Chapter 10 Insufferable little know-it-all
The dust of debris floated through the air, the sky had clouded over, looking dull and ready for heavy rainfall. Hermione couldn't bear to look at Hagrid anymore. The expression of utter hopelessness on his weathered face, the lifeless body in his arms that he cradled like a child. It was all too much. Nonetheless, she forbid herself to avert her eyes and grasped for Ron's hand instead. Harry might be dead, but they were still here, and nothing Voldemort could say or do would test their resolve. They would fight to the last man.
A sudden movement made her freeze. Harry's body suddenly convulsed, and then it wrestled itself out of the half giant's arms, landing rather ungently on the ground.
"Confringo!", Harry yelled, aiming his wand at Voldemort's snake Nagini. Hermione couldn't believe her eyes. He was alive! Harry was alive! Now, pushing himself off the ground, he faced his nemesis once again, and began to… sing and dance?
What the hell?
Completely thunderstruck she watched on as Harry began to jump up and down. The ground trembled under his stamping, and Harry's flat singing was so loud, she immediately got the impression that he was standing right next to her, singing painfully shrill into her ear:
"No milk today, my love has gone away.
The bottle stands forlorn, a symbol of the dawn.
No milk today, it seems a common sight
but people passing by don't know the reason why.
How could they know just what the message means
The end of all my hopes, the end of all my dreams."*
She woke with a start and saw herself eye to eye with a singing cat that was currently jumping on her belly. With a terrified scream she sprang to her feet, backing away until she hit the headboard while the cat, thanks to her sudden movement, was sent flying through the air.
"Zar! What the actual…", she screamed.
"Oy! I was serenading you ever so nicely and you've got nothing better to do than to throw me off the bed? How polite! Yeah, really!", came his pained voice out of a dark corner of the room.
"The blame's on you! You scared me tremendously!", Hermione self-exculpated, brushing her dishevelled hair out of her face.
"Why did you sing?", she probed wearily.
"I'm hungry. That's what I wanted you to know!", the cat responded.
"By singing No milk today?"
"I thought it fit the situation!"
Hermione groaned, got up and shuffled towards a cupboard in a corner of the room. She rummaged around until she pulled out a can of Zar's cat food.
"Enjoy your meal!", she yawned and tipped the contents of the can into a bowl on the floor.
"And, please, do not ever do this again!", she impressed on him.
"Shall I sing the Meow Mix' advertising jingle next time?", he proposed, slurping happily between two bites.
"They make cat food. That is, they did… In the 70s. I wonder if they're still producing cat food in your original timeline."
"No, you shall not! Neither Meow Mix nor any other song or advertising jingle. Preferably, you don't sing at all while I'm sleeping!", she snapped irritatedly.
Out of pure curiosity if the little pest had had the grace to wait with his request until a few minutes before her alarm clock would have gone off, she glanced at her watch.
It was nearly three o'clock. In the morning.
A manic laugh escaped her.
Someday I'll flay you alive!, she thought furiously.
Hermione couldn't go back to sleep again, and as she was sent to an empty classroom an hour before breakfast the next day, the thought that she might fail the test crept into her head. She was tired out! How on earth was she to pass this test with flying colours?
Shily she entered the classroom and looked at the stony faces of her future teachers. With the exception of Professor Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn and Professor Binns, she knew none of them. Hermione broke into a sweat. These strangers didn't look particularly friendly. What if she messed this up? All of a sudden an irrational unrest began to take possession of her. But then she noticed Professor Dumbledore's reassuring smile, and Hermione took heart from it. She had overcome much worse, damn it, she'd won a freaking war. It would be a piece of cake.
Not an hour later the results were in.
Miss Gillian Warrington would be a seventh year student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. With a happy grin on her face and a brand- new schedule in her hands, she left the classroom, actually feeling quite hungry now.
She had barely reached the Great Hall when she saw Abraxas heading for her.
"And?", he asked eagerly.
"What do these dabblers say?"
"Seems like you won't get rid of me for the rest of the school year!", she responded cheekily, still happy, and forgetting for a moment that it was a Malfoy whom she was talking to.
Four days in his company had resulted in getting used to his presence enough so that she didn't react with anxiety anymore like she had upon their first meeting.
"Thank Merlin!", he said drily. "I honestly thought I could have my peace! Come now and get something to eat!"
Harold stared at her over the crust of his sandwich with raised brows.
"You are very close with Black and Malfoy, aren't you?", he asked.
Hermione didn't even have to focus to hear the disapproval in his voice.
"Abraxas is a distant cousin and the Blacks are old family friends. To be honest, I don't really know them well enough to say that we are close. Mother has been in touch with them for a longer period of time than me. As you know we only recently came back to England. When my father was still alive, he wasn't really keen on spending time with his kin or old family friends. We only ever stayed in Australia and with the exception of the occasional letter we practically lost touch with them.
"Wise man, your father! Be careful, Gillian. Alphard's alright, but Abraxas is close friends with the Lestrange brothers who are far from being friendly contemporaries. Kinship aside, it can't hurt to keep ones distance!"
Hermione would have liked to agree with him, but her hands were tied behind her back. Abraxas and the other Slytherins belonged to Riddle's society of sycophants. The very society she had to gain access to. If she followed Harold's advise, it wouldn't be conducive to her mission.
"Don't worry about me. Abraxas would never allow someone to hurt his cousin!"
"Harumph!"
Harold took a hearty bite out of his sandwich.
"As long as you don't tell them what they want to hear whenever they pull others to pieces who, in their eyes, are worth nothing, I can live with it!"
Still, she would have liked to agree, but it could be quite possible that her mission required her to abandon humanity.
"Where is Alicia?", she asked, trying to divert him from the disconcerting topic.
"Still asleep!"
"What? But it's only a quarter left to the start of the first lesson!", it slipped out of her mouth.
"Alicia's always late. I pity the man that's going to be her husband. That's no decent woman, it's a troll!"
The first lesson on her schedule read Potions. Knowing pretty much all of Slughorn's attitudes from her sixth year at Hogwarts, she pretty much awaited the first lesson calmly.
The classroom was already packed with students as she came through the door. Heavy fumes stung her nostrils, and in the back of the room something was bubbling audibly inside a cauldron.
"Gillian! Over here!"
Alphard's voice emerged out of the mist. With an apologizing glance to Harold, she went past him and moved towards the empty seat next to Black.
"Your first lesson! Are you excited?"
"Oh, yes. Very much so!", she feigned enthusiasm.
To her right she heard a rustling sound and as she turned her attention towards the source of the noise, she saw Riddle sliding into the chair next to her. Suddenly she felt suffocated.
"I see you followed my advise. You seem well rested!", he noted amicably.
"Yes, thank you very much!"
Hermione began to glance stubbornly at the blackboard, feigning interest and hoping that Slughorn would just start the lesson. Much to her relief the potions master now came to the front and spread his arms in a welcoming gesture.
"Welcome to your first Potions lesson in this school year. Of course, I hope that you are eager to take up the challenge of brewing perfect potions and elixirs!"
Slughorn winked at them and began to heave a heavy cauldron onto a table with an integrated fireplace.
"Go ahead, volunteers. Who can tell me what's about to be brewed here?"
Only a few students put their hands up. Just Riddle and three others.
"Riddle, my boy! Just like I expected, enthusiastic to learn something new from the start. Well, come, my boy, come. Enlighten your fellow students!"
It was downright nauseating how impressed Slughorn seemed to be of this cockroach whom was now bending its head over the brim of the cauldron, scrutinizing its contents.
"May I make a wellfounded assumption, Sir? I would say we are dealing with the Draught of the Living Death!"
May I make a wellfounded assumption… Did the bastard actually listen to himself? So revoltingly formal and… and… It made her want to puke.
"Well done, my boy. Would you please explain to us how the potion is brewed?"
Hermione rolled her eyes while Riddle was banging on about a rather lengthy instruction.
Suddenly her hand flew up.
Last evening's anxiety attack was forgotten, the perfectionist inside her outdid her wit and took the wheel.
Confused Slughorn took notice of her.
"Yes, please, Miss… uhm… Warrington?"
Seriously? He'd almost forgotten her name? Not an hour after he'd tested her? Hermione stifled a groan.
"I'm afraid I'll have to correct some of the instruction's details!", she spoke.
"Better results are rendered if one stirs seven times anti-clockwise and once clockwise. The juice of thirteen beans should be added to the draught, not twelve. Furthermore, it's of advantage to crush the Sopophorous Beans to extract the juice. Slicing them is time-consuming and less effective!"
The whole classroom went silent for a minute or two. Even the chatterboxes in the back of the classroom kept still in astonishment.
Then, a murmur went through the crowd, and Hermione realised that she'd just made a big mistake.
She had been so focused on her timeline in which Harry had brewed a perfect Draught of the Living Death that she just hadn't noticed that this knowledge was an absolute novelty in the year 1943. Riddle's school book instruction was less than three years old and considered to be a scientific breakthrough.
She shuddered with sheer horror. She'd just started an argument with Riddle without even thinking twice.
"I'm afraid I'll have to argue!"
Riddle's icy voice drowned out the background noise.
"With all due respect, Miss Warrington! On which reliable sources do you base your improvements?"
Inwardly she apologized to Professor Snape whose legacy she had to misuse in order to come up with a makeshift solution for this mess.
"It's based on the knowledge of my private teacher and the tests we did to improve this potion!"
Riddle smiled cynically.
"I would never arrogate the right to question your former teacher's competences, but to change an officially approved instruction in such an amateurish way, I cannot help but doubt said competences."
"Ah… well!", Slughorn scratched his head with an awkward, rather forced grin.
"There's only one way to test who's right and who's...", he fixed his meaningful gaze on Hermione, "on the wrong track!"
Hermione crossed her arms sulkily.
She knew very well that Snape's instruction was perfect. The same teacher who'd just insinuated that she was barking up the wrong tree would give Harry a flask of Felix Felicis for his oh so brilliant achievement 53 years later.
The whole class seemed to only have eyes for Riddle, Slughorn and her. The first thing the professor tested was crushing the beans. His eyes widened as each bean remained completely still, oozing a significantly high amount of juice. He avoided looking at her and began to push up another cauldron which, presumably, contained the potion in an earlier stage.
"It's good that we can test your other theories!", he spoke through clenched teeth.
The tension in the air was almost palpable, like dirty cotton it hovered over the student's heads. Riddle had narrowed his eyes to slits. His lips formed a thin line, and the look in his eyes spoke volumes.
He was angry… and profoundly convinced that he was in the right. Hermione leaned back.
She knew exactly what would happen.
"That's… Merlin's beard… It's perfect! I'm afraid one drop could kill us all! I… I apologize for doubting you, Miss Warrington. That was astounding. I'm sorry, Tom, but Miss Warrington wins the argument this time. Take 20 points for Gryffindor, my dear. May this be a lesson to all of us to never stop researching!"
Slughorn's face wore an expression of mesmerization and his reluctance towards Hermione seemed to be forgotten.
Next to her Alphard had opened his mouth, staring at her like a ghost. She could hear applause in the background, growing louder withn each passing second, and then the rows of Gryffindors broke into cheers. One of them had bested Slytherin's golden boy.
Bested him…
Hermione caught Riddle's gaze and for the first time since her return to Hogwarts she became aware of the man's true face. For a split second his eyes were ablaze with the desire to kill. She acted as if she hadn't seen it, but inside, her trepidation grew.
It was her duty to get in touch with him, not to make him look like a fool. But that's what she had done in her urge to be a good student, to show off her knowledge. She'd taken the wrong path. Her mission wasn't about making Riddle her enemy, but her friend. And one didn't snub friends, or those who should become friends. Why couldn't she just shut up? Why could she never just hold her tongue during a lesson?
You are an insufferable little know-it-all!, Snape's sneering voice echoed through her head. Damn it!
She should have thought about the consequences before putting up her hand. She'd spectacularly fucked this up, hadn't she? What was she supposed to do now? Could she limit the damage? Something inside her wanted to whisper that it wouldn't be that easy.
HGTR
Wiltshire, 1999
Harry's eyes roamed over the stately facade of the building that stood amidst verdurous meadows and neat flowerbeds. Branbell Manor, the permanent residence of the Caldwells, and the address he'd headed for after some very wakeful nights. Now as before he had little hope that this visit could be of any use to him, then again he couldn't just miss the opportunity to find some answers to his questions, however disappointing they might be. Even if it seemed quite far-fetched…
He walked up the gravelly driveway, glancing every so often at the surrounding fauna, and pulled a face as he spotted some white peacocks standing between a group of very high cedar trees. It seemed that the Malfoys weren't the only people who kept these animals for the sole purpose of aesthetics. Harry bit his lower lip.
He'd recently paid the Caldwell's old abode a visit, too. A small, slightly dilapidated townhouse, which was in no way comparable to this mansion.
Harry could practically feel the question mark form above his head.
Why would someone, who kept expensive white peacocks, spent 15 years in an old, warped house amidst muggles?
A house- elf opened the heavy entrance door. The creature squinted at him with dull eyes that had the colour of mud.
"What can I do for you?"
His voice sounded like nails scratching over a blackboard.
Harry shuddered.
"I would like to talk to Misses Caldwell. Could you announce that Mister Harry Potter wishes to see her, please?", he said.
The house- elf frowned deeply, took a look over his shoulders and said: "Mylady already has a visitor. You'll have to wait until she is able to see you, Mister Potter!"
Harry nodded, the house- elf escorted him inside, and instructed him to take a seat in the parlour.
As soon as he had settled himself in one of the comfortable looking armchairs, the house- elf vanished, presumably on his way to tell his lady that she had another visitor waiting for her.
Ten minutes passed, and the heavy silence in the house began to weigh on his shoulders. To distract himself, he started to scrutinize his surrounding. The interior decoration appeared to be quite old, but not like it needed conservation. Most of the furniture had probably once been in the possession of Mister or Misses Caldwell's parents. Harry felt like he'd just travelled back in time and was now waiting for Queen Victoria herself.
"… could have saved me a lot of trouble, Geillis!"
Voices rose out of nowhere, the sounds of footsteps were coming closer, and suddenly Harry saw himself confronted with none other than Lucius Malfoy.
"It can't be helped, Lucius! Don't blame him. He had no other choice!"
Malfoy hadn't noticed him yet. His main attention lay on Misses Caldwell, who'd stopped in the middle of the room and was now facing the blonde man with her arms crossed in front of her chest in an almost defiant manner.
"No other choice? NO OTHER CHOICE?", Malfoy bellowed.
On his left temple Harry could detect a protruding vein that had begun to twitch angrily.
"He destroyed my life, and not only mine, but my son's at that! And everything for the sole purpose of…"
All of a sudden Malfoy stopped talking. He'd noticed Harry, who sat rooted to the spot and with bated breath in his armchair.
"Mister Potter…"
Lucius' Adam's apple bobbed under an abrupt swallowing reflex.
The blonde man averted his gaze, and instead opted for staring at an invisible point somewhere above Harry's head.
"Mister Malfoy!", Harry reacted, utterly flummoxed.
What was Malfoy doing here? And why was he quarreling with Misses Caldwell?
Malfoy seemed to regain his composure. He took a step towards Geillis Caldwell, and hissed menacingly: "I'll return Geillis! Woe betide you and Alphard if you can't justify your actions!"
Then he turned on the spot and rushed out of the Caldwell's parlour with his hands balled into fists and his cloak billowing behind him.
"Alphard? But not Alphard Black!", Harry cried out involuntarily.
Geillis sighed.
"Sure… Mister Malfoy referred to none but him!", she retorted hotly.
"But Alphard Black has been dead for decades!"
"If that's the case, I feel very much alive!"
Out of one of the adjacent rooms an elderly man stepped forward. He seemed vaguely familiar to Harry. The boy who lived wracked his brain, and all at once he gasped for air.
"It can't be! You are John Caldwell! I saw a photograph of you in the Daily Prophet last month!"
John Caldwell shrugged in resignation.
"I can't say I'm overly proud of my false identity, but back then I had no other choice, and up until last year's 2nd of May my true name would have held nothing but trouble for me!"
He tiredly ran his fingers through his hair.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you when your godfather died. Believe me, I would have loved to help you. Sirius was a good boy. The best thing my messed up sister ever created!"