Thanks to AutumnSouls for beta-ing.
Iris lay on the bed, watching the cloth-covered ceiling of her four-poster.
The night was silent, but it was not calm. The darkness seemed alive, swirling in the dorm of Gryffindor Tower, pressing down on her from all sides. Despite being September in Scotland, the atmosphere felt hot and humid. The slow ticking of the mechanical wristwatch that sat on the bedside table seemed distant and sluggish, as if the sound were traveling through water.
She didn't know the time, not having looked at the clock, but she estimated it to be sometime near two in the morning. The other occupants of their shared dorm room were fast asleep, though how they managed to sleep was beyond Iris. Again, she tossed herself over to the other side, her eyes wide open as she stared at the dark crimson drapery surrounding her, looking like a shower of cascading blood in the gloom.
Her thoughts, seeking distraction, turned to the direction of the events that had occurred the previous evening. As always, there had been an announcement for a replacement to the Defense Against the Dark Arts position: Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister. What someone from such a (supposedly) important position was doing at a school was beyond her, but that was what Hermione was for; Umbridge was here to spread propaganda against Dumbledore and, more relevantly, Iris herself.
Dumbledore, though his star was fading these days, still had clout of his own. He was among the most powerful wizards of the modern age and had proven his worth extensively in Grindelwald's War when he realized what unspeakable horrors were roaming the continent. He had eventually defeated Grindelwald on his own in a wizard's duel, ending the last major resistance of the war, with remaining pockets of fanatics eventually being wiped away by a group of accomplished wizards that later formed the Auror Corps. He was reputed as a brilliant mind in the field of transfiguration, and alchemy, which he studied under the legendary Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel. Of course, he had retired from such exciting adventures as he became older, but some fools equated being old with being obsolete.
She shivered slightly as the darkness churned. She knew it was illogical, that there were no monsters in the dark (except boggarts, but they were quantifiable), yet she feared whatever lay beyond the drapes around her bed. As if behind the thick curtains, where none of the girls could see, were man-beasts of shadow, dancing the Danse Macabre, waiting for her to come out so that they could induct her into their ranks.
There is no escape, they whispered. Join us.
Iris pulled the heavy woolen blankets over her chin, under her nose, and squeezed her eyes shut. Perhaps as a result of her upbringing with the Dursleys, Iris had never felt comfortable in large, open rooms. The Great Hall had been terrifying to her during her first year, and even now she spent as little time eating there as possible. By comparison, her bed, with curtains tightly drawn closed, was much smaller, and much more comfortable.
But as the Dance of Death continued, round and round her sanctuary, the air became thick and heated to unbearable levels. Iris whimpered slightly and curled herself up like a cat, making herself as small as possible, but the heavy linen curtains began to look like thick, stone masonry, ready to fall in on her. More and more specters joined the Dance, and they twirled and spun, faster and faster, the nonexistent footsteps louder, and whispers more pronounced and the laughter almost audible.
There is no escape, they whispered. Join us. Join us!
Iris hissed lowly, burying herself within the blankets, trying to block out the noise. Then she heard something - not a phantom noise, like all before, but a true noise. A hitching of breath, a hiss of pain. It came from her left. The only bed to the left of her own belonged to Hermione.
Her friend.
Iris threw open the curtains violently and grabbed her wand. She scanned the room. A murmured summoning spell had her glasses settle on her nose; even then, she could not see anything beyond the ordinary. No horned demons made of shadow joined hands and danced. It was silent, nothing but the silence of the night, when people slept through the blackest hours. Her bare toes curled into the soft, heavy carpet, taking muffled steps towards Hermione's bed.
Iris peeled the dark red curtains back. "Hermione?" she whispered.
"Mmh?"
Hermione rolled over in her bed, though still not showing any sign of lucidity. Iris smiled at the silhouette of her friend and poked her cheek. Hermione grunted in a distinctly un-Hermione manner. Iris felt a little bad, waking her up, but she could dearly use the company.
"Hermione," she whispered again.
"Mmh."
Iris nudged her friend towards one end of the bed and climbed into the other. The sudden shift of the mattress finally woke Hermione up, though she didn't seem particularly pleased about it. Her eyes remained glued shut as she turned in Iris' general direction with a scowl on her face.
"What is it?" she muttered.
"Sorry," Iris said. "I need the companionship."
Hermione merely hummed in response. Although Hogwarts boasted double-sized mattresses for everyone, squeezing in together was a little tight - but that was just fine. Hermione's darkened visage took up much of Iris' field of view, blocking out everything unnecessary and, in this case, terrible. She focused on Hermione's breathing, matching her own breathing with hers. Hermione's was slightly faster than Iris' own, and punctuated the equilibrium every thirty seconds or so with a deep sigh.
"Thank you for being my friend," Iris whispered.
Hermione's lips twitched upward. She opened her eyes, looking at Iris. "It's my pleasure."
In the darkness, Hermione's eyes were like bottomless pits. Iris frowned as she examined Hermione's face. Those didn't match her contours. Even with what little light there was, her best friend couldn't look like that. She swallowed and watched Hermione. The black holes on her face seemed to draw her in.
Iris recoiled.
Hermione's smile widened as Iris staggered and fell out of the bed, landing on her hip in her haste to get away. Hermione sat up, and it was as if the monster masquerading as her friend was bending the light to herself; the little brightness coming from the moonless night outside was drawn to Hermione's face, showing off the sunken pits of her eyes as the flesh of her cheeks sloughed off and rotted before Iris' eyes.
"And thank you," not-Hermione whispered, her voice exactly like the real Hermione's, "for being my friend."
The mannequin lunged towards her and Iris cried out in horror. The grip was strong, and Iris was forcibly drawn into an embrace, into a kiss; not-Hermione's lips and tongue tasted like ash and blood, thick and foul; Iris squirmed, but it seemed like her head was frozen, forced to look at the face (she's missing the eyes), forced to taste ash and the tang of copper as maggots crawled in not-Hermione's rotting, more and more inhuman face, as insects skittered at Iris' feet, their many chitinous limbs clawing and scratching at her ankles, and a monstrous centipede crawled from one of not-Hermione's eye sockets and reared up at Iris own eye—
"Iris!"
Iris woke up screaming.
Hermione winced at the sound but didn't pull back. Iris violently sat up in her bed, taking stock; the figures were blurred without her glasses, but they were undeniably different to the world she'd been in until just then. For one, the lights were on, and there were no terrible shadows, and Hermione still retained her warm, brown eyes.
"It's all right now, little girl," spoke an ethereal voice from just behind Iris' ear; she flinched, wondering why it sounded so familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. "Peevsie is here, now. You're safe."
Peeves. It was Peeves speaking, which was why it was familiar. And Peeves sounded concerned for her wellbeing, which was why it sounded unfamiliar. Iris wanted to laugh. She ended up crying instead.
She pulled Hermione close by her pajamas and sobbed messily into her shirt. Big, ugly, heaving sobs wracked with gasps of air, wiping snot and tears into Hermione's light blue nightshirt.
"Iris," Hermione said after a while, peeling her off of her. "You're bleeding."
Iris looked down at her hand through the tears; as crimson dominated her vision, she became aware of a sharp pain in her hand. Her amulet. Her wooden amulet, which Professor Dumbledore had prepared for her, was in her hand, covered in her blood, lying in three pieces. It had cracked right down the middle and one half had cracked again, somehow forming razor-sharp edges that should not be possible from wood. Iris' hand shook.
Hermione gently picked up Iris' hand and plucked out the pieces, including one that was still half-embedded in her flesh. "Episkey," she murmured, pressing the tip of her wand into Iris' palm. The wound began to close, but it healed slowly, sluggishly, as if the magic was feeling lethargic. Hermione cast a cleaning charm to clear away most of the blood on Iris' hand, and again on her shirt, which saw far less success.
"I'm sorry," Iris said with a sigh. "This is the second time this month I've ruined someone's shirt with snot."
"It's okay," Hermione said. "Just… please don't do that again."
Iris smiled weakly back, a response that apparently didn't reassure Hermione much. She stared at her friend. Her previously pleasant blue shirt had darkened, salty splotches and, on her right shoulder, a large, bloody stain. Hermione herself simply sat serenely at the foot of Iris' bed, her legs folded under her, and her hands settled in her lap. If someone had ruined Iris' clothes the way she had Hermione's, she might have gutted them. As it was, Hermione was entirely focused on Iris' wellbeing.
More tears threatened to spill from Iris' eyes, but she blinked them back down.
"I'll ask Dobby to clean those for you," Iris said with a watery smile.
"Thank you," Hermione said. "Let me get changed first."
Hermione did. Iris called the House-Elf and watched him salute before popping away with the ruined nightclothes. It was strange to think Dobby, or more likely his distant ancestors, were supposedly wild, uncivilized nomads with a tendency for cannibalism when their food supplies went too low. She turned to the attention of the amulet. Sitting, coated in now-dried blood, in three pieces. Impossibly sharp edges made of wood.
"Reparo," she said, but none of the three pieces shifted. She didn't have high hopes, considering repairing a magical object was much more complicated than a more mundane object like, say, her glasses.
It was also quite a bit more difficult to unravel the magic on an object to break it.
She shivered again, remembering the cold, empty eye-sockets, and wondered how much worse things could've been if her amulet did not take the brunt of the damage for her.
"I should've taken Arithmancy instead," Iris groused.
"Look on the bright side, mate, at least you won't have to take Arithmancy O.W.L.s," said Ron. "You'll be thanking me in ten months' time."
"Good afternoon," said Professor Trelawney. The various scented candles around the room wreathed her in multicolored smoke. Iris idly wondered if she should report the woman for creating aerosol hazards. "And welcome back to divination. I have, of course, been following your Paths over the holidays and I am delighted to see you all return safely which, of course, I already knew."
As she slowly paced across the classroom, the smoke clung to her shawls and braids, swirling in an almost impressive manner, creating eddies of subtle blends of color. The way the smoke moved reminded Iris of Snape's potion class, with his various personal projects littered about the classroom (his less important ones; he didn't trust the dunderheads not to knock over his most important potions) and causing vapor or mist to rise from the solution surfaces.
"Before you are copies of the Dream Oracle by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretations are one of the oldest methods of divination, and one of the most certain, and a subject that will most certainly come up in your O.W.L. Of course, if you have the Seeing Eye examinations and such are of no import, for you are destined to achieve greatness regardless, but the Headmaster wishes you to sit the examinations, so…"
She trailed off with a slight shrug of her shoulders, making clear her opinions of examinations.
"You reckon she failed her Divination exam?" Iris whispered to Ron.
"Nah, it was just too boring for her, she knew the answers before she even saw the questions."
Iris sniggered, drawing dirty looks from Padma and Lavender, but she didn't give them any mind. They idolized the batty professor with some fanatical worship, though Iris had no idea why. Besides, they had been rather rude to her last night, something about Iris lying about Voldemort.
If only Voldemort were still the biggest of her problems.
"Turn, please, to the introduction of the Dream Oracle and read what Imago has to say on the topic of dream interpretation. Then divide into pairs and interpret each other's most recent dreams."
Ron and Iris turned to each other, and Ron didn't bother concealing his noisy sigh in the slightest. "I never remember my dreams," he said. "You say one."
"I don't remember…"
To their right, Dean had partnered with Neville, who immediately launched into a thorough account of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat. Ron and Iris idly listened to his spiel, amusing themselves.
"You must have something," Iris prompted.
Ron scrunched his face up. "I think I had a dream I was playing Quidditch," he said. "What do you reckon that means?"
"You're going to play Quidditch in the future," Iris said, and paused for dramatic effect. "And you'll plow into the ground at a hundred and fifty miles an hour and snap your neck."
Ron clutched his breast and gasped in an entirely unconvincing manner. "Anyway, you have one?"
"I told you, I don't…"
"Iris?"
Ron's eyes widened and he turned his head, scanning the room for possible threats. He didn't find anything, though, and he turned back to Iris with a worried expression. "You alright, mate? What's wrong?"
"I remembered my dream," Iris whispered. "From this morning."
"And what was it about?" Ron asked slowly, quietly.
"It was… I dreamed of Hermione. But it wasn't Hermione, just something wearing her skin…" Iris crossed her arms under her chest. "When I woke up, my amulet was broken."
Ron slowly exhaled. "That doesn't sound good."
"Professor Dumbledore thought it was a probing attack," Iris whispered. "By someone. By something."
"Merlin's beard," Ron said. "But you're fine?"
"Yeah. I'm fine." Iris uncrossed her arms. "I think I'm going to need extra Occlumency lessons at this rate."
"Probably," Ron agreed. Silence fell upon their table, and the chatter from the people around them seemed to be muffled by the time the words reached them. The two of them awkwardly flicked through the pages of the book, having no words to exchange, and the class ended without having achieved anything. Not that that was out of the norm.
Iris was not enthused that Trelawney decided to assign them a month's worth of dream diaries. There was little energy in her gait as she dragged her feet in the direction of Defense Against the Dark Arts. On the way they met up with Hermione, who smirked at Iris' and Ron's rather defeated postures.
Professor Umbridge was already seated behind the teacher's desk when they entered. Her short stature enhanced her toady likeness, especially as she sat with her elbows propped on the edge of the desk with her fingers entwined. A wide pink bow sat atop her head, and Iris would have questioned the fashionability of that bow at the best of times, but on this woman, it did not look flattering at all.
"Good afternoon, class," she said, once all seats were filled.
A few unenthusiastically mumbled, "Good afternoon, Professor."
"Tut tut," Umbridge said. "That won't do, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," the class chorused.
"Much better. That wasn't so hard, was it?" Umbridge smiled sweetly at the class, before stepping off the chair. "Wands away and quills out, please."
Iris resisted the urge to palm her face. As Umbridge took out her own wand and flicked it in the direction of the blackboard, words began to form in the shape of her three course aims. As quills, parchment, and inkpots settled upon desks around the classroom, Umbridge turned to face the students.
"Does everyone have a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?" she asked. A dull murmur of assent echoed through the class.
Umbridge plastered on a faux-looking frown of disappointment. "I think we'll try that again," she said. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to respond with 'Yes, Professor Umbridge' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," said the class.
"Good," she said. "Then please turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need for discussion."
It was utterly dull. It was as if someone had gone out of their way to make it as lethargy-inducing as possible. Another wonder of magic, Iris thought sarcastically, that it can apparently make even the most exciting of subjects as dull as a rock. Only Charms and Transfiguration were consistently interesting, and even that was more due to the experience and effort of their respective professors than their textbooks.
We don't need no education. We don't need no thought control.
"Whomever that is, do cease humming," Umbridge said, and Iris realized it had slipped out. "You are distracting the other students."
Undoubtedly some distraction was what the other students wanted. Iris saw Hermione flash her a smirk from the corner of her eye; Ron didn't recognize it, and just raised an eyebrow. He was missing out - the magical world had its many wonders, but music, unfortunately, was not one of them. Iris shuddered at the memory of the Weird Sisters at the Yule Ball last year.
Iris sighed, only somewhat successfully stifled, as she let the words wash over her. She idly turned the page when she'd gotten bored of the current scenery. Ron was idly turning a quill in his hands, staring at the same spot on the page. On her other side, Hermione wore a frown, before she slowly closed her book, stared at the cover for a full minute, then raised her hand. Professor Umbridge scanned her eyes across the class and completely ignored Hermione.
Iris was tempted to be insulted on Hermione's behalf, but the past couple of months had emphasized to her the importance of patience, so she did nothing except occasionally glance at her friend to see if she'd made any progress. She had not, of course. It was only after the majority of the class slowly closed their own books that Umbridge cleared her throat.
"Miss Granger, you had something to ask about the chapter?"
"Well, no, Professor, more about the course aims-"
Umbridge cut her off with a sharp spin to the blackboard. "Why," she said, still staring at the words she'd put up, "I'd have thought it would be perfectly clear if you'd read through them carefully."
Iris hated the woman, but she had to admire the way Umbridge could speak such condescending words with complete deadpan.
"Well, I don't," Hermione said. "It says nothing about actually using defensive spells."
"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge turned around, feigning curiosity. "I can't imagine any situation which would require you to use defensive spells. Surely you're not expecting to be attacked in my classroom?"
"We're not going to use magic?" Ron ejaculated loudly.
"Students raise their hand when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.-?"
"Weasley, Ron Weasley."
Umbridge smiled sweetly at him for a moment. The smile did not reach her eyes, which movements were controlled and measured, and Iris felt a shiver run down her spine. Eventually, Umbridge deliberately turned her back on Ron. Hermione's hand was up once again.
"Yes, Miss Granger? You wished to ask something else?"
"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole purpose of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"
"Are you a Ministry-approved educational expert, Miss Granger?"
"No, but-"
"Then I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point' of any class is. Wizards older and cleverer than you have devised this method of study. You will learn defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way-"
"What use would that be?" Ron asked loudly, to nobody in particular. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a classroom-!"
"Hand, Mr. Weasley!" Umbridge snapped. Ron didn't bother raising his hand, instead continuing to grumble the rest of his complaints under his breath.
Iris watched in mild amusement as the rest of Gryffindor, regardless of their stance towards Iris herself, united in an effort to see this so-called teacher humiliated. She herself felt some outrage at the woman, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She'd just spend this class the same way she did Binns', using the time to do homework from other classes and self-study Defense in her own time.
"...without ever practicing them before?" said Parvati incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll cast the spells is during the exam?"
"I repeat, as long as you studied the theory hard enough-"
"Yeah, but theory isn't going to save us if we're being attacked," Ron shouted over everyone else, his hand in the air.
Umbridge spun and faced Ron. "This is school, Mr. Weasley. Rest assured there is nobody here to attack you."
"What about after graduation, then?" Ron asked. "What about what's out there in the real world?"
Umbridge stared at him coolly. "There's nothing out there, Mr. Weasley." She smiled, then, looking around at the class. "After all, who would want to harm children like yourselves?"
Iris' head snapped up to meet Umbridge, but she didn't see his face. Instead, she saw Voldemort. Reborn in all his glory, smiling without lips down at Iris as she strained against her bonds; Wormtail, off to the side, his ugly face twisted into an expression of mixed terror and awe, both aimed at his master. And, of course, in front of her, Cedric's face, pale in the darkness, frozen in a picture of surprise, shock, and a small amount of fear. The helpless rage on Amos Diggory's face as he clutched at his pride and joy, going so far as to hurl curses at those who tried to take Cedric away.
"Do you have something to say, Miss Potter?" Umbridge asked softly.
Iris was standing. Aside from Lavender and Seamus, everyone was staring at her, eyes wide. Iris' fingers were curled tight around her wand, her knuckles bleached white, and her other hand gripped the edge of her desk. Her rage burned candescent and without her input, her mind went through a list of lethal and crippling spells she'd learned in the recent weeks.
Then she raised her Occlumency barriers as high as they would go, and liquid nitrogen doused her wrath. Her muscles relaxed instantly, and she stood straight but no longer stiff. She calmly met Umbridge's eyes, the lingering phantoms of Cedric Diggory no longer affecting her in any way.
"I believe Lord Voldemort would have some objection to your statement," she said in a monotone.
A few gasped at her speaking that name, but she paid them no mind. Umbridge's false smile disappeared and she reverted to that poker face of hers. Iris' eyes thoroughly scanned the woman's face, searching for some of her true intentions, but with her Occlumency barriers up so high, she lacked the empathy to instinctually recognize the signs given by body language and facial expression.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Potter," Umbridge said finally.
Silence weighed heavy in the room. Iris felt her Occlumency barriers crack as her rage, like some wild beast, began thrashing about, demanding to be uncaged.
"Allow me to make a few things clear," Umbridge said in a voice softer than a feather. "You have all heard the rumors that a certain dark wizard has returned from beyond the grave. This is a lie."
"Maybe we should ask Cedric," Iris said, her heat leaking through the rapidly degrading barriers. "Oh, wait, we can't. Because he was murdered."
"Mr. Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Umbridge said flatly.
"And how would you know? You were at the scene of the crime, were you?"
"I was not," Umbridge admitted, then paused. "But you were, Miss Potter. The Ministry has been lenient on you. Do not dig yourself in deeper."
The class slowly turned to look at Iris. Lavender's eyes were wide and, for the first time, her expression was fearful. Iris ran through the words that Umbridge said again in her head; her barrier shattered and her expression twisted into one of fury.
"Iris!" Hermione hissed in alarm as Iris curled her fingers around her wand once more.
Iris dumped her quills and parchment back into her bag and marched back to the exit. As she placed her hand on the door, Umbridge called out to her. "Leave this classroom before the end of class and I will be giving you detention for a week, Miss Potter."
Iris paused. Then threw open the door and left.
The woman frowned at the wand. It wasn't as good as her old one, and she dearly wished it hadn't been snapped, but this was still far better than she'd been expecting. She flicked it idly, bisecting the bookshelf, and dozens, if not hundreds of tomes, slid loudly onto the floor, where it collided with other debris and collected the pooling blood in its pages. Hm. That was a little ill-done; she'd been advised to keep her activity as 'Mugglish' as possible, but there weren't many Muggle tools that could quickly and effectively replicate the effect of an overpowered cutting charm.
She stepped effortlessly over the obstructions and glanced into the bathroom, where the formerly pristine white of the floor and wall tiles was covered in dark red splatters; most of the mirror had shattered and fallen into the sink, although the third or so of the polished glass remained on its hinges. The bathtub was beginning to overflow, and despite the volume of water it remained a deep red and would take a very long time for it to lose its opacity. All that could be seen breaching the surface was a mop of long, stringy black hair.
The clothes found in the master bedroom did not fit her, so she instead turned to one of the smaller bedrooms and rooted through the drawer. She wrinkled her nose at the gold-and-red decorations; entirely unassociated with Gryffindor house, of course, and she had no idea what 'Manchester United' actually was. Fucking hell, she hated these Merlin-damned reprobates, these upjumped apes. But she still needed the girl's clothes - the girl certainly wouldn't need them anymore, since she was missing everything below her ribcage at this point.
She sneered at the crop top that had found its way into her hands. The whore might still be able to wear this and show some skin. These fucking Muggles, with no sense of decency. The woman instead picked out a simple long-sleeved black shirt, a pair of blue jeans. She threw an overcoat on top and stepped out of the room, taking a moment to behold the expression of shock on the young woman's face, from seeing her own guts spill out onto the floor.
She entered the living room, where the furniture had been reduced to little more than rubble. Her master had told her to erase her steps, so that he would remain secret for a while longer. The woman raised her wand and a jet of flame rushed out, the metallic smell of dark magic seeping deep into the room. She watched impressive leather-bound books, collected painstakingly by the household patriarch, burn quickly. The cheap plastic and sometimes metal trophies collected by the eldest daughter were a little harder to burn, though it did not stand in the way of magical flame. The mother's cross-stitches turned to ash almost instantly.
And finally, atop the cathedral of shattered glass and burning family photographs, was a single red-stained teddy bear belonging to the youngest child of the family, who couldn't have been older than six. The woman watched the flames grow, hungrily consuming the newly arranged room and all the anguish and grief that saturated it. All the memories lovingly collected by this family over the course of more than twenty years, lay broken and burning on the floor to be never seen again, and the woman smiled.
Ah, Bellatrix thought to herself, it's good to be free again.