"I urgently need a quiet, safe place and a Pensieve," said Harry.
"And the toad," Ron reminded him.
"What does the toad have to do with it?"
"Well, I dunno," Ronald drawled dubiously. "Now you have two enemies: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Boy-Who-Was-Born-At-The-End-Of-July. I'd say this is serious. In comparison to You-Know-Who, who has seven, or even more, Horcruxes, Neville's got only one toad, and he'll never forgive you for losing it."
"I almost caught Trevor," groaned Harry. "But right now I think it'll be easier to find the damn Horcruxes than him. All I need is a Pensieve –"
"And I need a safe place, a big cauldron and an hour to brew a potion of eternal sleep," Hermione's speech was slurred as her head lay face down on the table.
"What do you need the potion for?"
"For drinking."
Hermione's hands, with which she was clasping her head, were rubbed raw, but she said it was nothing – if she quickly nipped into Madam Pomfrey's after breakfast, they'd be cured before the first lesson. However, Hermione wanted to sleep a lot more than Harry – her detentions were set for every evening, and last night she hadn't managed to lie down even for a minute. Perhaps, the only person in the castle having a harder time than her was Dean Thomas as he had spent the entire night cleaning the Slytherins part of the Owlery. Though, this was a matter of opinion. Ron and Harry exchanged glances – Hermione flaked out by Hogwarts… How was it even possible?
"Maybe you'd better miss this lesson?" Ron asked timidly.
"Carrow's? And go straight to detention instead?" smirked Hermione. "Mind you, it's highly unlikely I'll avoid a new one: I can't even think straight. My head is as thick as Longbottom's at Potions. Oh, sorry, Harry. What do you think he'll give us for the first lesson? According to the book – either kikimoras or werewolves. It would be better if werewolves, at least we studied them with Professor Snape. I even wrote him an essay. But if kikimoras, I'm certainly doomed. I wanted to read about them yesterday, but didn't have time. Quite definitely going to get a detention."
Hermione remained true to herself.
"Come on, Carrow's lessons go horribly anyway," Ron tried to calm her down, "everybody says that. Prepare, don't prepare – it's all the same. But I doubt he's gonna ask us about kikimoras. He hasn't given us any homework yet."
"He hasn't given you," retorted Hermione, "but to us, Mudbloods –"
Ron slammed the table so hard that Hermione lifted her head swiftly from the tablecloth, clutching her ear.
"Never call yourself this disgusting word, you hear me?!" Ron was red with anger and even his freckles darkened.
"Yeah, it's time to put an end to it," Harry agreed. "Hermione, we greatly cherish you and so on…but maybe let's forget about our plan? It's too dangerous for you to stay at Hogwarts. The Death Eaters will finish you off. Why don't Ron and I get in touch with you as soon as we find something, so you could just tell us your thoughts –"
Hermione narrowed her eyes:
"Have you found much? You and Ron?"
"Not yet, but if I –"
"I, at least, delved, as I'm expected, into my stupid books and read something in them," a sleep-deprived Hermione was especially shaggy-haired and especially dangerous.
"Hermione, I'd help you –" Harry began, but was interrupted by the girl once again.
"Do you two even know what a Horcrux is?" she was speaking in a whisper, but Harry still looked around anxiously. The Great Hall was almost empty and so far only a couple of people were sitting at their table. The trio had come to breakfast so early that even the few students studying in Gryffindor hadn't arrived yet.
"A Horcrux," Hermione began very clearly, as though they were in class, "is not just a locket, or a trinket box, or a book into which one places a fragment of his soul, as you once explained to us, Harry. And as Dumbledore had allegedly explained to you. A Horcrux is the soul itself, and it takes the form into which it was secreted, changing that form partly or entirely. It can take any form, including a live one. Do you understand what I'm talking about? A Horcrux can be in a tree, in Neville's toad, and even in you, Harry! It makes no difference to it. Because it will no longer be a diary, a tree, or a toad, bewitched or not. It will just be a Horcrux with Horcrux properties and the characteristics of its owner. Like Riddle's diary, remember?"
Harry and Ron nodded synchronously, not realising what this sophisticated lecture was for when they hadn't even eaten yet.
"You don't understand where I'm going with this, do you?" Hermione smartly guessed. "Guys, we don't need to look for a tin, a pin, an old ring and such rubbish in the hope of finding a Horcrux. A Horcrux, created by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is him and nothing more. Therefore, we should look purely for him."
"For the Dark Lord?" croaked Ronald. "B-but how?"
"I don't know yet," Hermione admitted honestly, shrugging, "perhaps they should somehow react to his magic. For example, show some activity, when he calls his Death Eaters with the help of the Dark Mark."
Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, again forgetting about the glasses.
"Probably…no, even certainly, you are talking sense, Hermione. But how…exactly are we going to spot the difference?"
"Oh, you want to know everything all at once! If it wasn't for laundry I could possibly tell you. For now I can only assume that if we suspect something is a Horcrux, we could, perhaps, use this knowledge to scrutinise this object…or subject. As for the rest, I have no idea – I need to think," Hermione put her aching head back on the table.
"OK," Harry said after a short pause, "now, when everyone has spoken, maybe one of you will finally answer me? Any thoughts about a Pensieve? I think I found a phial with Professor Dumbledore's memories in the Astronomy Tower. He might have left it there before he died. It may be something important. Would be nice to know what exactly, right?"
Ron looked at his friend with great interest and even Hermione raised her head again.
"Harry, were you talking about a Pensieve? I'm sorry, I didn't catch it. I must have dozed off. Yes, if it really is the memories of Professor Dumbledore, and not some sort of trap, we definitely need to see them!"
"What kind of trap can it be? It's quite an average looking little bottle."
"What if it's a Horcrux?" asked Ron.
"I doubt Vold–"
"Don't say his name!"
"I doubt he'd hide a fragment of his soul in the Astronomy Tower. You know, I've been wondering all morning where this thing could've come from. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore dropped something important from his memory in it while I was trying to run from the tower to call... Well, he sent me to get Snape that night. But I didn't manage to do anything: Malfoy rushed in, followed by Death Eaters, the Professor immobilised me and then it all began… It was almost pitch-black there, only the Dark Mark glowed, so I didn't see him pouring any memories, yet he wouldn't have had time to tell me anything, but to pour out memories – it's fast. And, you know, it's so like Dumbledore: he seemed to know that I would definitely return to where he…died. Maybe that's why he didn't move from where he stood until... he fell," Harry finished in a slightly hoarse voice.
"Let me see that phial," demanded Hermione.
Harry handed her his find under the tablecloth.
"Hmm, I can't feel any dark magic," the girl mumbled after some reflection. "Though, I'm not an expert."
"It's not like we can show it to Snape, is it?!" exclaimed Harry, burying the phial hurriedly back into his pocket.
At that moment the teachers entered the Great Hall, and the number of students was also increasing.
The High Table, like the students themselves, was clearly divided into two flanks on either side of the headmaster. Amycus and Alecto Carrow sat on one side, and Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Sprout on the other. The rest of the staff, since the beginning of the academic year, preferred to eat in their private quarters. While the newcomers were taking their seats, and it was still quite noisy in the Great Hall, the Gryffindorian trio tried to draw up a plan of action.
"Even if this phial is not a fake, but what we think it is," Ron whispered frantically, "who will give us a Pensieve now? There are only two of them in the kingdom, as I recall: one in the Ministry, as good as in You-Know-Who's hands, and the other in the headmaster's office – also not a piece of cake. We have already tried to get in there, and what happened? If we break in, we'll, of course, take everything you please: the sword, the Pensieve, his desk with documents –"
"Ronald, your sense of humour –" Hermione began, but had to stop abruptly as Amycus Carrow rose from the teachers' table.
"A short announcement –" he started in a low, husky voice.
"He's not resigning the cursed post, is he?" Harry queried in disbelief.
"Maybe Snape will finally curse himself on it," Ron suggested hopefully.
"– with the permission of our distinguished Headmaster, I would ask the last year not to disperse after breakfast," said the Death Eater in a casual tone. "We'll start our Dark Arts classes with the acquisition of practical skills here, in the Great Hall. You don't mind, Headmaster, do you?" he glanced sideways at Snape as if he were asking not for permission to conduct a lesson, but for some special kindness. Snape shrugged indifferently.
"Do what you consider is right, Professor Carrow," he said calmly. "Just make certain the students fully understand the theory, before switching to practice. I would appreciate it if the Great Hall remained intact for lunch."
"Thank you, Headmaster," Carrow responded respectfully and added, addressing the students: "It's not necessary to return to your dormitories for your books, we won't be needing them today. You have your wands on you, I trust."
"A practice session? In the first lesson?" Hermione questioned astoundingly.
"At least he won't ask about kikimoras," Harry comforted her. "Or did you want it to be like with Umbridge? 'Rewrite the list of contents from top to bottom three times, and then from bottom to top four times. Class is dismissed. Your homework is to rewrite the list of contents.'"
"No, but –" Hermione's face, turned to the staff table, was expressing profound concern.
Professor McGonagall leaned towards Snape and was saying something to him, glancing at Carrow every now and then. Obviously about the upcoming lesson. Snape answered her shortly, and the Head of Gryffindor looked away abruptly.
"– but there have been horrible rumours about Carrow's lessons, although no one has yet studied the Dark Arts within the scale of the Great Hall," finished Hermione.
"Forget bloody Carrow, he's an inevitable evil," Ron brushed them off. "What are we going to do about the Pensieve?"
"It's not in the headmaster's office," Harry whispered quickly. "The cabinet was empty. It used to be either at Professor Dumbledore's or at Snape's, when I was studying with that ghoul."
Harry thought that even now, despite Neville's mask upon him, the slippery eyes of the greasy-haired headmaster never ceased watching him closely, as though he was considering using Legilimency. Legilimency? On Longbottom?!
"Generally, the Pensieve belongs to the current headmaster," nodded Ron. "So if it's not in its place, Snape's hiding it somewhere. Probably in his private quarters? If he hasn't given it to You-Understand-Who yet."
"I can't even imagine how we'll sneak into Snape's," uttered Hermione. "There are such spells on his doors…darker than the night."
"But you'll crack them, right?" Harry said hopefully.
"I need time," sighed Hermione. "And a couple of days without laundry."
"And if the Pensieve is not there we'll have to steal the Ministry's?" Ron asked despondingly.
"We'll come to that later," Harry replied seriously. "But we desperately need to see the memories of Professor Dumbledore!" he fiercely stabbed the spoon into his porridge.
The pale, watery porridge was eaten without any appetite. Meals at Hogwarts had also become disgustingly terrible – the house-elves were complaining that food delivery had deteriorated dramatically. To the outrage of many, for some there was enough food, and for others – not. It wasn't difficult to guess that those for whom it was enough sat at the Slytherin table.
The friends didn't come up with any better ideas during the dull meal and decided to continue their brainstorming after the class. Especially since breakfast was flowing directly into the lesson. Among the students, only the last years remained in the Great Hall at this point, the teachers were also beginning to disperse. Taking a farewell look at the Hall, Snape flicked his wand, lifting the candles, now dimmed until the evening, a bit higher and slamming shut the patterned bars on the windows. Professor Carrow rose from his seat cheerfully and banged the table with his wand.
"All right then, we can start our lesson."
Sharply, as though afraid, Amycus glanced at the staff table, where the infuriated Head of Gryffindor was following Snape out of the room, unsuccessfully attempting to burn his black robes with her hateful glare. However, even if McGonagall, taking her animagus form, sunk her fangs into the headmaster's throat, such a spectacular show wouldn't distract their new Dark Arts teacher from his own planned entertainment. Harry could see it in the way the Death Eater had bared his pointed shark-like teeth into a grin, looking around the almost-empty Great Hall. Maybe he really had two rows of them – who knew?
His fat fingers, which due to their size seemed to be incapable of action more subtle than the shredding of a pig's carcass with an axe, played with his wand very nimbly and effortlessly.
"Very good, very good," he croaked, waving his hand.
With a loud bang resembling a gunshot, the door slammed shut, forcing the students to jerk nervously and move closer to each other. Then the barred windows were obscured by an impenetrable darkness. Someone gasped in shock, and Harry felt Hermione squeezing his forearm. Not that, in the background of the constant black rain, the lack of daylight was striking the eye, but the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall looked quite peculiar now – as if they were all at the bottom of a giant well with the only exit being at the top where the Dark Mark was curling under the ugly, crumpled clouds. However, the sensation disappeared rather quickly as in the next second Professor Carrow covered the already grim scrap of sky with an opaque veil.
Was it necessary to remain in the Great Hall only to depict it as a subsidiary of the dungeons? Snape's pigging mate… The teenagers' eyes adapted to the candles quite quickly, but the teacher's logic was still unclear. In those rare occasions when the Great Hall was used for lessons, preference was given to it precisely because of its illumination. Now, however, the area, dimly lit with trembling candles and crammed with dining tables and benches, was only good for smashing one's sides on sharp corners and treading on a neighbour's foot. Though, with another flick of Amycus' wand, the furniture was solemnly levitated next to the walls, freeing up a lot of space in the middle.
"Looking through your syllabus from the past year, I found you have already listened to the introduction of the theoretical aspects of Inferi in Professor Snape's class."
"Inferi are even worse than kikimoras," Hermione moaned barely audibly. "Snape only mentioned them briefly... If he asks me –"
"Weasley can professionally distinguish Inferi from ghosts," Malfoy's voice suddenly interrupted her tale of woe. "He knows that an Inferius rattles bones, and a ghost rattles chains!"
Holy giant squid! The great Draco himself, the sole heir of the pure-blood House of Malfoy, deigned to attend the lesson – hell must've just frozen over… How come they hadn't noticed his ugly mug at breakfast? Though, they had had more important things to do than stare at the Slytherin table.
Now, however, the Gryffindorians had no choice but to leer at blondie with hatred. During the summer he had become emaciated on the Lord's scraps and now, when he laughed at his own jest, his pale, thin face was unpleasantly twisted. Dye his hair black, and he'd rival Snape himself. The usual Malfoy entourage was already sucking up to its leader – Crabbe and Goyle squinted tensely, trying to grasp the joke, and Pansy Parkinson giggled and trembled so actively with delight that had she been her named flower, her petals would've fallen off.
"The difference between a ghost and an Inferius is about the same as between Malfoy and the skin of a dead ferret," Ron spat out through gritted teeth.
"A ghost is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth and an Inferius is a dead body that has been reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells," Harry interrupted him hurriedly, trying to turn an obvious insult of the pure-blood into a full answer on the topic of the lesson.
While Malfoy and his gang were fathoming the gist of the metaphor about the ferret, which seemed to have surprised even its creator with its depth, Professor Carrow shook his head irritably and said in a husky voice:
"Enough! I'm glad you are already familiar with the theory, since Professor Snape is so concerned about it. Therefore we can safely switch to practice."
"Professor, could you make the lights a little bit brighter? I can't see my book…" – Terry Boot. That's right, who else would bring a book to breakfast if not a Ravenclawian? Without it the porridge would clearly stick in his throat!
"I told you we won't be needing the books today," Carrow snapped, not even turning his head toward the speaker. "And this illumination is the most suitable for our guests. They don't like bright lights."
"Did he call Snape, then?" Ron whispered snarkily in the ear of the blanched Hermione.
The girl, however, didn't see anything funny in the situation and, judging by her rounded-in-understanding eyes, she sagely preferred Snape as a guest.
"Merlin's beard..." gasped Harry, whose awareness of the upcoming followed Hermione's.
To the left of the teachers' table, near the door leading to the chamber with portraits, someone began to stir. Or 'something' – the question was moot. Harry recognised them at once: thin bony hands, waxy skin covering skulls, shreds of decayed clothing. But surely Carrow couldn't be crazy enough to drag into class...
"Inferi," the professor proclaimed so calmly as if he were talking about a colony of flobberworms, "are the theme of our practical lesson today."
So, he could be…
"Maybe they are boggarts?" Hufflepuffian Hannah Abbott whispered with hope, stepping behind Harry-Neville's back instinctively. Even Parkinson interrupted her enthusiastic fit and was gazing anxiously from the teacher to Draco, apparently expecting an explanation from the former or a reaction from the latter.
Boggarts? Assuming just one form for all of them? It would be a tempting idea, but an invisible draught had already brought the nauseating smell of decaying flesh to the students. The recently eaten porridge rapidly darted to their throats.
"An Inferius, as Mr Malfoy has rightly pointed out, is a corpse, raised from its grave and controlled by wizard will. Twenty points to Slytherin."
Mister Malfoy? Blimey! Even Snape, as the benchmark of universal evil, had never achieved this level. Ignored Hermione's raised hand? That's happened. Held back honestly earned points for Gryffindor? Every bloody time. But to hand points to Malfoy for Longbottom's answer? That's way beyond the pale! However, the question of points alarmed Harry indirectly, rather out of habit, so he chose not to look for trouble and instead concentrated on the worrying, unfolding practical.
"Now we'll divide into two groups. One will control the Inferi, and the other will defend themselves…"
Oh, what a surprise: the group that was supposed to control the dead bodies by accidental coincidence contained just Slytherins. Simple and effective – Snape would strangle himself with envy.
"Memorise it," Carrow aimed his wand at one of the corpses, who was standing apathetically near the headmaster's chair and even looked a little like Snape, then waved his hand sharply, drawing in mid-air a semblance of 'sigma': "Obsequium moritas!"
The Inferius jerked and straightened, as though someone had pulled invisible strings. Slytherins began to move their lips, repeating the incantation to themselves hastily, but preferred to step back.
"A compelled Inferius is not just a servant. It has no fear, no shame and no will. From the moment you utter the spell, it is in your power. All you have to do is to give it an order –"
"Stand on your head!" Goyle shouted, bursting with laughter.
In the deathlike silence, broken only by the subsiding chuckles of the joker, Carrow measured the boy with a scornful look, in which his doubts about Gregory Goyle's possible future of becoming a Death Eater were clearly seen, given such a dubious gene pool. Then the professor flicked his wand in the direction of a still immobile Inferius – huge and hunched – and spat out just one command:
"Kill."
For a second the compelled Inferius mulled over the order, then it turned to its master's target and began to tear its head off, measuredly and lethargically. To the right – to the left, the crunch of the vertebrae, the crackling of the tearing skin, and, after a few infinitely long moments, the head was lying on the floor, looking like a smashed overripe watermelon.
Harry thought he was going to throw up. Maybe it's a good thing that they had had a frugal breakfast as from such a spectacle anybody could say goodbye to it at any moment. Especially considering that the grey, scabby skin of the Inferi had a very similar colour and consistency to dried porridge.
"Obsequium moritas!" an inharmonious chorus of orders boomed. The Slytherins, obviously, were also not ready for this ocular demonstration and exchanged glances, looking for support from each other. The professor, however, nodded approvingly, pleased with their initiative.
"Yes, yes! Just move your wrist a little more sharply, Mr Zabini… Stretch the 'е' a bit longer, Miss Greengrass… Obse-е-е-еquium – like that. All right, now let's partner up –"
"But, sir," Patil's twin (Harry, focused on Carrow's distorted face, didn't even turn his head to see which one) interrupted him quietly, "you didn't explain to us what spell we should use to defend ourselves…"
Amycus cast her with a piercing look, which would be quite suitable for examining those scraps that his compelled Inferius had left from its silent victim. His swollen face was illuminated by a smile of anticipation:
"You've reached your last year and haven't learnt any defensive spells?" he asked mockingly, and a few Slytherins sneered with approval. "Well, that's too bad for you."
And with these words he nodded briefly:
"Do it."
"Kill!" Goyle yelled almost happily, without even assuming that he didn't have to repeat the professor's order, but could give his own, less cruel command.
"Kill!" Crabbe joined in with the same frank enthusiasm of a five-year-old. In other circumstances Harry would find them highly amusing, but right now there was nothing funny in the silent compelled corpse that was obediently heading towards a pale Hannah Abbott.
"Kill!"
Draco's voice sounded quite differently – calmer and more conscious, without the idiotic excitement of a Ravenclawian first year falling greedily upon the library. His wand was clearly pointing at Hermione.
And then all hell broke loose.
Harry didn't quite catch the other Slytherins' commands: it seemed that someone gave the order to pull a patch of hair from the enemy's scalp, another – just to hit them. Harry's attention was fully concentrated on three Inferi that were moving towards their targets – Ron, Hermione and Hannah – with the same determination with which their companion had crushed, with bare hands, its victim's skull five minutes earlier.
"Stupefy!" Ronald bellowed, awakening first from a stupor.
The Inferius only gently swayed, but didn't change its course.
"Impedimenta!" – this time there was no effect at all.
"Tarantallegra!"
"Locomotor Mortis!"
Somebody screamed nearby – their lock of hair had ended up in an Inferius' hand. Harry grabbed the stunned Hannah by her arm and dragged her to the tables, increasing the distance between them and the corpse hounding her. Ron and Hermione had retreated in that direction a moment earlier and were now climbing up onto the benches to aim their spells more accurately. (The last 'Stupefy' of Justin Finch-Fletchley had knocked out Dean Thomas right before the Inferius attacking him managed to do so.)
"I presume you didn't pay enough attention to Professor Snape," Carrow commented while watching the battle from his lunch seat.
Give you some popcorn and cola, you freak? And send you to the back row? To snog with Dementors…
Harry would never have imagined that in his life there might come a time when he would prefer to be in a Snape lesson than in any other place. And not for tearing that bastard's greasy head off, but for actually listening to his lecture. Dammit!
"Spells that affect movement have no impact on Inferi. Their activity is determined not by the tone of their muscles, but by the will of their master. By the seventh year you should've grasped at least that."
"Snape never said anything about it!" Hermione's voice sounded a bit muffled as she lost her breath.
Thank Merlin, Harry's seditious thoughts about the benefits of Snape's classes turned out to be a delusion! The only useful lesson about Inferi had been given to the boy by the former headmaster – there, in Voldemort's cave, surrounded by black viscous water and dark charms.
Fire! It was fire that had saved them then! Of course, it had been another, more powerful magic that could be subjugated only by a great wizard such as Dumbledore, but it had implicated fire, which meant its distant, weaker relative could help them right now.
"Incendio!"
The remnants of clothes on the dead body flared, filling the Great Hall with the smell of burning skin. Harry didn't know what kind of command the Inferius had been given in regards to him, but the fact that it froze in the centre of the room, trying to shake off the flames, was quite encouraging. Nevertheless, the mayhem and panic prevailing among the students instantly led to the flaming corpse setting fire to Padma Patil's robes, and only Hermione's well-aimed 'Aguamenti' prevented the blaze.
"Incendio! Incendio!" resounded from all sides. Everyone was happy to find at least one effective spell, no matter how dangerous it was for them.
Before long the entire Great Hall was filled with smoke. If the fire spread over the wooden furniture – oak tables and heavy benches... the consequences would be devastating.
"Help me!" a voice full of despair brought Harry out of his reverie, and he rushed to where Hannah huddled, covering her head with her hands. The bony fingers of the Inferius were already reaching for her.
"Accio torch!" Hermione jumped off the table, catching the heavy flaming torch, hurtling towards her, mid-flight, and immediately poked it into the corpse. It recoiled from the flames, losing its balance, and collapsed on its back directly under the feet of the second Inferius, whose goal was Ron.
How long would this last? Their opponents knew no fatigue, and the fire restrained them for just a little while. The only example of a fully stopped Inferius was lying on the floor and consisted of so many bits that the Dark Lord himself wouldn't dare to put this jig-saw together. To create such a mess was, of course, tempting and strategically correct, but Harry couldn't use a 'Sectumsempra'. That would be even more revealing than if he, in Neville's appearance, cast a stag Patronus, rubbed his forehead, and, catching a snitch, flew out of the window.
Though, as it turned out, such a possibility was in fact nearly given to Harry… Hermione, preoccupied with pushing away her determined Inferius on the same edge of the table as he, suddenly stared at him with rounded eyes and gasped so panickly, that the young man instinctively glanced back, assuming that such a reaction could only be triggered by the presence of the Dark Lord. However, behind him was just the obscured-with-darkness window without the slightest hint of 'He-Who-Must…', but the horror on Hermione's face was still promising a catastrophe. Waving her wand once again and uttering a tired 'Incarcerous', that gave her a break for a few seconds (exactly as long as it took the corpse to rip the ropes binding it), she pulled Harry towards her and whispered in his ear incoherently:
"Quickly! Potion! Scar!"
A second explanation wasn't necessary. Usually Harry took a dose of the potion right before classes, but today's breakfast had merged into the lesson so promptly and dramatically that he had completely forgotten about the greenish-brown concoction poured into the phials, and had merely worried about the integrity of Neville's head. Now, that Hermione had mentioned it, he actually did notice the outlines of the objects beginning to blur with the return of his own myopia as his palms were itching from shrinking. By happy coincidence (Thank you, Mione! I will NEVER say again that you're paranoid!) a little phial with Polyjuice Potion was secreted in the inside pocket of his robes. Yet, with more than twenty people and a dozen Inferi surrounding him, the conditions were hardly ideal for casually hitting the bottle.
Swearing obscenely with an assumption of Merlin's peculiar bedroom preferences, Harry did something that Neville's Gryffindorian spirit would most likely never forgive him for (if he ever found out) – he retreated to under the table. Courage was one thing, but to swallow the potion in front of everyone's eyes, standing on the table like on a pedestal, would be pure idiocy; and Gryffindors were taught to tell the former from the latter in their first year.
"It seems the rumours I heard about Gryffindors' bravery were highly exaggerated," Professor Carrow mused, watching in utter amazement how the tall, ungainly 'Longbottom', dodging the grasping, scorched hands of the Inferius, dived under the dining table.
Tracing her friend's trajectory, Hermione exhaled with relief, dreading to think what could have happened if she hadn't noticed the fatal changes in pseudo-Neville's appearance in time. However, she was unable to expand on that thought as tenacious bony fingers grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. The girl cried out – at first in surprise, and then in pain: falling from the table, she hurt her back badly (luckily without breaking it!) and scraped her elbow on the rough surface of the wooden bench. Hitting the floor knocked the air out of her lungs. She coughed, exhausted and disorientated. Miraculously her wand remained clamped in the palm of her hand, still in one piece! And yet… how long could this battle last? Half an hour, an hour, two? Until someone, this time living, was torn to shreds? If only she had mastered the technique of the talking Patronus, she'd be able now to send her silvery otter in search of help. But to whom?.. Well, even to Professor McGonagall – Minerva would never leave them alone with this maniac Death Eater if she knew what was happening now in the Great Hall. Though, these days the Head of Gryffindor was out of favour with the headmaster and his gang; therefore, her intervention could easily backfire on her... After all, there were plenty of Inferi to go around… How could an already dead creature be killed, really?
Malfoy's laughter snapped Hermione out of her reflections, which although lasting for merely five seconds contained a whole bunch of philosophical thoughts. To the Slytherin, however, she had only managed to tumble off the table with a loud bang. Yes, hilarious spectacle. Add a couple of broken bones and one would split one's sides laughing!
Bursting into a rage just like the rags on the militant corpses were bursting into flames from her well-aimed 'Incendios', the girl, amazed by the simplicity and obviousness of the solution, uttered a common 'Stupefy', directing her wand not at the Inferius, for which this spell was nothing more than hot air, but at its master.
The power she had put into this incantation was proportional to the hatred that overwhelmed her. Malfoy was thrown a few feet and smashed right into a wall with his aristocratic profile. Apparently, passing out, he lost the connection with his Inferius, because it suddenly froze – thin clawed fingers halfway to Hermione's throat – and then went limp and fell to the floor.
Harry, crawling from under the table – still tall, ungainly and without any hint of a scar, gave an exclamation of joy, but Hermione knew that the last thing she could hope for now was to earn some points for Gryffindor. Amycus Carrow rose from his chair, his already ugly face distorted by almost tangible fury.
"Mudblood!" he roared, hastily overcoming the distance separating them. "You raised your wand on a pure-blood wizard, you wretch!"
"But it's a lesson, Professor," Hermione hurriedly got to her feet, not wishing to look up at this bastard. "If we don't know the means to defeat the Inferius, I decided it was imperative to withdraw its master from the battle."
"Rennervate!"
A short spell and Draco was already plodding staggeringly towards the professor. His hand clamping his nose was covered with blood.
"She tried to kill me!"
"She did not!" Harry endeavoured to stand up for his friend, but with the first flick of his wand Carrow fenced himself, Malfoy and Hermione in a transparent protective sphere, and with the second he put a 'Silencio' on the annoying Gryffindorian. The latter was especially prudent, given the need for continuous attempts to repulse a charge of Inferi. Deprived of his voice, Harry had no choice but to flee, in the process (for the second time in the lesson, Merlin's pants!) regretting the lack of effort he had made on nonverbal spells in Snape's classes last year. Without his voice he was utterly helpless and his wand, once a serious weapon, now turned into nothing more than a shameful method of poking someone in the eye.
Feeling the support of the professor, Malfoy carefully showed his bloody palm, thrusting it almost under Hermione's nose:
"See?!"
"See?!" she echoed him, lifting her scraped elbow, which was bleeding less, of course, but had already begun to swell. Then again, Madam Pomfrey could certainly heal both of these injuries in less than five minutes (it'd be interesting to hear what she would say if she learned students got them in a fight against Inferi), so in that respect she and Malfoy were equal.
But only in that one.
"Have you forgotten your place, Granger? Should I remind you?! Professor…" a questioningly- anguished glance in Carrow's direction.
Hermione almost cursed. Indeed, the professor and Draco's daddy were licking the feet of the same Lord – practically family!
"The choice of punishment is yours, Mr Malfoy," Amycus nodded, and his puffy face, disfigured by a smirk, took on the aspect of an overripe pear.
The girl's eyes widened in amazement. Just like that? She looked around, wanting to make sure that what was happening to her wasn't a dream. Ron's 'Stupefy' hadn't managed to knock out Goyle, who apparently had a too thick skull, and now her friend was stalling for time with relatively inefficient binding spells, aiming with another 'Stupefy' at Theo Nott, whose Inferius didn't wish to leave the mute Harry alone.
Delirium. She must just be having a fever – September was really cold this year, besides all this incessant rain... That's right, she was lying in the Hospital Wing, and her bedside table was set with boxes of sweets her friends had brought. They, of course, had come, despite matron's prohibition, covered by Harry's Invisibility Cloak. Yes, that must be it. 'Cause the world in which a teacher gave Malfoy permission to do with her whatever he pleased couldn't be real, could it?
"You may take the opportunity to practice the control spell," advised Carrow.
Control? As in to make an Inferius out of her first, and then 'Obsequium moritas'?
She didn't even have time to raise her wand for a simple shield charm as Draco shouted readily:
"Imperio!"
He did it quite smoothly and with no hesitation – clearly wasn't his first time.
… Hermione had always been interested in how an Imperius felt – the scientific vein inside her trembled and vibrated with curiosity. The interest, however, was purely hypothetical. Would someone else's will feel like a foreign incursion? Was it painful to go against your beliefs under the authority of another wizard? Or was it an incredible joy to fulfil the commands of your master, like a great favour?
None of her assumptions were confirmed.
There was no one else's will. There was only a realisation of necessity.
It was absolutely necessary to throw her wand on the floor.
It was absolutely necessary to kneel by the table and hit her head on its edge. Once, twice. It was right. It was necessary. What was Harry screaming in the faraway background? What were these crimson drops slowly flowing down her temple and, hanging on her chin, falling to the floor? (They were ticklish and smelled of iron.) All of that didn't matter.
It was all a lie – about the subjugation, about the master. She had no master, she wanted this herself!
Wanted to climb on the table – its surface slightly shattered from the acrobatic etudes which students and Inferi had performed on it earlier, and her still cracked-after-nightly-laundry hands were running into narrow, protruding splinters... That was all right, the pain would leave as soon as she rose to her feet and yelled:
"I'm a filthy little Mudblood!"
All her pain would disappear, fading away with a sense of fulfilment of her desire, strong as a stream. Why couldn't they understand – she wanted this herself. Herself!
"I'm a filthy little Mudblood!"
And then the door swung open, letting in Professor Snape. Staring into the semidarkness with adjusting eyes, he spun his untidy-haired head around, as if trying to figure out where to start, and uttered a laconic 'Moritas more', from which all the Inferi fell to the floor like piles of rags.
And Hermione knew exactly what she must do next. She needed to jump off the table, cross the Hall with broad swift steps, stopping in front of the numb headmaster, who frowned, looking down at her, and kiss him… everything was right, it was as it should be.
How long the kiss lasted Hermione didn't remember – maybe just a moment, but for some reason it seemed very important to understand what kind of herbs she could taste on his lips. There were a bitter tanacetum and a thin note of mint…
Then the herbs were gone, and after a sharp 'Finite Incantatem' the sounds returned. Sunlight flowed into her eyes (when was the veil removed from the windows? Or rather when did she close her eyes?), the girl blinked, squinting from the unaccustomed brightness.
"No need to wince so much, Miss Granger," Snape's sarcastic voice rang above her, "I am not thrilled either."
As if emerging from a deep sleep, Hermione gasped, straining for air, and looked around bewilderingly, her heart fluttering in her throat as the pain pulsing in her temples suddenly tripled.
"Hey, Granger, stop fooling around, I removed the 'Imperio' five minutes ago!"
A chorus of Slytherins shrieked with laughter in response to this enchanting joke. Thankfully the others remained silent.
"That was a very impressive demonstration of Imperius, Mr Malfoy," Snape gave the girl standing in front of him an attentive gaze, pursing his lips as if the drops of blood on her face were actually flobberworms' products of life. Then he pulled away so squeamishly, as though he were afraid of getting infected. "Allow me, however, to express the hope that next time you will direct your imagination into a more productive channel."
"Yes, sir!" Malfoy agreed gladly, inspired, obviously, by the prospect of 'next time'.
"I can see you have not heeded my request to keep the Great Hall intact, at least, until lunchtime," Snape turned to Carrow, who was all smarmy smiles.
"I'm sure everything will be spic and span here come lunch. Those, who couldn't handle the Inferi, will take care of that," he looked around the mute students. "And Granger will come to the Dark Arts classroom at seven o'clock for detention."
Hermione nodded silently and stepped towards the door. This simple action caused her such a tormenting dizziness that if it wasn't for Ron she would have fallen to the floor just like the Inferi.
"Weasley, I haven't dismissed you yet!"
"Let him go," the headmaster interrupted Carrow. "Weasley, escort Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing before she falls and dirties the floor: it's time to learn to respect Mr Filch's work."
More than anything in the world, Hermione wanted to run out and keep running until the air was gone from her lungs, but she was only strong enough to hang on Ron's arm and allow him to drag her out of the Great Hall. From behind their backs could be heard muffled whispers:
"All her head is covered in blood, did you see?"
"She kissed Snape. That's awful…"
"I'd throw up…"
"From Snape or from Granger?"
Ron was grinding his teeth, but stayed silent. And for this Hermione was eternally grateful to him…
XXX
It was almost four in the afternoon, when the Hospital Wing's door opened slightly, and a ginger fluffy hairball walked majestically towards Hermione's bed. Ron whisked into the room straight after him and held the door for someone in the invisibility cloak. Half-assed conspirators…
Crookshanks jumped onto his mistress' stomach, purring deeply, and even grunted a little with pleasure as she ran her healed fingers through his thick fur. The invisible Harry sank onto the nearby bed and fidgeted, making some space for Ron, who at this moment was placing a large box of chocolate frogs on Hermione's bedside table. Should she, finally, open his eyes to the fact she never liked these confections?
"So, how are you?" Harry began diplomatically in a whistling whisper. Remembered, at last, about the tradecraft! A whisper coming out of mid-air was much less suspicious, of course, than normal speech. "Madam Pomfrey patched you up?"
Hermione just nodded, not even turning her head.
Her friends were, obviously, afraid of her hysteria, but noticing her reluctance to talk they cheered up and jabbered in eager rivalry, struggling with their own embarrassment while discussing such a delicate topic:
"Don't worry about it, Hermione, everyone's already forgotten!"
"That ferret will pay for it! We promise you!"
"Ratty little git!"
"And what we're going to be taught next time – an 'Avada'?"
"I've never been so happy to see Snape… Ouch!" (An invisible elbow punched Ron in his side. Merlin, what could be worse than clumsy diplomacy? Was it assumed that now she'd blush with shame and start convulsing at the mere mention of the headmaster? Well, maybe she would, but no need to emphasize that.)
"Come on, Hermione! I doubt that old greasy-haired bat will get back at you – his behaviour is already as bad as it gets."
"Besides, he should be thanking you – I suppose, it's been a hundred years since anyone… Ouch!"
"Listen, guys, don't get me wrong," her voice was a bit husky from the long silence, "but I have to go to Carrow's detention at seven… It would be nice to get some sleep…"
"Oh! Of course, no problem!" Harry's unseeable hand grabbed Ron's elbow and pulled him towards the door.
"Ehh, Hermione?" Ron asked, cautiously caressing her bedside table with his eyes.
"Take them, I'm not hungry," the girl responded quietly, and couldn't hold back her smile as Ronald dashed towards the box of confectionary with the agility of a chocolate frog.
When the door closed behind her friends, and the clock on the wall began to tick a little louder, as always happens in silence, Hermione laid, exhausted and devastated, for a long time, staring at the ceiling and rubbing her cat's warm mane with her healed fingers.
For some reason, that taste didn't disappear from her lips. Falling into an intermittent disquieting sleep, and then emerging from it, she was still trying, somewhere on the very edge of her consciousness, to combine mint and tanacetum... But she managed to do it only when Madam Pomfrey brought another cool bottle to her lips, whispering sadly:
"Drink some more painkiller, my dear…"