Chapter 13
BETA: the wonderful Krysania
Harry walked toward the Black Lake. He had Advanced Arithmancy first thing in the morning. Today, they were having an out-door lesson; Professor Michealis told them to meet at the edge of the Black Lake, by the groove of the Three-horned Basswood. As Harry strode briskly, his black leather boots sunk into the damp soil; their hard soles pressed into the carpet of rotting leaves, the last of visage of fall, before — soon — everything will be buried under a white blanket of snow.
Winter is coming, Harry could discern by the chilling air blasting his face, yet another year is about to pass.
Harry was glad Tom wasn't in the same class. Right now, Tom was at the opposite end of the castle, in Advanced History and Culture (a course that Harry duly dubbed— A History of Propaganda). So Harry was alone, which is good, for he needed time to digest what happened this morning.
That... kiss!
That... wasn't... normal. That wasn't like their usual transaction. Normally, Tom loved to bait and tease Harry when they exchanged magic, and Harry knew things— with Tom — were never simple and pleasant, but, at least, he thought he was prepared for everything. Then— then THAT happened and ... it was too much. Tom was never... so daring... and forward... and intimate. That kiss was intense, just pure passion and burning desire to consume all of each other; it was unlike anything Harry had experienced.
And it was distracting. Annoyingly so.
Harry couldn't stop thinking about Tom's lips pressed against his, warm and velvety and wet—
He shuddered. Then, under his breath, he rapidly tried to recite the Constellation Table and banish Tom from his thoughts.
NO, NO, whatever game Tom was playing... You mustn't fall for it, Harry told himselffirmly. We have no time for lies and games.
He rounded a corner, just pass Greenhouse number thirteen, and saw someone familiar— a girl with crazy, bushy, brown hair, hidden behind the unevenly trimmed rosebushes. She was wearing heavy make-up— pale with black lips and darkly lined eyes. Her brown hair was styled with bangs that framed her face, and coloured with purple streaks, with a deep indigo that contrasted nicely with her honey-brown hair. It was a striking look, pale and dark and distinct, Harry imagined this is how Muggles imagined vampires look like.
Her gold-and-red tie indicated she is a Gryffindor, which wasn't a surprise. After all, it took a lot of courage to dress like that in Hogwarts, in this most prestigious building where Pure-blood traditions reign supreme. You see, fashion served all but one purpose in New Britain. One's clothes were not meant to reflect one's individual identity (oh no, that would be crass); instead, clothing were meant to be a label, an indication of one's status, a clue indicating how a person should be treated— like a prince or a pauper— depending on their dress. So, in the wizarding world, where conformity is ideal and individuality is sin, there was only one accepted fashion style. The only correct way to dress was to emulate the Pure-bloods, with their properly extravagant robes and impossibly expensive dresses; the only way to be respected is to become rich and powerful and to become one of them.
Although Harry supposed Hermione Granger didn't care what people thought of her, because they already hated her. Despite her brilliance and excellent grades, they already labelled her as a useless, worthless Mudblood, as someone who society will never allow to excel or to prosper. Because Mudbloods are less than real wizards, and so, willing or not, they must be held within their limitations.
Harry sympathized with her, he really did. She was his friend... A truly brilliant witch... one of the few people with intellect to rival even Tom's...too bad society will never acknowledge her talent.
What a pity; what a waste... But that's the way life operates—
Harry always knew that life isn't fair; he was sure Hermione knew it too.
She took up this particular style sometimes last year. She told him she had seen this look on a Muggle music magazine and thought it intriguing. You see, Hermione Granger had a difficult time during her sixth-year, the year when they chose their advanced courses. Staring at the career options available to Muggle-borns, Hermione suddenly realized how limited was her future... and that everything she had done — getting perfect grades for five straight years and following the rules to the tee— were meaningless in the real world. The realization nearly destroyed her. Then, she rebelled the only way she could.
One day, out of the blue, she busted into the Great Hall with her new look, her face covered by pale make-up and thick eye-liners, with her normally pristine robe covered with metallic studs and chains, and her white knee-high socks replaced by a pair of black fishnet stockings. Scandalized and stunned, the whole student body stared at her as Hermione sat down and ate her breakfast in silence, no explanation offered what-so-ever. Harry thought it was hilarious, the teachers, though, were not so amused.
They tried to force her back into the standardized uniform. In response, Hermione started a hunger strike. It lasted two and half weeks, and turned Hermione into a dazed, wandering zombie. In the end, the teachers acquiesced. Harry was surprised to find out that Snape was the one who vetoed the plan to expel Hermione and gave her the reprieve. Probably the only good thing that greasy-haired bastard has ever done.
So the look stayed. And that was how Hermione Granger became famous — or rather infamous — amongst the students.
He was about to greet her when he noticed the four girls surrounding her.
Four young girls. Slytherins, about fifteen or sixteen, with their wands out and pointed toward Hermione. Identical snobby expression shown on their faces, an expression of refined disgust that pure-bloods loved, when they all scrunched up their face as if they smelled something foul right under their noses. Harry mused it was amazing that all pure-bloods can do this face— in unison — perhaps they've practised it together.
"Well, Mud-blood," spat a blonde girl with a pony-tail, "does that nasty stuff you put on your face affect your hearing? You know, in addition to being ugly as hell."
The other girls laughed. Hermione remained expressionless. She drew her wand calmly, and turned it to the blonde girl.
The girl took a step back upon seeing the wand.
She continued talking, "Listen, now... this is your last warning. STAY AWAY FROM HIM. GOT IT? I know why you dress like that... you just want his attention, don't you? You whore—"
Hermione twitched her wrist.
Harry sighed, he better do something before she kills them... or something... He didn't want to wait and end up having to find out.
"Is there a problem here? Ladies?" asked Harry as he stepped from the rosebushes. He smiled pleasantly at the girls.
They gasped in unison. The expression on their faces changed dramatically upon seeing him; all of a sudden, they went from menacing harpies to sweet little girls. Their transformations were so effective and instantaneous, that it'll impress even the most seasoned actors.
"Oh, nothing," replied the blonde girl sweetly. She batted her eye-lashes at him. "We are just talking... just some girl talk—"
"Oh?" Harry raised an eye-brow. "And... wands were so necessary in this... talk?"
"Er...That just a joke," she giggled and nodded to her friends. In response, they tucked away their wands. "No harm done, right?" said the girl to Hermione, the smile stretched so wide on her face that Harry's afraid her jaw's going to snap in half.
Hermione didn't reply, but she pocketed her wand too.
"Harry... Can I call you Harry?" continued the girl, between fits of giggles, which was very odd because Harry found nothing of this situation funny at all.
"Alright, Harry," said the girl hurriedly, after getting no response from him. "I don't believe we've been introduced. My name is Wilhelmina Wooster. My cousin is—"
"I don't particular care about your name... or cousin, madam," cut in Harry coolly. "All I care— right now — is your rude conducts toward my friend, which I must confess to be disappointed in... because I expect more from my fellow Slytherins. For example, I expect from all Slytherins, regardless of age or constitution, to have some basic manners, at least—"
The four girls stared at him in confusion. They all turned toward the blonde girl, who opened her mouth to say something, but Harry cut her off.
"Is there anything else?" asked Harry coldly. "If not, please excuse us. We do have a class to attend to... RIGHT NOW."
He glared at the blonde girl until the smile disappeared from her face. Wilhelmina bit her lip and nodded to her friends; then they all turned and scurried away quickly.
"So," said Harry as he turned toward Hermione, who stared after the retreating Slytherins with an unreadable expression. "Who are they?"
She shot him a bored look.
"Your fan club—" replied Hermione simply. Calmly, she reached down and straightened her skirt, which has been modified with black laces around the trim.
"Oh, really?" Harry grinned at her, fleshing a row of pearly white teeth. "I wasn't aware such a thing existed... I mean I know I'm brilliant and very, very, good-looking, but surely a fan club is a bit—"
"Conceited?" dead-panned Hermione, although she managed to crack a tiny smile this time. "Why, off course... But you Slytherins aren't known for your modesty, are you? Harry... don't you know that you and the other Malfoy are very popular with the younger girls? Although I doubt they admire you for your looks... even if it is some very, very good looks—"
Harry smirked back.
Ah, off course, the Potter name and the Malfoy name— the titles of two of the oldest wizarding houses in England— such prominent names are irresistible to pure-bloods, drawing them in ceaselessly, like moths to flames.
"Even so—" said Harry crossly. His eyes turned serious. "I hope the prats weren't conducting such rudeness in my name... I'll speak to them, 'Mione. I promise you that you'll not hear from them again."
During the beginning of the year, Harry had already spoken to the Slytherin boys about leaving Hermione alone, and so far, they obeyed. But he hadn't thought it necessary to do the same with the girls, and now... it looked like he should have done that first.
"Hmmm...I can handle myself," mumbled Hermione. "But...anyways... thank you."
Hermione flicked her wrist and, by their feet, the grass came alive. Some green vines slithered and retreated in waves. Upon close examination, Harry noticed that it wasn't grass at all, but a massive tangle of Devil's Snares, crawling silently away from them. They extended from the near-by greenhouse, presumably summoned there by Hermione to use as a trap against her enemies.
See, Wilhelmina-what's-her-name should thank him. He just saved her, and her little friends, from being strangled by thick bundles of Devil's Snare, which was quite the deadly plant, if one knew how to use i properly... like Hermione clearly did...
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione gently stroke the back of her right hand and he knew the Gryffindor was not in a good mood.
On the back of her right hand— her wand hand—there was a large tattoo of a brown sparrow, its head bend low and hidden by its wings as if it was ashamed of itself. This bird— this ordinary, frail creature — was the symbol of Muggle-borns. All Muggle-borns were mandated by the Ministry to get the same tattoo on the back of their right hand, and they must always expose this tattoo whenever in public. It was "for identification reasons", as declared by the Muggle-born Registration Act.
Nothing in New Britain must be left to chance. No Muggle-born must be mistaken for a real wizard, even if they just looked like anyone else with a wand. This distinction between the magical class and Muggle-borns was ingrained in society, from babies to adults, until everyone realized that, instinctively, that True-borns and Muggle-borns are naturally different... as different as night and day, as black and white, as human and ... almost human.
They were even raised separately. True-borns were raised by their families; while Muggle-borns, because no one wants them, were raised in the Ministry's Orphanages, by the kindness of the Dark Lord's will. These Orphanages were often under-manned and over-budget (according to Lucius, anyways). So, to cut cost, these institutions were mostly ran by Veelas (who, on their good days, actually have pretty passable maternal instincts) and house-elves (whose labour, you know, are free). It was a wonder Muggle-borns actually survive to adulthood with their sanity intact and their social skills functioning.
Officially, it was said that Muggles feared their magical progenies so much that they tried to burn them and the Ministry must step in to rescue "these poor, unwanted babies." However, Harry knew otherwise, because, at some of Narcissa's charity events, he saw some of these young Muggle-borns when they first arrived in the Wizarding world. They were about six or seven, freshly plucked from their parents' embrace. All flabby arms and crying mess, they huddled in a corner as pure-blood ladies gawked at them and cooed over the sad abuse they suffered. Harry saw no sign of such abuse. These kids were — mostly— flushed, healthy, well-fed and loved.
They cried for their mommies and daddies... whom they will never see again, whom they will soon forget, because all orphanages administer memory potions to the newcomers. After all, the Ministry couldn't indoctrinate someone who was loved by a family, who had an identity to hold onto. No... That'll not do... It was far better for them to forget everything, to forget themselves, and, throughout their lives, to just believe what the Ministry says.
Those kids weren't being rescued, they were being enslaved.
And that was the truth— everyone knew it, but no one spoke it.
Harry eyed Hermione, walking silently beside him, her indigo and brown hair swayed in the winter air. She had told him that she is one of the lucky ones, someone who was powerful enough to be accepted into Hogwarts. The school's reputation should be enough to secure her a future. A future... maybe not one of equality, but at least one of tolerance.
"Perhaps I'll even find something better... Happiness... Love...Change..." Hermione had told him, optimism shining through her eyes, momentarily shatters the mask she created with her make-up.
He hoped she does... They were both victims of this cruel world, and Harry felt a kinship for that.
Harry knew it was too late to save himself. Revenge is a double-edged sword, and, in truth, he didn't expect to survive his ordeal. And he didn't care—
But... Hermione... She's strong. She's better than him.
She'll find something better.
Harry stood in front of the Headmaster's office, waiting to be summoned by Snape. The letter of regret clutched in his sweaty palm. He had spent an hour carefully crafting the statement, painstakingly checking over everything to make sure it was proper, official... and impersonal. He even sealed the letter with a red wax seal, stamped with the Malfoy family sigil— a white peacock flying towards heaven.
He skipped dinner to work on this thing. So he didn't have to face Tom. Harry was determined to avoid the other boy until he figured out Tom's game plan... or at least until he was ready to speak to Tom without blushing.
The stone gargoyle swirled aside to reveal a staircase. Harry ascended it and stepped into Snape's office.
One thing was certain: of all the teachers' offices Harry had visited so far, Snape's was by far the smelliest. A distinct, bitter medical aroma lingered in the large and beautiful circular room. Harry scanned the crammed bookshelves and file cabinets for potion equipments, but he couldn't find any. Surely Snape knew better than to brew potions in this very expensive and most illustrious office space... Hmm... maybe Snape just naturally emit that particular smell.
The room was surprisingly airy and simple, designed with a sterilized functionality in mind, cold and efficient like the man who occupied it. Pale moonlight shone through the large stain-glass windows, casting soft glow on the curvaceous walls, which were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. Books and documents were neatly stacked on rows of metallic cabinets; their cold steel surface gleamed ominously. Harry's eyes naturally drew toward the highest shelves, where the collection of Hogwarts artefacts, including the sorting hat, was on display proudly behind a panel of thick glass. Harry knew those were from Voldemort's personal collection, apparently the man was quite the history buff and an avid collector too.
Harry's shoes sunk into a luxuriant Persian rug. The thick, beige rug covered the office, in its centre, a large green print of the official British seal, the snake-and-skull, was displayed pompously. Harry stepped right onto the snake's head. He forced a smile onto his lips.
Snape stared at him from behind an enormous, claw-footed desk; his lips pressed in a thin line.
"Mr. Malfoy," announced the Headmaster clearly. "How may I help you?"
"Headmaster," Harry bowed his head low and offered his letter, holding it forth with both hands, to Snape. "I have come to offer my sincerest apologies... I realized that I have behaved inexcusably this past Sunday... I am here to make amends... and to accept my punishments."
Snape scrutinized him for a moment longer, before accepting the letter. Harry kept his head low, but felt the prickly gaze on the back of his neck.
"You understand a simple apology will not suffice," asserted Snape, tossing the letter on the table. "You have broken Ministry law by wondering to the Muggle world. I am afraid that such mistakes cannot be simply paved over with an apology... no matter who your family is... or was—"
Harry bit his lips, but swallowed the retort. He hated it when the potion master talked about his family like that... so carelessly... as if he knew them.
"I understand," answered Harry quietly.
He tried his best to look guilty, but it was so hard to remain civil in front of Snape. Those dark eyes always seemed to see right through his lies, piercing with the steel gaze of a seasoned soldier, a master at detecting— and destroying— spies. Harry felt so young at that moment, standing in the Headmaster's office, with the Ministry's sigil by his feet, constantly reminding him of the omniscient presence of his enemies.
He unconsciously checked his Occlumency shield and made sure it was intact. Remembering Tom's advice, Harry took a step forward and tried to speak with all the sincerity he could master.
"I understand if... if you feel the need to report me to the Ministry, Professor. I... I've made a dreadful mistake... It was my... arrogance and my ignorance that led me to believe that I was special, that I was exempt from the rules... I thought it would be fun to break the rules, just to prove... just to prove that I can... But since— since then —I had time to reflect... and ... and I have realized that I was wrong. I am already seventeen —I am an adult, I am a Malfoy, and I am a wizard of Hogwarts— and that... that means I must take responsibility for my actions. So I am here to accept my responsibility. I cannot retread the past, sir, I can only reassure you it will not happen again."
Snape held his eyes for a moment, before sighing deeply, and he pulled open his drawer.
"The Ministry will not be necessary. You are lucky, Mr. Malfoy, for I am a good friend of your... father. I will let this offense go — just this once. So don't let me catch you in such foolishness again—"
"I won't." Then, Harry added silently, let you catch me.
"However, your excursions with the Weasley twins must—"
"It'll stop, Professor. Immediately," answered Harry firmly.
Snape didn't look so convinced by his words. The sallow man paused for a moment, seemingly lost in his own thoughts; then a sort of resignation washed over his face. Snape withdrew three books from his drawer and dropped them on the desk.
"I should ask you to stay out of trouble, but such a condition seemed impossible to the Potters," said the Headmaster, slowly as if every word was painful to him. "However, it is my job to look after the welfare of all Hogwarts' students, and that includes... you. Whether you believe it or not, I do have your best interest in mind— Mr. Malfoy — and I am trying to guide you down the right path."
Snape pushed the books toward him, and indicated for him to take them.
Harry's eyes widened. He couldn't believe this! Was Snape offering him a truce? Or has the lack of shampooing finally driven the man mad?
Harry couldn't find the right words, so he said nothing. He leaned forward and grabbed the three books. They were his— the Muggle calculus textbooks, that he had purchased from the Weasley twins, and Hermione's gift— the three books that Snape had confiscated two nights ago. Harry tapped his fingers on the print volumes. They looked undamaged, even the Muggle magazine— the funny one that Fred gave him — was untouched.
He decided to get out of the office before Snape changes his mind.
"Thank you, professor. I promise your faith will not be in vain—"
A loud popping noise interrupted Harry mid-sentence. A tall, slim figure suddenly materialized in front of him and knocked Harry off his feet.
Black cloak, as dark as the night itself, covered the man from head-to-toe. He had on a thin mask, not a white one like the iconic Death Eater's mask, but a black porcelain mask, flawless and smooth in its curvatures, that poked out from under a fur-lined hood. The man was a head taller than Harry, wiry but sturdy, with a broad shoulder that spoke of authority. Nothing on him gave a clue to his personage, not a pin or a badge or anything distinct could be found on the gloomy cloak. The man stood silently, a column of fading shadows, well concealed in appearance but accompanied with an undeniable presence, dark and ominous like a predator of the night.
He offered a gloved hand to Harry and helped him off the floor. Harry stared at him curiously.
Did this man just apparate at Hogwarts? No, that can't be—
All colour drained from Snape's face. He stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair.
"My lord—" rushed the Headmaster, his face deathly pale. "I — I wasn't expecting you this evening."
Harry's emerald eyes widened. Immediately, he tried to pull his hand free, but the man remained immovable. A small spark from the man's dark, dominant magic leaked through their contact and jumped toward Harry's hand, causing his arms to tremble. The books slipped from his hands.
They plopped onto the rug with a soft thud and flipped open. The thin, glossy Muggle magazine landed on top and opened to a large photo spread. On it, in a sizeable colour print, three scantly dressed Muggle women beamed at them; their tanned, exposed fleshes squeezed into skin-tight bunny suits and their legs tangled together with an awkward eagerness.
All three men stared down at magazine, its plain Muggleness painfully alien in this pristine office.
A deadly silence filled the room.
"Well, well, well—" said the man, while still holding onto Harry's hand; his voice, a soft hiss that cut through Harry's skin and made the boy shudder. "How very amusing... What do we have here?"
Harry wanted to laugh as he stared directly into a pair of familiar perilous red eyes.
He wondered if fate do truly hates his guts. And he wondered if he'll go down in history as the first person to be killed by Voldemort — personally — for possession of lewd pictures.
Author's rambling:
Ah, Harry, so next time Fred offer you free porn (why does that sound so wrong?), you shouldn't accept it :)
Sorry for the delay! I got stuck on this chapter for some reason... maybe this is what they call Writer's block, or in my case, Writer's attack of laziness. But, seriously, I did get stuck (I also got stuck on chapter 9, some chapters are just hard to write)... hopefully that won't happen too often.
Anyways, I'm a little concerned about Goth!Hermione... My goal remainsto keep everyone in character —to the best of my ability—so Hermione is goth on the outsider and bookworm on the inside... I just dunno how that's gonna work... Also, since I am too lazy to do research, she'll not be representative of the gothic sub-culture.
Special thanks to my reviewers— fifnyr, Dogsitter, thebellowingpixie, h, Colette Hyuga, , EMERALD69, sheetamoon, Lulu V, slytherin's daughter, Relent1ess, Yume, C Elise, phoebe turner, Shadoween.
And a huge shout-out to my BETA, Krysania !