Chapter 25: The Ogre
Second year started in a manner exactly the opposite of the way first year had started for Harry. For one thing, everyone seemed quite glad to see him. For another, Harry had a family again, albeit an odd one in the form of two werewolf godfathers who were convicted of treason. And lastly, Hermione Granger of the Malfoy's was actually dreading a class.
"You don't understand," Hermione tried to explain at Monday breakfast, "He's a monster. He shouldn't be allowed anywhere near children, women, animals, or anyone without advanced knowledge of defensive magic."
"So then how'd he get hired?" Clyde asked, looking less than impressed with Hermione's description so far. "There's got to be some sort of standard."
She shook her head.
"Most of the truly awful things he done were under the authorization of the Court, so he doesn't have a criminal record. Plus, he's a former Death Eater. That gives him a lot of push and shove in the system. Chances are he bribed Lestrange and together they bullied the school board to hiring him."
Harry was only half listening. He had the feeling he was being watched. This wasn't an unusual feeling lately, but the uneasy tingle at the base of his neck was. Discreetly, he tried to determine the source. Ron was his first suspect, but the redhead was too busy shoving eggs into his mouth to bother with Harry. Following the line of Slytherins, he inevitably found Tom. The older boy seemed to be doing well for himself, chatting up several other fifth years as if he'd known them since their first. After a moment, Tom glanced his way as if sensing him, and he moved along to study the teacher's table. Voldemort was absent, as was Lestrange. Snape was glowering at a couple of Hufflepuffs. Beside him, however, was McNair.
And he was looking right at him.
Geh.
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They had all of first period Herbology to prepare themselves for DA&D, but it wasn't enough. When they got to the second period class, they found the room transformed. All the windows had been closed, and the only light was a series of faerie lights floating about the room. There weren't enough, and the entire room was thrown into shadows and strange looming shapes. More than one student had to cast a Lumos charm to find a seat without hurting themselves.
Despite the gloom, those Gryffindors who hadn't been warned seemed positively chipper, hoping for a teacher with a little more passion for the subject than their last. Most of the Slytherins seemed to know better. They didn't appear as apprehensive as Hermione, but they were tense and Draco favored sitting beside Hermione for once instead of with his House mates. Harry took up her other side and kept his wand in his lap, wishing he's worn the arm guards with the pop latch for his wand Sirius had given him.
The time for classes came and went, but their teacher did not appear. Hermione didn't looked relieved at all, and when Harry turned to her she hushed him with her finger and shook her head. Minutes passed and the students became increasingly restless. The more time that passed the more impatient they became, until they were muttering mutiny.
"This is bullocks," muttered Seamus Finnigan. "If he's not going to show, why do we have to stay? I'm going to fall asleep soon if someone doesn't turn the bloody lights on."
"If he's not here in five minutes I'm going to leave," bragged Ron Weasley.
This was the general talk for the next five minutes, after which everyone looked towards Ron expectantly. The redhead shifted uncomfortably under their combined expectation, and finally stood and made his way to the door.
He gave them all a contemptuous sneer and grabbed the door nob. Then he stopped. Slowly, he let go of the door and lifted his hand to look at it. He stared at it, seemingly mesmerized, for a moment before he started to scream.
"Get them off! Get them off!"
Ron was now smacking his hand against his robes, becoming increasingly frantic. Hermione and Draco came to his side. Calling forth a Lumos charm, they inspected his trembling hand but there was nothing there but clean flesh over bone.
"Get them off!" Ron kept crying, "Bloody hell, they're climbing up my arm!"
"There's nothing there," Draco insisted.
"I can feel them!"
"It's only a spell, you need to calm down," Hermione said, her mind reeling with possible curses and counter curses.
"Fuck you, you bloody cow! Just get them OFF!"
"What do you see, Weasley? What's crawling up your arm?" Draco demanded.
"Spiders! Hundred and thousands of spiders."
"Aracnisortia?" Draco suggested to Hermione.
"No, that summons actual spiders. He's only hallucinating them. It's an illusion spell, I think... I don't know. I don't know!"
"Well, there's a first time for everything," Natalie said at her desk, looking vaguely amused. It was no secret that she loathed Ron Weasley (the feeling was mutual), and a little freak out was no reason for alarm in her opinion.
Draco suddenly looked thoughtful. "I wonder... Crabbe, go look for a teacher."
The beefy Slyterins who had been chuckling stupidly during the entire event, did as he was told. Hermione was about to protest, but Draco covered her mouth with his hand. The moment Crabbe touched the door, he let out a surprised yelp that soon became full out screaming.
"Stop looking at me! Go away!"
He kicked and stomped at the floor.
"Is it spiders?" Draco asked, finally releasing Hermione.
"No, it's eyes! Eyeballs everywhere!"
"Draco, come on! They're starting to spread!" Ron pleaded, nearing hysterics.
"Keep your mouth shut, Weasley," the blonde Slytherin hissed, "Or they'll get in your mouth. It's a type of fear curse, not a illusion curse. Phobius Nostica!"
Ron stopped flailing and Crabbe followed soon after, looking around themselves in growing relief.
Someone started clapping from the other side of the room. The windows suddenly burst open, flooding the room in light and blinding everyone. The clapping continued, moving about the room until it was at the very front. A deep, gravely voice began to speak.
"Well done, Mr. Malfoy. Not only were you able to determine the sort of curse, you knew the counter curse while under pressure. Twenty points to Slytherins. And you, Ms. Granger..." His voice was suddenly contemptuous. "Flailing about like a fool and throwing out random assumptions. You're counter curses for hallucination curses or Aracnisortia would have only made things worse. Thirty points from Gryffindor!"
Harry could still only see vague shapes, but it was enough to see his friend was ashamed. He seriously wanted to point out that Draco's first suggestion had been wrong and only Hermione's correction had prevented him from casting the wrong counter-curse. Additionally, Crabbe was beyond stupid to touch the door and Ron hadn't exactly been helping himself. No one else in the entirety of the room (and reluctantly he admitted that included himself) had any idea what to do, so why was he picking on her for trying? What was the point of this whole fiasco?
"Now get back to your seats, I have a lecture to give. Not there, Granger! You obviously need extra attention. You're sitting up front."
The students started to return to their seats and rearrange themselves, and Harry used the confusion to move his seat beside her again. His vision was now mostly clear and he could get a better look at Hermione. She was sitting stiffly, focused on not crying or ducking her head in humiliation. He wanted so badly to comfort her, but he didn't dare bring down another wave of McNair's scorn.
It was all for not.
"Potter! What is the name of the curse I placed on the door?"
"I do not know, professor."
"I thought you were the school's shining new star? Surely, you know something so simple?"
The man's mouth was filled with sarcasm, and as leaned in close to sneer, Harry could see it was full of rotten teeth as well. Harry eyed him cautiously, his hand tightening on his wand.
"No, I'm afraid not, professor."
The man gave him a rotten grin.
"Well, we can't have that, now can we? A two foot long essay on The Phobia Curse due by Wednesday, Potter."
The man turned stalked back to the front of the classroom, and Harry hoped that the worst was over. No such luck. There was very brief, very rude introduction by McNair, who basically stated he was the government's torture expert and if they didn't do well in the class they were soon going to understand what that meant. There was no syllabus or assigned reading. If you came to class and didn't automatically know what he wanted than it was going to be on your head. The one foolish Slytherin who said it was unfair got detention for a week.
And then there was the lecture. The very least that could be said was that the man knew his material. He went into curses in great detail. He seemed particularly fond of the Bludgeoning curse (self explanatory) and the Internal Fire curse (which melted one's insides without touching the skin), and had a whole series of visual aids to demonstrate to the entire class. When everyone was finally released, it was with no homework, but a promise of practical application that Wednesday.
In a very subdued manner, everyone made their way to the dungeons for third period Potions. Snape's usually intimidating presence was positively tame in comparison with McNair's, and he seemed none too pleased with their lack of fear. He was even less pleased when the blubber worms they were to be slicing for their potions resulted in over half the class vomiting into their cauldrons (if they were lucky) and the other half unable to even attempt to poke at the slimy creatures that rather resembled one of the illustrations of McNair's lecture.
Harry (who had removed his glasses during DA&D to avoid traumatizing himself after the first three or four illustrations), Hermione, and Draco (who had both wisely avoided eating at breakfast) were of the few the had managed not to vomit and at least attempted to dice their worms. They were held in class after the Potion's Master banished everyone from the room to complete the class on Saturday morning.
"What is going on? Is there some sort of contagion going around? Have the Weasley's been giving you candy?" the man demanded.
The three students shared an uneasy look. None of them were certain if they should say anything. McNair was a teacher and a former Slytherin, and Snape hardly seemed the type to hold terrorizing students against someone. But Harry was feeling bad for not being able to help Hermione, and if there was anyone who might actually have the compulsion and the power to protect her than it would be her godfather. He looked the man directly in the eye... an invitation that would not force him to reaccount Hermione's humiliation in front of her.
Snape took him up on the offer, and Harry felt his presence slither around his mind. He tried to call up the events of a mere two hours before, but his thoughts jumped about randomly until the master legilimens managed to pin down the ones he wanted.
His expression turned positively evil.
The Potion's Master stalked away from them, Hermione and Draco baffled over what had overcome their godfather. The man stalked into on the of the back rooms and a moment later he returned, wearing a completely different set. Unlike his crisply pressed teaching robes, these new robes were layered in plates of stiff leather similar to protective gear under Harry's Quidditch robes. Somehow Harry didn't think the man was going to go play Quidditch.
"The three of you return to your common rooms until lunch.," he commanded, and then disappeared again.
"What's happening?" Harry asked, looking to the two siblings. They were sharing a worried, although hopeful look. Then Draco actually smirked.
"I think our godfather's gone to straighten out McNair, personally."
"Oh, no, this is bad. He could get fired for this!" she said, beginning to pace. "Lestrange will use this as an excuse to sack him for sure!"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Draco said, still smirking. "There's no way she can fire Severus with out You-Know-Who's go ahead, and there's no way he'll side against Severus over McNair. He's been on the outs with the Dark Lord since he started questioning his muggleborn policies. Father says its only a matter of time before McNair's given to the werewolves, and Greyback will kill him for sure. They've been trying to kill each other for decades."
"That's all well and good, Draco, but Voldemort's not here. He's organizing some new project down in Bristol."
Draco just shrugged, unconcerned.
Harry placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"Hey, don't worry about it. Snape's a Slytherin. He wouldn't do something rash. I bet he's come up with at least half a dozen ways to blame the whole thing on Lestrange, McNair, or me."
She smiled a little at that, but soon went back to fretting.
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McNair and Snape were absent from lunch. So were many of the first year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs who took DA&D first period, and the second year Slytherins and Gryffindors. Those third year students who had the already infamous class reported it as extremely boring, as they'd been forced to read their books through the entire period while their teacher sat glowering at everything from his desk.
"What do you think Snape did to him?" Harry wondered out loud. "Do you think it's Imperius?"
Hermione shook her head. "Who knows? Regardless, this can't go on forever. We won't learn anything."
"At least we'll still be alive. Besides, Snape's starting that Dueling Club, remember? I bet we'll learn lots of stuff... lots of painful, humiliating fun will be had by all... all Slytherins at least. Cheer up."
He went on to distract her with absurd speculations about their other classes. Would McGonagall teach them how to transfigure people into furniture? Would Toure make them read Merlin's chronicles... all two thousand pages of it? Could Snape brew a potion that let him go without sleeping for a week? It wasn't long before she was pointing out the implausibility of such things and then going to full out lecture mode. The more she talked the less she worried and the less depressed she seemed. It was what Harry wanted; for Hermione to realize that, despite McNair's hurtful words and her own moment of ignorance, she was smart and competent and a good witch.
He was even willing to sit through her endless monologues to achieve that.
"Excuse me."
They both turned to see Tom standing behind them, a book in one hand.
"I apologize for the interruption, but I was wondering if I might borrow Potter for a moment?"
"Oh, of course," Hermione said, and turning back to her friend she smiled, "Thanks Harry. I needed that."
He blushed, knowing she'd seen right through him. Escaping to the corridor just outside the Great Hall, he and Tom found a place to speak in relative privacy. Harry had to admit he was surprised the Slytherin had sought him out. Even though Slytherins tended to overlook him being a Gryffindor (except during Quidditch matches of course), they rarely overlooked that he was still a kid. Aside from Morgenson and Whitehall's attempted murder, few of the older students wanted anything to do with him, and was Tom already becoming so popular he had assumed he would follow that trend. After all, what could he possibly have in common with a muggle-raised Gryffindor three years his junior?
"I heard some of the second years talking about your Dark Arts class this morning," Tom said, "They said he took a lot of points from the other Gryffindors, but only assigned you an essay."
Harry frowned.
"Yeah, a two foot essay due on Wednesday."
"Do you know why he did that?" It didn't sound like a question, but an expectation. Harry wasn't sure what he wanted, so he just shook his head.
"Students receive a tally in their school records for the number of points earned and lost and from what classes. He didn't deduct points because he knows you have the Dark Lord's favor, and if he deducts too many points than he will be seen as tormenting you. Essays won't go into your record and he can assign as many of those as he wants, tormenting you that way."
Harry hadn't thought of that. It actually seemed pretty absurd. Why would the Dark Lord be interested in his student file? Of course, logically, the man shouldn't have any interest in him at all. Damn parselmouth ability. Damn Nagini.
He sighed.
"It doesn't matter. House points or essays or detentions, the man is a sadist and he'll find a way to torment me along with everyone else."
"You could always tell the Dark Lord," Tom pointed out.
"No way. I'm not going to go running to the dictator of Wizarding Britain every time someone is mean to me. Half the school will be dead by the end of term. I can handle this on my own."
The elder boy smirked and handed him a book.
"This is from my personal library. I book marked the section on the Phobia Curse. It should help you on your essay."
"Oh, thank you, but... Isn't it valuable? It looks really old."
"Don't worry, I have plenty of protection and preservation spells on it. It was just sitting in my trunk getting dusty anyway."
Harry ran his fingers over the aged leather binding, feeling and smelling the age of it. It was well over three hundred years old. He looked up to find Tom smiling at him with some amusement, and he was struck with this intense feeling of deja vu. He had seen that exact expression somewhere before, and though he couldn't remember where exactly he knew it hadn't been from someone he trusted.
"Tom, why are you being so nice to me? I don't have anything against Slytherins in particular, but I know their relationships outside of family are always more practical than friendly."
Tom blink, then smiled sheepishly. It was cute, and Harry knew it was fake, but couldn't help but be charmed nonetheless.
"You're right, Harry, I am very much a Slytherin. I do not befriend just anyone, and having said that I think you should understand that you are not just anyone. You have a destiny. I have one too. When our fates intertwine, and they inevitably will, I would not have it be as enemies. I rather like you after all."
With that, Tom gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and wandered back to the Great Hall. Harry stood in the corridor, staring dumbly at the door. He looked down at the book, opening it to the marked page. Sure enough there was six pages worth of material on the Phobia Curse. More than enough to complete his essay. He shook his head and smiled.
"Slytherins."
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That evening, Severus was just freshening up for dinner in his private quarters when Bellatrix showed up at his door. The tone of the wards she set off suggested she was irritated. He took his time answering the door, noting with some amusement that the longer he delayed the more beautifully the flutish sound became.
He finally allowed her entrance, and she stormed in. She was ready to rage at him and threaten him and tell him he was fired, but the tea set placed on the coffee table made her pause. There were two cups set out.
She gave her rival an assessing glare, but he ignored her in favor of making himself comfortable in one of the sitting chairs.
"Would you like some tea, Bella? It's almost as black as your heart, just how you like it," he offered. She sneered, but took a seat across from him. For all her anger at him, she had not come here to cross wands, and when it came to wit he would always outmatch her. The pretense of civility was necessary for the games they played.
"No thank you, Severus. I do not intend to stay long. I trust you know why I am here?"
"I imagine it has something to do with McNair's brief stint through the hospital wing. How's his kidney, by the way? I admit I got carried away with that particular curse."
"Still turned to stone last I checked. That silly medi-witch is such a fool when it comes to such curses. He managed to finish the school day, though he wasn't much use to the students."
"Madam, his deficits as a teacher ensured that before I ever sent a curse at him. Are you aware of his curriculum?"
"Of course, I am. I reviewed his syllabus myself. It was perhaps a little ambitious, but after Quirrel I thought that would be a welcome change of pace. Why, Severus? Have our little darlings come whining to you about their big mean teacher? How dare he make them think?! How dare he make them work?!"
"How dare he send them on to my class incapable of brewing a simple potion without vomiting? Either you're as inept at judging suitable class subjects as you are teachers or the old ghoul lied to you. Regardless, once again you've left me to handle your mess."
Bellatrix stared at him, stunned. Never before had he dared to talk to her in such a blatantly disrespectful manner. Not since she'd become headmistress at least.
"Why you impudent little grease spot. I should have you flogged and thrown into the moat," she hissed. Severus lifted an amused brow.
"No doubt you'll join me there shortly after. Oh, Bella, I don't know what McNair gave you or what he promised or what he has on you, but you never should have let him into the school. After all your mistakes with Potter last year, our Lord already sees you as a fool and now in your incompetence you hire a man not only unsuited to the position, but also in disfavor."
"McNair was a loyal and dedicated warrior during the war-"
Severus knew he had just won the battle. The moment she had gone on the defense, she had lost perspective on his mistakes. He could easily have been reported and punished for attacking McNair, even temporarily suspended from the school with Voldemort's approval. The Dark Lord may hate McNair, but he deplored lack of self control even more. And that was what had happened with Severus.
He had seen in Potter's mind the emotional violation of his goddaughter and then the unforgivable mutilation of knowledge. The disgusting neophyte introduced the Dark Arts as some sort of torture device, required only for the suffering and pain it inflicted. He neglected totally the discipline, the medical benefits, the protection, and the beauty of the material. If the man continued to infect the students with his notion of the subject they would grow up with a deep spiritual aversion to or twisted concept of it.
And in his anger and indignation, he had adorned his battle robes, unused since the war and had gone to teach him what a man with the true understanding of Dark Arts could do. He had succeeded too. McNair had sworn, under the extreme throws of pain and the promise of worse, to change his teaching technique and he would not so much as glare at his goddaughter again.
He held little hope for the class, but that was why he was holding Dueling Club. Listed as a club, be could not force the students to attend and being who he was he knew he could not compel them with his personality either. But if he could gather enough of them, endue them with the knowledge and appreciation that McNair never could, there would still be some hope for the future of the art at and beyond Hogwarts.
"- and he has extensive practical experience-"
"Bella, just stop. I'm more than willing to overlook McNair's many failings, if in exchange you allow me some leniency in... mentoring him. He's a new teacher after all. A few mistakes in the beginning is perfectly understandable."
She wanted to say no. McNair was her responsibility and she wanted to handle the matter as was her right as headmistress, but in doing so she would have to admit her knowledge of his lack of qualifications. That would give weight to Severus' accusation of bribery and blackmail. If Voldemort learned of Severus' increased responsibility with both potions, the Dueling club, and the dark arts class, that would count once again in his favor and in her disfavor. But it was the only option. At least if she gave him what he wanted, Severus was in a position to make a mistake and ruin himself. If she had to help him along with one, she wasn't going to object.
"Fine. Do what you want, but be discreet. I will not have the students believing their teachers are not united, and attempting to play them against each other. Who told you about McNair in the first place?"
"Someone I know that has experience with discretion. You needn't know their name. Cheers."
He relaxed back into his chair, taking a sip of his tea to hide his smile as Bellatrix stormed out of his quarters. He would have to be extra careful from now on, he knew. He was in open war with the headmistress, and though he knew himself her superior in wit and planning, she had the benefit of power and position and popularity. She would try something before the year was through.
There was a familiar and thrilling sense of danger lingering about.
Someone might very well die.
It made him nostalgic.