A/N: Hello! Welcome to chapter twenty-three! Gosh it feels like it's always Yule in this story.
Love Always,
Eli x
Disclaimer: I do not own the works herein, all characters from the Harry Potter Universe belong to JK Rowling, and all characters, storylines, situations, plots and the like do not belong to me. I make no money from this work.
Warnings: Rated M for situations, swearing, violence, sexual scenes... The whole lot, basically. Dumbledore Bashing, too. Severus doesn't have the best time, bless him.
The Ghost of Grimmauld Place
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sunday 24th December 1972
Potter Manor, Library
James was sulking, which was good. Hermione liked that he was sulking – it told her that something had finally gotten through to him. And for once, that something hadn't been their mother.
No, it had been one Remus Lupin who had given James a good seeing-to about the prank James had rigged up in Hermione's room directly following the King's Cross debacle, as revenge for her lack of assistance. He'd noticed her foul mood the minute he'd arrived that morning, and immediately took James aside to give him a bollocking. Hermione had been shocked to hear his vehement defence; shocked and flattered, as she would be the first to admit she hadn't spent very much time with Remus. The sensation of remembering-but-not that came with his presence was highly uncomfortable, and as the only times she'd seen him he'd been mindlessly following her brother, she hadn't seen any evidence to say he might be anything other than James's sycophant. She should have known better; James liked admiration, but he would never admit into his inner circle people who couldn't keep up with him, nor people who would be afraid to stand against him on occasion. Flawed he may be, but he was self-aware in a way most twelve-year-olds were not.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, appearing by the side of her armchair. She glanced up from the book she was reading – The Flaws of The Animagi – to peer over at him. His eyes were earnest, and he shifted impatiently from foot to foot. "Remus says – oi! I was doing it, wasn't I?" He glared over his shoulder after the bright orange of a weak hex hit his arm, hissing and gritting his teeth. Hermione tilted her head a little, bringing Remus into view behind James, dressed in an oversized cardigan that swamped his skinny form and with a maternal scowl on his face.
"You can't start an apology with 'Remus told me to'," he snapped exasperatedly. "That's not how it works!"
"But you did," James replied, rolling his eyes. Remus let out a little growling noise, looking sort of like Dorea did when she tried to teach Hermione to 'glide, darling, pureblood women glide, they don't stomp'. Huffing, James turned back around to Hermione. "Right, well – I'm sorry. I was frustrated and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."
"Apology accepted," Hermione replied graciously, earning her own smile from Remus, which she returned brightly, adding in his direction, "you should know that James doesn't take to 'manners' very well. If you're installing yourself as his conscience, you're setting yourself up for disaster."
"I figured as much," he replied wryly, shooting James a dark look, which had the other boy scoffing and throwing his hands in the air.
"That being said," Hermione winked, "good job."
He preened a little under the praise. "Thanks! Right then, we'll leave you to it. Come on, James."
"No…" James whined, stamping his feet and crossing his arms. "I want to stay with Hermione!"
"You do?" Hermione and Remus asked at the same time, sharing incredulous looks.
"Of course I do. You're my sister." He looked at her as if she was being dim, which she didn't think was particularly fair considering the lack of time they'd actually spent together at school. She couldn't deny the creeping warmth in her chest though, or the hope that encouraged her to grab the opportunity with both hands and never let go of.
"Okay," she said, closing her book and setting it carefully on the end table. "What do you want to do?"
Potter Manor, Gardens
She was having fun!
It seemed ridiculous to be so amazed, but she was! She was having fun!
"Hurry up, 'Mi!" James shrieked from the other side of their trench, his hands filling with ammunition which he promptly hurled over the wall they'd spent an hour building, ducking back down and listening for a thwack that would denote hitting his target. "Come on, come on! We're running out of -"
"Here!" She cried, lunging through the ditch with her arms around her painstakingly sculpted ammo, protecting it from harm. "Quick, before they melt!"
Together they dumped the lot out of her folded-up coat, James grabbing handfuls and creeping back to his spy-hole. He pressed his face to the gap, holding up a finger for silence. There was nothing except the whistling of the wind in the trees and the pattering of the snowfall, and the faintest far-off sounds of their parents whipping up dinner in the Manor kitchen. If she leaned out of her hole, she would be able to see the shining of the open kitchen windows across the stretch of garden, but she wouldn't dare do that now. They were at war.
"Is this enough, do you think?" she asked James in a whisper. He looked at the pile for a split-second, his nod melting into the movement to look back through his spy-hole.
"Aye," he murmured back. "Where are you, you little buggers?"
There were a few moments of silence before Hermione huffed, her breathe coming as a mist. "They're waiting for us to make a move."
"They'll get impatient soon," James said assuredly, nodding at his own statement.
"Or, they'll just wait." Hermione bit her lip, searching through her mind for things that would help them, but the adrenaline rushing beneath her skin was making her mind fog, all focus on the here-and-now. Strategics had never been her strong suit, either. They'd always had Ron for that.
She startled, blinking rapidly. Ron? Who was Ron? Shaking her head to clear it, the name wouldn't leave. But – she didn't know a Ron. Or, she was fairly certain she didn't. She rattled through her head in search of more information but it simply disappeared into the fog at the back of her mind, the one which she had never been able to penetrate, though not for a lack of trying. The one where all of the information about her life previous to the Potters lived.
"Hermione?" James's voice snapped her out of it, and she met his hazel eyes warily, wondering if he'd ask. He didn't, instead looking as jittery as she felt. "Why don't they attack," he asked desperately. His fingers were twitching, and he looked like he was on the brink of throwing his load at the next thing to move.
She froze, a smirk growing on her face. "Get ready," she commanded, grabbing her wand in her hand.
"Oi, you can't do that, no magic allowed, remember?"
"No offensive magic, James," Hermione corrected. "I'm not going to use magic on them, so it's allowed."
He frowned at her, and then seemed to realise what she meant, light growing in his eyes. "Brilliant, 'Mi," he murmured wonderously. "Alright, I'm ready."
He moved himself into position, snowballs organized at his sides like row upon row of troops. Hermione shuffled her way to the opposite side of the trench, where she had a clear shot of the bushes close by, just in front of her. Pointing her wand, she whispered "bombarda!"
The bush collapsed, shaking its snow-laden branches as if someone had charged into the back of it. Immediately, their foes hurled their ammunition in that direction, standing up behind their wall so that their heads and shoulders were visible as they shouted their attack. Grinning, James shot Hermione a wink as he used this new view to launch a counter-attack they couldn't prepare for, not with them facing in the wrong direction. As they fell both she and James leaped over their wall, charging their opponent's den without mercy, still flinging snowballs as they let out a joint cry of victory.
"You cheats!" Sirius spluttered, clawing snow out of his face to scowl up at them from his position on his back. Hermione was gratified to note that the snow on his chest from the ball which had overbalanced him was the deep blue she'd dyed hers. After being spattered with silver-and-black for the last hour and a half, Hermione was of the opinion that Sirius deserved all he got.
"Don't be a sore loser, mate," James chortled as he offered the larger boy a hand up, which he declined with a scowl. "Just because you got beaten by a girl…"
"Oi!" Hermione snapped, shoving James backwards so that he stumbled, still laughing. "This girl is the only reason you won!"
"We won because they're useless, and we're the best!" James crowed, wrapping an arm around Hermione and scrubbing his fist in her hair. "What did I tell you, little sister? Potters always win!"
"Yeah, yeah," Hermione snorted, inwardly glowing but outwardly punching him on the arm without real force. "I see your head is as big as ever."
"It's the haircut," James parried, smoothing his hands over his hair. "Mum went a bit over the top."
Snorting, Hermione went to reply but was cut off by James's face lighting up as he looked over her shoulder. "Pete!" He cried. Sirius jumped up too, joining the shout. Remus, sat against the wall, rolled his eyes but got to his feet more slowly, turning to face the newcomer. Hermione did the same.
She didn't like Peter. It wasn't a sort of apathy, like she had with most people, it was a genuine, bone-deep dislike. From the moment she'd met him he'd made her skin crawl with his watery eyes and smarmy smirk. She didn't say anything to James, because she knew how irritated she'd be if he started passing judgement on her choice of company, but there was something there… something untrustworthy. He was the sort to dither endlessly without getting passionate about anything, always sucking up to James, agreeing blindly, always making sure to be at the back in case of a fight. Hermione knew she'd said earlier that James didn't allow sycophants into his inner circle, but that was Peter's magic – he agreed nearly all the time, except when he didn't; he'd disagree with small things rather than the large things. He would never turn around and say "James, leave Snape alone" or "James, do your homework" but he would say "actually, James, I don't fancy treacle tart, I reckon I'll have some chocolate instead". And those sorts of things don't harm a friendship. It only ingratiated him further by giving him the barest hint of spine.
He strolled over the snow towards them, buried in layers and layers of jumpers, jackets and coats, with a hood over a woolly hat and gloved hands shoved deep in his pockets. He almost fell into a Badger Sett once, but nimbly hopped out of the way with an agility that didn't fit his rather pudgy form. "James!" he called back, a smile spread wide over his cheeks. "What's this? Snowball fight?"
"Potters vs. Outsiders," James told him as he arrived at the group, all of them exchanging half-hugs in the way of teenage boys uncomfortable with their bodies. Peter turned to Hermione for a cuddle after they had all greeted one another, his eyes glinting, but she just stepped back, her face set. She didn't miss the 'you see?' look Peter shot to James, nor the slight hardening of the edges of James's mouth in response. "We just finished, but we can go another round if you like? You don't mind, do you, Hermione?" James peered beseechingly at his sister.
"I don't mind," she ground out, glaring at Peter. "I can still kick your arses no matter how many you have on the team."
"What?" Peter squinted around at them. "It seems unfair if I'm on Sirius and Remus's team, all of us being lads. You know," he turned to Hermione, a weird expression on his face. "Us being stronger than lasses and all."
"Good point," James said brightly, Sirius nodding knowingly at his side. "It really wouldn't be fair on us, 'Mi. We'd lose easily."
She gaped at her brother in shock. "Have you forgotten how roundly we just trounced them?" she asked. "For Merlin's sake, James, we don't need his help – I certainly don't, anyway. I do well enough even being the weak little girl I am." She shot those last words at Peter with a poisonous look. His eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Yeah, but you cheated," Sirius said in that slow way he used when he was explaining something. "If you hadn't cheated, we'd have won, fair and square, because your team was at a disadvantage." Seeing her glare turned on him, he stumbled on, "not 'cause you're a girl or nothing, but 'cause you're younger than us and… well, yeah, weaker, too."
"Far be it for me to be a disadvantage," she spat, her face heating up with rage.
"Aw, come on, 'Mi! You know we didn't mean it like that!" James whined, reaching for her, but she spun out of his grasp, clambering up the incline to the rest of the garden.
"I think you did mean it 'like that', James," she growled, her eyes scanning the four of them, before she turned away with a snarl of disgust. "I don't want to play anymore, I have letters to write. You lot have fun."
There was a few minutes of silence as she stormed through the thick snow to the house, but it didn't last long. By the time she was seated at her desk, steadfastly attempting to ignore the scene down below, they had started up again – this time with Peter in the trench with James, and Hermione left out. Endeavouring to ignore their shrieks and laughs, she inked up a quill and started her letters.
Thursday 28th December 1972
Potter Manor, Dining Room
"Letters for you, dear," Dorea trilled as she glided into the room where breakfast waited on the tables. James lifted a hand to take the bundle from her, but only got a slap on the hand instead. "Not you, darling, your sister."
"Hermione?" James asked, his tone unflatteringly incredulous. "Who's writing you? Ow!" He glared at Remus, who was innocently eating his full English without even a glance up.
"I do have friends," Hermione replied snidely, smiling at her mother when she handed her the thick bundle of letters. "Thank you, Mum. Maybe," she turned to James again. "If you spent less time joined at the hip with your mates, you'd get letters too."
He stuck his tongue out at her over the table, to which she responded by scrunching up her nose and crossing her eyes. Truly, around James she was the height of maturity. A sharp word from Charlus put an end to the posturing, and she looked down at her letters. There were the usual, from Dorcas and Marlene, both updating her on the Yule they'd spent in Dor's family getaway on Loch Achray with a collection of the local Wizarding Clans, and their exploration of the Trossachs with their parents. According to Marlene, her mother had gotten lost for an entire afternoon after stubbornly refusing to listen to their guide, and the only reason they'd found her was because she had stumbled across a dog she had been certain was a wolf come to eat her, and had screamed the whole woodland down. The poor canine and its elderly owner had been treated for shock at the Meadowes's home – the poor man having seen Mrs. McKinnon, with her long dark hair and shrill scream, and mistaken her for a bean nighe predicting his imminent demise.
Hermione envied their excitement; from all of their stories you'd be forgiven for thinking that Scottish witches and wizards were much more interesting than their English counterparts.
Next there was a letter from Rue Shafiq, asking whether she had made any progress on the Potion's winter assignment, because Rue was quite lost and obviously she couldn't just ask Rida because otherwise she'd have to put up with her gloating. For a girl who never spoke, on paper she was terribly loquacious.
She dropped that one onto the table on top of the others, ignoring how James had shuffled around to peer over her shoulder, and went onto the last. It was an envelope of expensive material, the card thick and smelt slightly of herbs. Frowning at the unfamiliar writing, she slid her finger under the seal and pulled it open.
Hermione,
I'm sorry it took so long to write – it has been busy here. I know, I know, how busy could it be without Sirius around? Well, I don't mind telling you; he comes by his personality honestly.
Mother held a party on Saturday for the family, including my cousins, Narcissa, Andromeda and Bellatrix. Mother always puts a lot of effort in when they and Uncle Cygnus visit, she says it's one of the responsibilities of being Head of House – not that Mother is, of course, that's Father, but he doesn't plan parties. I don't think he'd know where to start. Uncle Cygnus is always angling for the Patriarch position, says that Father isn't interested enough, though I don't know where he gets that idea because Father is always at the Ministry or galas or charity events for this and that. He might be the single most influential person in Government, aside from Abraxas Malfoy. It's a close call.
We don't do much for Yule. Mother has the elves make traditional wassail but that's the extent of it, and even then it's only for the taste. I'd never been allowed to try it before but this year I got my own cup in lieu of Sirius and it was nice. Made my head go all fuzzy, so I couldn't write you then, either.
Does your family have Yule traditions? I'd imagine you do; I remember Mother telling me once that the Potters' one redeeming trait was their commitment to the Old Ways. Sorry, I shouldn't have said that, should I? Not that I agree, of course, you know that – I think the Potters are perfectly nice, though they'd have to be, wouldn't they, to raise you?
I think perhaps the wassail was stronger than I expected as it seems to still be affecting me now. I'll leave it here in case my mind decides to embarrass me more.
I hope your holidays are pleasant.
Sincerely,
Regulus Arcturus
of the Ancient and Noble House of Black
She snickered a little at his words, smiling when her eyes caught on the sections where he'd blotted the paper while thinking of something to say. She hadn't expected him to write her, in honesty; he was wary and shy, and after the first few days without any letters she'd simply put it to the back of her mind, thinking that perhaps he'd thought better of it, or decided not to rock his perfectly comfortable boat by starting an illicit correspondence with a Gryffindor and a blood traitor. Now… there was a warmth in her at the idea that even though it had been a great risk, he'd written her. He'd made that step, taken that chance, and decided their friendship might be worth it.
She ran her fingers over the seal at the bottom, smiling vaguely. She enjoyed her letters from Dorcas and Marlene; they were her best friends. This one had greater significance, though.
She went to fold it up and tuck it away when a tugging at her hair caught her attention. Turning her head, she met James's stare. "What?" she asked.
"Regulus Black, 'Mi? Seriously?" He was giving her a stern look that ruffled her feathers.
"Yes, seriously. What's your problem?"
"You shouldn't write him, Hermione. He's… not like us." James shifted slightly, gnawing on his lip. "Not… light."
"He's eleven," Hermione snapped back, shoving the missive into the pocket of her dress as she stood from her chair. "He's no more light or dark than I am!"
"Hermione, he's not good for you – not a good influence, I mean."
"Oh?" she bristled, stabbing at his chest. "You're worried about me, are you? About poor, defenceless Hermione, weak-willed, unable to stand up for herself?"
"Hermione!" Dorea cried from the top of the table.
"Is this because he's a Black, because he's a Slytherin, or because he's friends with Snape?" Hermione pressed on mercilessly. "Well? Go on, James, I'd like to hear it."
"All of the above!" James shouted back, then gathered himself and stared at Hermione with burning eyes. "Hermione, you're my sister and my best friend, and I'm telling you, as a friend, that this won't end well."
"Oh, sod off, James." She sneered, shoving him out of her way. "'Best friend'? Hardly. I can count the number of times you've spoken to me this year on my fingers. You've got new friends, why is it so bad that I have them?"
"Because you're not choosing them well," James replied stonily. "There are plenty of other wonderful people at Hogwarts, you don't need to go after Regulus and his lot – Emily Fawcett says you never talk to her, but she'd love to be your friend!"
She stopped in her tracks, mouth agape as she span on her heel to face him. "Excuse me?"
Seeing an opening, he ran into it eagerly. "Yes, bet you didn't even notice that, did you? You were too busy with that – that pitbull, Marlene."
"So now it's not just Regulus, it's Marlene as well?" Hermione scoffed bitterly. "What about Dorcas, huh? How unsuitable is she?"
Wary, perhaps sensing how wrongly he'd stepped, James backed up a little. "Dorcas Meadowes is lovely," he soothed her. "Everybody loves Dor. And I bet they'd love you, too, if they were given half a chance."
"Lots of people do love me, James, they're just not all your precious Gryffindors." She began to strut away, then turned at the last second. "Oh, and James? Emily Fawcett? I would have thought you'd have known better than to listen to lying little harlots like that. Did you really believe that I'd have just blanked a girl I didn't know?"
He winced. "Well, you have to admit, you are a bit…"
"Wrong answer," she snapped, and stormed off to her room.
Friday 5th January 1973
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Professor Alliott's Office
Hermione didn't claim to be the most intuitive of people, but even she was able to deduce a great many things the very second she walked into Professor Alliott's office on Friday night, at the allotted time of eight.
The first was that despite Alliott's insistence that whatever this scheme was came from the minds of herself and Professors Slughorn, McGonagall and Flitwick, it was clear that in fact none of the aforementioned teachers were comfortable with it. Hermione watched them shift, hem and haw, shooting each other looks of discomfort, and knew that this, whatever it was, came from the mind of someone higher. Someone they were afraid to naysay.
The second, that the reason Alliott was involved despite her coming retirement was her obvious neutrality. They were using her room so that the scheme couldn't be pinned on any of the others, heads of houses that they were, and no bias could be claimed.
The third was that whatever was going on was certainly more serious than extra credit.
Hermione and Regulus were not the only students invited. The group consisted of Hermione, Regulus, Rida Shafiq, Xavier Smith and Clarence Abbott of Hufflepuff, and surprisingly, Dorcas and Marlene. The latter two had apparently been contacted over the holidays, which Hermione found suspicious but refrained from contemplating for the moment. Kingsley Shacklebolt was also present, leaning languorously up against a desk in the back, to all appearances ignoring those present in favour of scribbling on some parchment. If Hermione hadn't known what she did – of his favour with Professor Alliott, his connection with the Duelling Club (upon further research Hermione found that Shacklebolt was undefeated except by the Prewett boys) and her own feelings about him in the future – she would have thought that perhaps he was in detention. The whole vibe of the meeting, however, the lingering tension and feeling of importance, pressed into her that this was not the sort of place where teachers would multitask disciplinary actions. This, and he seemed to fill the space of their missing Ravenclaw, despite his being much older than the rest of them.
When looking at the assembled, she could make a few quick guesses about what had drawn them here. They were the top performing students in their year, not that it meant much less than six months into their first year. They all, with the possible exception of Regulus, came from magic-neutral or light-leaning families. All of them, without exception, had been in trouble with staff in their short time at the school – yes, even Hermione, who had gained a detention the previous term for 'backtalking', which, in her defence, would not have been a problem had Dumbledore hired a more competent staff.
(It had later been stricken from the record after a letter from her father to the Prophet was published, in which he hinted at his sudden about-face on the matter of a 'Hogwarts Oversight Committee', as was being presented before the Wizengamot later that month. Still, that episode when combined with her status as Marlene's close friend brought attention to her, and not in the best of ways.)
Marlene, of course, had been reported for assault many a time, only the fear of her own father's retribution keeping her in school. Regulus was more subtle in his crimes, as was typical of Slytherins, but he had been caught out hexing a Hufflepuff in November. Hexing any student was a crime, but hexing a Hufflepuff? Despite the truth of the matter being that Hufflepuffs were as likely to be cruel as any other child, most of the staff seemed to be blind to their faults and equated crimes against Hufflepuffs with kicking puppies as they slept. This meant that while hexing a student usually carried a mandatory punishment of a week's detention, Regulus had still been serving them as they'd broken off for Yule.
Smith and Abbott being the exception, as they liked to pal around with second- and third-year Ravenclaws, which their fellows appeared to view as a betrayal of their House. So, when the two of them had been caught breaking into the Quidditch locker rooms as the cumulation of a spate of thefts, no teacher, not even their own Head of House, was of a mind to go easy on them as they might any of the 'harmless' Hufflepuffs.
Rida Shafiq had a temper, especially when it came to her sister, but also in general. Mostly this manifested in petty acts: teachers who took points from her were likely to find themselves throwing up for an afternoon; Prefects who did the same would mysteriously sprout boils or sores or, on one occasion, fur; nothing that could be proven beyond a reasonable doubt to be linked back to Rida, though the suspicion was strong. What brought her here, though, was her ingenious 'miss-brew' of a Herbicide Potion that somehow became an especially strong Sleeping Draught, administered to a gang of third-year Ravenclaws who'd followed Rue around for a day, picking on everything from her hairstyle to her skin colour. The third-years had slept for a week, and nobody had been able to waken them – until Slughorn found the remnants in Rida's badly-cleaned cauldron (because while she was a whizz with Potions, she, like many pure-blood princesses, had no concept of manual labour).
Dorcas was the only exception, her rap-sheet as clean as her porcelain skin. The rest of them were basically budding sociopaths.
"Thank you for meeting with us," Alliott said in such a way as to acknowledge the complete lack of autonomy they'd had in making the choice. She smiled at each of them in turn, the expression laughably false because Professor Alliott was the least smiley person in the world. "I hope these sessions will prove useful to you."
Smith scoffed, folding his arms over his chest, his nose in the air. Rida shifted on the spot, her body language outwardly hostile as she eyed the Heads of House. "And why are we here?" she asked.
Alliott glanced back at Slughorn, whose shoulders twitched in a bare shrug. Alliott hissed through her teeth, and turned back to Rida. "I thought you'd have been told…"
"By who?" Marlene asked now, her eyebrows raised. "I got a letter to my dad saying, and I quote, 'Miss McKinnon is expected to attend a meeting for delinquent students on the 5th January, in Professor Alliott's office. Failure to attend may result in suspension.' It doesn't exactly tell me much, thanks."
"Mine said 'gifted students'," Dorcas said with a frown, "and promised extra credit."
"All I got was a two-minute meeting with you, Professor," Abbott pointed out. "And you told me knack all."
"Language, Mister Abbott," Professor McGonagall chastised from the back, a pinched expression on her face. "It seems we have been remiss in informing you of the true nature of this meeting. Understand, students, that this is not an opportunity we are offering to all pupils, and therefore all of the secrecy was necessary. I do apologise that you were confused."
"Indeed, indeed," Professor Slughorn agreed from the back, his head nodding so violently that his belly shook along with it. "It's not a punishment – in fact," he grinned, "it's an opportunity!"
"Aye," Professor McGonagall agreed, eyeing Slughorn with concern, as though she feared his belly might jiggle him off-balance and out of the window, or, perhaps, that was her hope. "We'd like you to work closely with a range of teachers on your projects. And Shacklebolt, of course," she added, nodding to the boy in the back. "He'll be our eyes and ears, allowing us to know exactly who needs us and for what. Think of him as your…" she cast about for an expression, her face relaxing slightly as she hit upon a comfortable quidditch metaphor, "Team Captain."
"Alright, all," Shacklebolt drawled with a wink to Dorcas, who blushed bright red from her neck all the way to the tips of her ears.
Rida had no such response, instead widening her stance and staring down Professor McGonagall as she clipped out, "I don't work in teams. Especially not mysterious, secret teams my own sister isn't allowed to know about." She flipped her hair over her shoulder defiantly. "Thanks, but no thanks."
"Miss Shafiq," Professor Slughorn called, stopping her at the door. "Just because this isn't a punishment doesn't mean we can't punish you otherwise. Did you not, after all, poison fellow students?"
Spinning around, she snarled at her Head of House. "What do you want from me?"
"Your hard work, m'dear," he said with an ingratiating smile. "You've a particular skill in Potions, for instance. I'd like to see that honed."
"Why?" Rida spat, eyes hooded suspiciously. "We'd learn that stuff anyway."
Professor McGonagall stepped forward, effectively drawing attention to her. "The Headmaster suggested that we pull you into this group because you might not get the assistance you need to fulfil your potential in regular classes. You are all of above average intelligence in at least one area of study; this study group is to prevent that talent from being lost within the sea of other students."
"The secrecy is to prevent jealousy," Professor Alliott said smoothly, answering the next question before it had left anybody's mouths. "You're all brilliant. Surely you want to be able to use that?"
"H-how long w-would it be for?" Dorcas asked, her voice quiet and cracking as it always did when she was around authority figures.
"This term as a trial period. If it works out, it'll continue." Alliott shrugged carelessly. "Either way makes no difference to me, but the Headmaster seems keen."
"W-we shouldn't want to disappoint the Headmaster," Dorcas nodded in relief. "I'm in." Marlene scoffed, but Abbott and Smith voiced their agreement too.
Rida scowled fiercely at Slughorn, saying something in a rapid-fire, melodic language Hermione didn't understand, but made Slughorn pale. Then, she half-turned her head towards Professor McGonagall and said, "fine. But only Potions. And I refuse to be paired with that useless bitch." She waved at Marlene unrepentantly, ignoring Professor McGonagall's snapped "Language!".
"I'll do it," Hermione offered, still trying to think her way around what was happening. It didn't make much, if any, sense at all. A secret study group? Pull the other one. Beside her Regulus made his agreement, his eyes still on the smouldering Rida.
"Good. We'll begin next week, the same time, the same place. Don't be late, and bring your homework." Alliott looked down at her desk, and then, a few seconds later, glanced up again with a raised eyebrow. "Are you still here?" She thundered, making even the other Professors jump as the students lunged for the door.
Hermione was halfway down the corridor with Marlene and Dorcas when Regulus caught up, Rida at his side. His voice low, he muttered, "does this whole thing seem odd to anybody else?"
Surprisingly, it was Dorcas that nodded, if a bit uncertainly. She was a girl who liked to see the good in everyone, though right then she looked skittish, glancing around as though someone might be observing them. Suddenly, it occurred to Hermione that perhaps her nervousness wasn't to do with authority, but with the situation as a whole. "I don't understand why they'd do this now, and why it's a secret," she said quietly. "It just doesn't make sense."
"Plots and plans," Rida sneered. "That's all the old goat is good for, and it's the one thing you can always count on him to have. If Dumbledore's involved, then there's no doubt – something else is going on. Something other than a bunch of marginally clever pre-teens getting preferential treatment." Checking her watch, she said, "and I'll give him until tomorrow noon to put a geas about it on the lot of us. Mark my words; that man has plans. And we're right in the middle of them."