, but he opened his mouth to answer. "I thought that was clear, Harry. I'm sorry if it was presumptuous, but I assumed that your boggart would take the form of Lord Voldemort when it saw you. I didn't think it would be very good for him to appear in the staffroom in front of all your classmates like that, even if it was just a boggart."

Harry looked at him, startled. The only person he'd ever heard say Voldemort's name other than himself was Dumbledore. "I thought of him at first," said Harry, opening up to Watson, "but then I remembered that night on the train, when the dementor came into our compartment."

Watson looked at him in what could have been admiration. "I'm impressed Harry. That suggests that you don't fear a single thing, but an idea, fear. Very wise of you."

"Sir," said Harry.

"Hm?"

Harry had been about to ask what the boggart changed into when Watson saw him, but the man's eyes made him stop. It was a very personal question, and Harry suddenly wondered if he wanted to know the answer. He thought back to the last time he had asked a professor something that personal. What do you see when you look into the mirror? I? I see myself holding a pair of thick woolen socks. Harry didn't think that he had received a completely true answer from Professor Dumbledore, and he didn't want to make Professor Watson feel uncomfortable.

"Nothing," said Harry, though so much had passed through his mind in that single second.

Watson didn't say anything, simply viewed him over the edge of his teacup.

"Sir, on the train when we were coming to Hogwarts, with the dementor," said Harry, starting to voice something else that was weighing on him, "you were able to make it go away. I mean, you repelled it."

"Yes," said Watson. "There is a spell, but it is very advanced magic. It still gives me trouble at some times."

"Do you…do you think you could teach me?" asked Harry.

Watson looked at Harry. "That wouldn't be something to take lightly, Harry. It's a draining spell, it requires not only magical power but great strength of character. Not that I don't think you have that, I know that you do, after all that I know you have done and the person I still see sitting in front of me after all of that…but you would have to be very committed."

It was right then that there was an impatient knock on the door. After looking at Harry for a brief moment more, Watson turned and said "Enter."

Anderson was standing in the doorway, no doubt surprised to see Harry sitting there with Watson drinking tea. He was carrying a steaming goblet, full of a muddy purple liquid.

"Ah, Phillip," said Watson. "Thank you so very much. I can bring the goblet back down to you later this evening," he said, standing up to take the goblet and setting it carefully on his desk.

"You should drink that straight, John," said Anderson, sounding frosty, despite his use of Professor Watson's first name.

"I will, sounds fine."

"And if you'll be needing more, but I made a full cauldron of it."

"I'll let you know. Thanks again, Phillip."

Anderson nodded, glared at Harry one last time, and shut the door with a snap.

"I've been feeling a little under the weather lately, and Professor Anderson agreed to make this potion for me," said Watson by way of explanation to Harry. Harry was looking at the goblet in alarm as Watson lifted it and made to drink.

"Wouldn't Professor Hooper have taken care of that?" he asked.

"It's a vey complicated potion, and I'm afraid that both of us, I've been a doctor most of my life, you see, are not quite up to making it. A few of those specialized in potioneering can, however." He raised the goblet to his mouth.

"Professor Anderson's very interested in the Dark Arts," blurted out Harry, not really stopping to think.

"Really," said Watson without much interest, taking a large sip.

"Yes, and some people think that he'd do anything to get the job."

Watson drank more, and shuddered. "Disgusting." He stuck out his tongue with a grimace, but drank even more. The goblet was half empty. Harry didn't know what to do. He didn't want to knock the goblet out of his hands, he didn't think Professor Watson would be very impressed by that, but it was one of the most sinister looking potions he had ever seen. Watson, meanwhile, was quickly draining the goblet of potion. Harry watched, feeling very small.

"Horrible," said Watson, putting the now empty goblet on his desk again. "Shame I have to wait now before I drink anything else." He looked at Harry's expression, and seemed to think that he was still thinking about what he had asked about repelling dementors. "Now, Harry, I suppose I could teach you to fight dementors, but I don't think that it would really be necessary. Professor Dumbledore is being very careful, and they wouldn't dare come further inside the grounds than they're allowed."

Harry swallowed, still too preoccupied by the potion Watson had just drunk to argue. Why was he sitting there so calmly in a blue jumper, instead of convulsing on the ground? Anderson couldn't have just poisoned him right in front of Harry, could he?

"It was very good to talk to you Harry, but I think I need to get back to work now," said Watson. It wasn't a dismissal, more of a regretful statement.

"Okay," said Harry, standing up. "Thanks for the tea and everything, Professor."

"It was my pleasure, Harry. If you ever think you need to talk, feel free to stop by."

Harry nodded, and returned his smile as he left. He was shaken by what he just witnessed, but he spent most of the climb back to the common room thinking about the things that had been said in their brief meeting, and the other things that had been said by Watson's eyes, if not his mouth.

"Watson drank it? He actually drank the whole thing of potion?" said Ron, mouth open in horror.

"Yes," said Harry. They were eating a magnificent Halloween feast that evening, the Great Hall bedecked in an amazing collection of orange and black Halloween decorations. Harry had just finished telling Ron and Hermione about what had happened when he had seen Watson.

"I don't think there could have been anything wrong with the potion," said Hermione, though her expression was troubled. "I mean, Harry was sitting right there, Anderson couldn't have tried anything. And we suspected Anderson once, and we were completely wrong, remember?"

"Honestly, Hermione, not all teachers are saints!" said Ron, and the main courses disappeared, and an amazing array of desserts and sweets appeared, which Harry thought to himself would have to give Honeyduke's a run for its money, even if he had never seen the sweet shop. He cut himself a large slice of treacle tart.

"I wasn't sure what to do, I mean, I tried to stop him drinking it," said Harry. "But I couldn't tell him outright that I thought Anderson was trying to poison him, could I?"

"Oh, you didn't, did you?" said Hermione.

"No," said Harry, thinking back to what he had said a little uncomfortably. "I wonder what's wrong with him, though. Mind you, he does always look exhausted."

Ron nodded his agreement, his mouth stuffed with sweets. He swallowed hugely.

Hermione looked thoughtful, but didn't say anything.

After the rest of the feast, which featured some entertainment by the Hogwarts ghosts, the school was parting into four large groups to go up to their dormitories, although Harry thought he saw Fred and George sneaking off to do some sort of Halloween mischief making. When they got closer to the landing where Mrs. Hudson's portrait hung, there seemed to be a hold up, something noticeable even then when there was a huge group of students trying to get in anyway.

"What's going on?" asked Ginny, who had appeared behind them. Harry shrugged, and soon Percy had arrived, pushing himself through the mass of students importantly.

"Make way, make way," he said. "You can't have all forgotten the password. Excuse me, I'm Head Boy!"

When Percy finally made it to the landing, which Harry couldn't see from where he was standing over the many heads of students, he stopped. "Someone get Professor Dumbledore. Now."

"I'm already here," said Professor Dumbledore's voice, and Harry turned to see him coming up through the crowd of students behind them. He passed them and made it to the top of the stairs after several moments that were extremely quiet, considering the number of students there.

After a moment, Professor Dumbledore turned around to address the students. "Mrs. Hudson is no longer in her portrait. It looks as if it has been attacked."

Before they could quite register this or start to guess what it meant, Peeves zoomed into the scene, cackling madly in a way that could only mean one thing. Nothing good.

"Peeves!" said Professor Dumbledore authoritatively. "Do you know what happened here?"

He always disruptive, but Peeves did show some respect for Dumbledore. In a horrible voice that mocked sycophancy, Peeves answered, "Why yes, your professor headship. She's been screaming through most of the levels of the castle now."

"Why?"

"Seems he rather frightened her when he tried to get in," Peeves leered maliciously, as if about to reveal something that would cause utter panic, which he loved. "Rather nasty temper he's got, that Sherlock Holmes."