Coven. Ch. 7: Bet
Blaise narrowed his eyes at seeing Theo talking to Pansy –what the fuck had happened to her nails? That was disgusting– before sitting right next to them. He smiled tensely and his friend averted his eyes, surely reading his mind.
But, seriously, Pansy? Of all the girls around on which to get a silly crush, did it have to be Pansy? Simpering, shrilly, pug-faced Pansy? Thank Merlin Theo was still denying it. That would save him from having to endure endless hours of listening to that nerve-wrecking sound of scratching chalkboards that was her voice.
Thankfully, the chances of that union happening were as low as child's broom flying. The only way for that to occur was if the man himself begged his father to let him marry her. And Theo would not do that; not for Pansy nor for any other girl.
Greengrass joined them without even looking at him –the little bitch– and made an attempt at conversation. Pansy glared, graceful as always, and Theo fidgeted awkwardly. He repressed a snort at the clumsy scene. His friend was not a ladies' man, that was for sure. Not that he ever tried to be, anyway.
He had spent three whole years wondering if he might not just be gay, but had ended up dismissing the idea. How could his best friend be gay and not fall for handsome, perfect him, after all? And Theo had never even glanced in his direction. So, that left either heterosexual or asexual. He had not been quite sure of which option to favour, until this bizarre obsession with Pansy had started.
Theo had called it friendship, but he would call that bullshit any day. Women were never friends;that was just the word one used when saying 'I want to fuck that' out loud felt inappropriate. It seemed Theo feared saying those words even to himself.
He barely repressed a snort when he asked Pansy her opinion on McGonagall's most recent assignment. It was plain to see he was going out of his way to engage her in conversation. 'Something's bothering her, Blaise' he mimicked in a particularly high, mocking voice in his own head. Apparently that implied he had to ask her menial homework-related questions until she felt like spilling her deepest, darkest secrets.
He thought he should try asking her about make-up or fashion; at least she would have a chance of knowing the answer.
His eyes locked with Daphne's, and he sneered, receiving a most patronizing eyebrow-raise. She really had a talent for transmitting all of her disdain with the smallest of gestures. But at least she was hot, so he would understand if his best –and only, if he was being honest– friend had set his sights on her. But how could one look at cheap trinkets when a diamond was right by their side?
Oh, speaking of cheap trinkets, he needed a date to Slughorn's party.
Hermione brushed McLaggen's offer without much thought. She had way too many problems to be thinking about boys right now, and did not feel like pretending to be interested in his worries for a whole evening. Parkinson had, once again, put one over her. How someone who she once had dismissed as feeble and unintelligent kept on besting her, she could not explain.
Well, not having any sort of moral scruples must be helping, she guessed.
Still, the girl had made a very valid point, with the whole practicing thing. For all she knew, they could meet in her parent's house and find themselves unable to perform magic in the drug-like euphoria that had characterized their last bonding. Also, it would be the first time they would both be willing, and so the effects might differ. After all, they had not experienced such an extreme immediate reaction after the first accidental completion.
She obviously knew Parkinson only wanted an excuse to never stop their arrangement. Their magic seemed to return to normal levels after a couple of weeks, and so the girl wanted to get back to the maximum after that amount of time. However, that did not make her observation any less pertinent. She actually could not believe it had not occurred to her, thorough and perfectionist as she was. It was clear that her over-carefulness regarding blood magic had made her thoughtless, in the same way that Parkinson's over-eagerness made her rash.
Maybe they would actually make a good team, she though in a fit of dark humour.
She saw Harry awkwardly receiving a box from Romilda Vane and she frowned in worry. Now, that was not good. She approached them quickly, and the younger girl glared at her intensely before fleeing the scene.
"I'd throw this right now, if I were you," she advised in a motherly tone. "I heard some of her friends talking about love filters in the bathroom," she explained.
Harry grimaced and kept the box as far away from him as possible, horrified at the thought. He might have to spend the next three weeks actively avoiding eating food whose origin he had not confirmed with his own eyes.
"Slughorn's party is making everyone go crazy," his friend complained. Hermione thought that people had already been going crazy way before that point, herself possibly included. "Who're you going with?" he asked, with a nonchalance not even believed by himself.
"Did Ronald ask you to find out?" she asked bitterly, recognizing the little telling signs everywhere.
"What? No!" he said, but he went beet red and mumbled some nonsense about friendship and taking care of her.
"I think I might just go alone, to be honest," she answered tiredly. "I just don't want to deal with the whole date thing. And you? Did you ask Ginny?"
"Wh–what? Wh– Ginny? No, no. Ginny, no. Why Ginny? Ginny is going with her Dean– I mean, her boyfriend, Dean. Yes, she is," he replied flustered, and she could not help but smother a laugh.
"Ah, I see," she replied casually, as if that stuttering mess of a reply had not just happened.
"I invited Luna," he answered, now red from his neck to his ears. "To go as friends," he clarified quickly. "Maybe you could ask a friend, too? Neville?" he suggested.
"Neville's still bitter about Slughorn dismissing him so easily, I think the invitation would hurt him more than do any good," she said, having already considered the possibility. And, sadly enough, she did not have any more male friends, did she?
Harry nodded understandingly. "Well, I 'spose it'll be alright, if you go alone. You can chat with me and Luna," he offered, and she smiled at him warmly.
Pansy walked back alone to the common room, as Theodore and Blaise had stayed back to speak to Slughorn after class. It seemed evident those two were not on spy duty just yet, though she guessed Theo might be pulled into the mess soon enough. She did not think he would betray her without very solid reason, but her proximity to Granger might soon classify.
She took the long route, going up until the fifth floor instead of down toward the dungeons, as she wanted to enjoy the little bit of solitude she was being allowed. She wondered if they were paying so much attention to everybody, or if there was just something special about her. Did they want her to join the Death Eaters? It seemed unlikely, given how utterly average she had always been. Maybe they wanted some leverage against her father? She did not think the man needed to be coerced into supporting the Dark Lord, now that things were starting to go his way. Well, she guessed she would find out sooner or later.
She reached the top of the stairs and was surprised at seeing a barefoot girl amiably chatting with some portraits. She frowned at seeing her feet in contact with the cold stone –it was the end of November, for Circe's love!– and the lack of hurry to remedy that.
The girl turned around when she heard her approaching steps and fixed her with a look so empty it was almost ethereal, with those huge, pale eyes seemingly seeing beyond her. Ah, it was Loony Lovegood, that explained everything.
"You should be careful," the girl said in a dreamy voice that made her sound like the fairies in Grandmama's bedtime stories, "the ill-will-mites seem attracted to you lately."
What was the touched girl saying now? She was royally famous for making no sense –as frequently described by the younger Slytherin girls–, and now she understood the fame might be well deserved.
"You should be careful too," she answered in a no-nonsense tone, "you'll catch a bloody cold. I wager that's more dangerous," she warned, pointing at her toes.
"Oh, it's fine. The nargles like to take my shoes," she shrugged, "and I already got used to it."
Pansy frowned, unconvinced, and suspicious. "Is nargle a synonym for bully in crazyland?" she snapped. "Put a bloody nasty hex on your shoes, and you'll see if the nargles touch them again," she challenged.
Lovegood looked pensive at that, as if the idea had not occurred to her before. "Butterbeer corks keep the nargles away," she said slowly, "I never heard of hexes working before."
Well, that explained the funny necklace, she guessed. The mix between naive and barmy made the girl an easy prey, even for the Ravenclaws. Pansy was no saint, and she had done her fair share of petty bullying, but abusing someone so very much… distracted, as her mother would say, was one step too far for her tastes. It was like kicking puppies, or stealing candy from toddlers. Just right beyond the line. Those Ravenclaws really needed better discipline. Well, what could one expect from lower breeding?
"Here, I'll show you one. No harm in trying, right?" she suggested, and showed her the first curse her mother had ever taught her. 'To put on your good jewellery box', she had said. It had sent two upper-year girls to the Infirmary so far.
Lovegood might have only half her gobstones left in the bag, but she was a quick learner. "It is a very nasty one," she conceded in that half-off voice of her, "It really suits you," she said with a soft smile that illuminated her whole face. She somewhat got the feeling that it was meant as a compliment.
"It'll suit you too, if it gets you your shoes back," she simply said, uncomfortable by her obvious delight.
She left her behind, once more engaging in conversation with the portraits, and she rolled her eyes. Not her fault if she did end up catching a cold, she had already done enough.
Right behind the following corner stood Crabbe and Goyle, speaking in soft whispers to Graham Montague. She halted and hid back behind the wall. Damn, running into those two would be bad luck; she did not feel like explaining what she was doing in the fifth floor corridor. She retraced her steps softly, and her eyes fell back on the misty girl.
Ah, ill-will-mites indeed.
Hermione reached their meeting spot five minutes in advance, and removed the invisibility cloak she had 'borrowed' from Harry. She knew he would have lent it to her without a problem, but he would have also asked what she wanted it for. He might buy that she intended to get some extra time in the library, but sometimes Harry had unexpectedly good intuition, and she did not feel like taking the risk.
Parkinson appeared barely two minutes afterwards, throwing worried glances behind her back, clearly not skilled enough to cast a disillusionment charm without some extra spark. She approached her decidedly and with her usual sneer, though the tense lines around her mouth betrayed her impatience.
"So? What is so special about some ugly trolls dancing ballet?" she said with an impeccable French accent and no small amount of disdain.
"Just you wait," she told her, and then wished for a room in which to safely perform the ritual, while walking back and forth in front of the wall three times.
Parkinson watched in horror, most likely thinking she had lost her mind and, before being able to prove her wrong, Hermione stopped and realized that no door had appeared on the bare stone wall.
"Huh? That's weird," she mused softly, approaching and pressing the hard, unyielding surface.
"Wait, wait! There used to be a room here, right?" Parkinson exclaimed suddenly. "This is where we caught you all last year, when you were meeting for your Dumbledore Fan Club!"
Hermione gasped at that. "Of course, you were there! I forgot about that," she growled, glaring at her. God, she really did have reasons to hate her.
Parkinson waved her hand very aristocratically, dismissing her complaints. "Do let bygones be bygones, Granger," she advised. "Where did the room go?" she asked then, "And why were you pacing up and down like a retarded person?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes at her and almost considered not explaining. However, they would need the room sooner or later, and she did not feel like dealing with her complaints now to end up giving in out of necessity later on. Like it or not, she had a deal with Parkinson, and one that might end up being long. "It's the way it works. You walk back and forth three times, while thinking strongly of what you need, and the Room of Requirements provides it for you."
Parkinson was left momentarily speechless, which was actually a little bit of a miracle in itself. "Are you serious?" she asked in a whisper after some time. At Hermione's nod, she pressed, "Anything you need?" and she could see the greed shining in her eyes. Slytherins really should not get to know about those sort of secrets; they were sure to find the most advantageous and unexpected ways to use them.
"Well, it's not like it can skip Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration," she pointed out warily, "But pretty much anything, yes."
The girl looked very much impressed at the revelation, and she was frankly surprised when she took her word at face value, without seeing any proof, and just asked, "So, why isn't it working now?"
Hermione bit her lower lip in frustration, thinking hard before having to admit that she did, in fact, not know.
She had asked for a place in which to safely perform the ritual. Was that the wrong way to ask? Could it be that there was no way to do it safely? She was worried at the implications of such a thing, but she still tried to get in using different formulations, just in case. 'A room in which to perform the ritual' or 'a private room' did not yield favourable results either, and that was generic enough to not suppose any problem. So, it must be something else.
"What're you trying now?" Parkinson asked impatiently, eyes narrowed.
"Just wondering if I asked for something that it couldn't provide, but I don't think that's the case…"
What was it then? The fact that Parkinson was there? No, DA members had come in small groups or pairs more than once, and as long as they wished for the same thing as the ones already inside, it had always–
"Oh! Of course!" she exclaimed suddenly, and was quickly shushed by her companion. "There's someone inside!" she whispered, excited at getting the most likely reason.
"And that means we can't get in?" Parkinson sounded disappointed.
"Unless we wish for the same thing that it's already being used for, I don't think so," she guessed.
Parkinson huffed, irritated. Then, though, she got pensive and added, "Then, when we do use it, we'll need to ask for something as specific as possible, won't we?"
Hermione considered the question carefully for a few seconds, admitting Parkinson had made a smart observation. "I'm not sure… If, for example, I went in and someone wished to enter the room in which I am, would that work?"
"We should do some trial and error," she suggested reasonably, also aware of the fact that they should not get caught covered in each other's blood. It might be a tad hard to explain. "Tomorrow, same time?"
Hermione sighed deeply and shook her head. "That could be very risky," she told her. "Harry might find out," she expanded at the sight of the impatient frown.
"What? Why? Does he usually check if you're in your room at this time of the night?" she asked, half amused, raising and lowering her brows in insinuation.
Hermione ignored the comment and considered what to answer. It was clear that Parkinson would insist, eager as she was to regain her power; and if she gave her some half-baked reason she might start to doubt her willingness to go on. It was better to gain her trust –she cringed at the thought of Parkinson and trust in the same sentence– rather than oppose her. They were going to be meeting for a long while, by the looks of it, and she would have to tell her eventually. After all, their schedule would end up depending on it.
"No, Harry… Harry has a way to know where anyone in this castle is, at any time, if he wishes," she explained, not wanting to betray her friend by giving more details.
"WHAT?!" Now it was Hermione who had to shush her. "Bloody Saint Potter can know where I am any time? How in Merlin's name does he do it?" she continued, enraged.
"The how is irrelevant now!" she snapped back, and she could see that Parkinson disagreed, but did not look too eager to push the issue in the middle of a corridor after curfew. "What matters here is that he can. I suggested to meet today because he has detention with Snape, which means he'll get to the common room very late. But any other day, he might see that we're spending an unnatural amount of time together, in a very small room. He'll get suspicious, and start asking way too many questions."
Parkinson huffed and cursed at the drawback. She obviously also understood that having Harry snooping around would not end well. It was better if she knew, after all; Parkinson should be aware that Harry could notice if she followed her, or tried to ambush her once more. "So, what do we do then?" she asked with narrowed eyes.
Hermione thought briefly, but with Harry's recent obsession with Malfoy Watching using the Marauder's Map, there really was no safe place within the castle. "It'll have to be this weekend, during the Hogsmeade visit," she sentenced.
"Golden boy won't be keeping an eye on you then?" she asked derisively, scrunching up her nose. She had clearly disliked Harry impeding their plans.
"Ronald has custody this weekend," she answered more bitterly than she had wished, and the comment made the other girl snort in amusement. "So, no, I'll be very free."
"Great. Let's meet by the edge of the village, close to the Hog's Head," she said, pronouncing the name with obvious contempt.
Hermione nodded, "See you on Sunday, then." As she left, she realized that might have been the first time they had held a conversation without arguing. Maybe there was hope for their little arrangement, after all.
Pansy shivered slightly and redid her heating charm, with frustratingly poor results. She truly hoped they finally succeeded in their attempt, as she was feeling seriously impeded, as if she was barely managing to walk after having broken a leg. Granger was late, which was unusual. She hoped nothing had happened to her. It would have been awfully bad timing.
She exhaled and shivered once more, rubbing her hands together, mentally noting she needed to go back to Madam Malkin's. Her leather gloves still retained the beautifully soft wampus cat fur within them, but the permanent warming charm was wearing off. She would have attempted to recast it herself, but the fine leather had been expensive and she did not wish to risk damaging it.
As she hid her hands under her armpits, in search for warmth, two younger Hufflepuffs rushed by, hands all over each other, and threw her a careful look. She sneered at them, even from the inelegant position. Like she cared whether some nameless 'Puffs were snogging in the middle of a freezing forest. They would not even make good gossip material…
She turned when she heard the rushed squeaking and crunching of footsteps on the snow, and saw the massive, frizzy curls jump up and down before she even saw her face.
"Parkinson," Granger said breathlessly, quickly walking towards her. "Sorry, I ran into Colin Creevey and…" at Pansy's confused look, she just shook her head, "Let's just say he can be very persistent. Luckily, I saw Harry and I managed to divert his attention," she informed her, looking over her own shoulder.
She did not know who that was nor why Granger felt like sharing that information, but the thought of Potter being bothered by some persistent boy lifted her spirits, and compensated for the cold, somewhat.
"Let's walk," Granger just said suddenly, not having stopped even for a full two seconds, and took off in the direction opposite to the centre of the village.
"What? Where?" she asked, following quickly to catch up to her now more sedate rhythm. She was wearing the most resistant shoes she owned, but they were still not made for running on snow. Granger's… boots? Well, whatever weird thing with colourful laces was wrapped around her feet, adapted to the slippery surface of already-stepped-on snow much better.
"Speak softly," the girl commanded, and at her visible frown, elaborated, "See that man over there? The one who seems to be taking pictures of the village, one right after another?" Pansy nodded, barely glancing in that direction. She did know how to be subtle. "He's an Auror."
Pansy stifled a surprised gasp. "What? How do you know that?" she whispered furiously, now overly conscious of the man.
"Well, it's obvious they must have some dispatched here, right? Death Eaters are all over the place, and yet we're still allowed Hogsmeade weekends. So, of course there're going to be Aurors all around."
Pansy nodded once more. That much was obvious. Still, how could she know that that seemingly innocent bystander was one? She would have pegged him as a clumsy old man trying to take pictures, to be honest.
"That man is looking everywhere, and it might seem like he's trying to find a nice view. I admit it's a good cover, I've seen worse. However, that camera he's using is too old a model to go with the omniocular filter he's set up in front of it. Also, the way he carries himself is giving him away. If you watch how Aurors move for a while, you'll manage to pick up on that fake clumsiness they try to display," she lectured quickly. "Also, when he bends down you can see the handle of his second wand coming out of his right boot. It's standard Auror wand placement."
Pansy's eyebrows rose considerably. Those were some observation skills, she had to admit. It was a good thing that Granger was useful, despite the whole mudblood issue. She smiled, smugly satisfied with the choice she had made.
"We should assume there're more, then, right?" she guessed, trying to keep up with the flow of information without seeming ignorant. She prided herself on her ability to take in unexpected situations without so much as a lifted brow; as was expected of a pureblood. Circe forbid she ever took unexpected news with an open mouth and bulging eyes, much less in public.
Granger nodded. "My bet would be the young woman walking by that broken-down fence, the one walking a dog," she answered.
Pansy nodded almost imperceptibly.
"That's why I think she's one," Granger explained, "Have you seen many people owning dogs in Hogsmeade?" she asked, and she had to admit she made a very valid point. Wizards were not generally fond of dogs, widely preferring cats or toads. However, their sense of smell could be very beneficial to an Auror on duty. "Damn, I didn't expect so many… I hope there's no one I know on duty today," she said to herself.
Well, being one of Dumbledore's followers she probably knew some. Good thing they were not openly displaying their house colours during their Hogsmeade trips; she might pass for some nameless Gryffindor friend of hers. Hopefully no simple Auror would be able to tell she was wearing a coat that cost more than what they earned in a year; that might be a bit of hint.
They passed by the old, dirty, vagrant-looking owner of the Hog's Head; who looked at them intensely with surprisingly clear and penetrating blue eyes. Pansy felt her heart skip for a second, being left with the impression that those eyes could see directly into her soul. She shook her head, creeped out, and looked away. Didn't they say the filthy man abused his goats? Well, better goats than girls, but still.
She looked back, over her shoulder –as discretely as she could, considering the bad angle and their fast pace– but the man seemed to have lost all interest in them, trudging toward the village at a slow pace.
"Where're we supposed to go?" she asked suddenly, having just realized that the heavy Auror presence meant they could not just sneak into the forest anywhere without risk of being found. The idea of not managing to complete the ritual once more was unbearable.
"The Shrieking Shack," Granger answered without hesitation, and Pansy almost goggled.
"Are you crazy?" she spat, "That cursed place?"
Granger looked briefly in her direction and smirked slightly. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks and tried to keep her dignity. It was common knowledge that the place was cursed; anyone that did not possess a Gryffindor's crazy rashness would be wary.
"It's not cursed," Granger reassured her. "Believe me, I've been there," she said before taking a turn and heading to the patch of trees closer to the broken down fence.
"How does that imply it isn't cursed," she insisted, tired of all the damn little secrets Granger seemed to know that she did not. "Maybe you're slowly dying on the inside and will start sputtering blood any day," she half-wished bitterly, and followed more slowly.
"At least try not to drink that, will you?" Ganger demanded, turning only to direct a hot glare toward her. She stopped, looked around to make sure the trees provided enough coverage, and took out her wand in a fast and precise movement. Pansy preferred to do it with a flourish, if there was no hurry; but Granger had absolutely no sense for dramatization. She made her feel like what they were doing was routine, and not an exciting, forbidden immersion in the Dark Arts.
"If it's not cursed, then what's the story behind it?" she wanted to know, and furrowed her brows at the nothingness in front of her. Damn, did she have to do everything without previous warning? Potts and Weasels might have been fine with having all the important decisions taken for them, but she was smart enough to contribute.
"Damn, you can never take anything at face value, can you?" a voice came from the spot Granger had been in. She could almost see the bushy girl's lips, pressed in annoyance, despite the sudden invisibility.
"You're one to talk, know-it-all," she pointed out with a hand flourish, before realizing that she, too, had become invisible. She huffed, envious of her raw talent, though grateful she could not see it on her face now.
"Now I'll charm our feet so that we don't leave any footprints," she explained, and nothing seemed to happen, as the smart, little bookworm must have done it non-verbally.
"How in Circe's name will I know where you are, then?" she asked in frustration.
"Just go toward the door," a voice answered from far away; and she cursed and rushed to follow the rash Gryffindor. How any of them managed to reach old age, she did not understand. Surely at least some toned down the suicidal tendencies a little bit, and her actions were just inspired by Boy-Who-Lived luck. She would have to remind her Saint Potter was no longer in the party.
In retrospect, considering the whole situation, it was a bit of a miracle that they had only collided twice in the five-hundred feet they walked until reaching the tattered walls of the Merlin-forsaken shack. Though the amount of profanities that had come from both their mouths –especially after the head bumping– had been undignified, she was overall satisfied. It helped that no one had been able to see their sad waddling through the thick layer of snow.
Pansy was still carefully probing the growing lump on her side when Granger knocked on at least five different, undistinguishable spots on the hard wood, and murmured a soft and long incantation. With a loud, nerve-wrecking and long 'creak', a human-sized, irregular piece of thick material slowly fell in.
Nothing in the world could have prepared her for the amount of dust that was generated by such a simple action. It attacked them, unforgiving, like a grey sea-wave of smoke, and she remembered just in time that closing her mouth was a much better choice than screaming. Granger managed a half-decent vanishing spell in a fit of coughing, while Pansy was busy scratching her eyes raw to get the disgusting dirt out.
"How long," cough, "since you were," cough, "last here," she managed to say, her throat feeling like sand paper, but glad she had succeeded in transmitting some contempt through her tone.
"Third year," Granger weakly croaked. "Never went in this way, though" she explained painfully, and spat on the ground. It was the kind of vulgar action Pansy looked down on the most; but she had to admit that the situation warranted it.
When she finally managed to fully open her eyes, she was horrified by the view. First of all, there was dust; an infinite amount of dust, slowly floating down until settling over rubble and broken-down furniture, remains of things –she could not, for the love of Circe, know which– that had been completely shattered. There were stains on the floor, and on the walls, where the paper was peeling down along deep, big marks of fucking claws; especially passionate where the windows had been boarded up.
But no, it was not cursed. It did not look, at all, like anyone had been cursed in there.
As she was taking in the room, mouth agape, and eyes bulging, Granger stepped in decidedly. She swallowed and followed with dubious steps, cursing fiercely at whomever had occupied the Room of Dreams Come True a few nights before. She covered her mouth and nose with her white-fox fur scarf, which would surely be ruined, and tried to wave the dust away with her hand, unsuccessfully.
Granger repaired the wall slowly behind them, effectively trapping them in the darkness inside. Pansy flicked her wand immediately, lighting the old candles she had seen attached to the walls, that looked new and pristine, and therefore must have been somehow enchanted.
She tried a couple cleaning charms that made the room more bearable –in what concerned dust and general grime– and watched as her partner in crime walked to the centre of the room.
"How in Merlin's name is this slaughterhouse not haunted?" Pansy hissed hysterically, keeping her voice down while warily watching a door –the only door, leading to nowhere that had been visible from the outside– on the other side of the room.
Granger seemed to notice her distress for the first time, and sighed painfully. Pansy wanted to strangle her, the way she treated her fear as a delaying annoyance.
"It's not. Those are Professor Lupin's," she explained, pointing at the deep and thin breaches on the walls, while letting a heavy bag fall on the floor.
Pansy gasped in understanding. "The werewolf!" she exclaimed, again looking at the walls, at the broken down wood pieces. This was where they had hidden that beast, of course. They could not have kept him in the school, even if Dumbledore had been negligent enough to actually hire the half-bred creature.
"This was built during Professor Lupin's school years, so that he could safely spend the full-moon every month," she explained detachedly, her calm and countenance not fooling Pansy for a moment. She cared for the beast, and did not like sharing such private details with her. "The shrieks were just his howls, and him trying to get out."
Pansy felt dismayed at the knowledge she had slept so very close to a werewolf trying to get out of a shaky wooden shack. However, knowing that the beast was not a threat at the moment, and with a plausible explanation for the sorry state of the building, she managed to regain her composure.
Granger had been busy pulling books, parchment, quills, ink and a simple knife out of a seemingly bottomless bag, and pointed at the volume right on top of the huge pile.
"The spells I'm interested in are marked," she said, and showed her a bright-red little strip that was tucked between some two pages of the thick tome. Pansy frowned worriedly. There were at least a dozen of those bright little buggers tucked here and there, over six or seven different books. "Try to become familiar with them before we start," she demanded, and opened a big, old-looking tome herself.
Pansy's eyes narrowed at the aggressively red markers, all while picking one of the volumes at random and flipping the pages in overly-exaggerated disinterest. The act was wasted on Granger, though, focused as she was on reviewing the spells she must have already memorized. She clicked her tongue loudly to make her annoyance audibly noted, as it would not do for Granger to start thinking she had become compliant.
She had actually opted to team up with a Gryffindor bookworm –she had trouble believing it herself, at times– so she really should have expected it; the sneaking around in plain sight, the dirty werewolf hide-hole, the piles of tattered library books and sitting on the floor like some of the beggars that spotted Knockturn Alley. Gryffindor style, indeed.
She would have to teach Granger some Slytherin habits, starting with comfort, she thought, as she wiggled her bottom to try and find a slightly comfortable position on the cracked wooden slats. Circe, she was in for a long day…
A/N: Thank you to Silverdragoness for beta reading this chapter.
