Harry Potter and the Fifth House
Christine Morgan
christine@sabledrake.com / http://www.christine-morgan.org


Author's Note: the characters of the Harry Potter novels are the property of their creator, J.K. Rowling, and are used here without her knowledge or permission. All other characters property of the author. 53,000 words. January, 2002. Adult situations, mild sexual content and violence.
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Chapter Eight – Art Appreciation.

The unbelievable news about Uncle Vernon's father, plus the advent of classes, should have been enough to distract Harry from thinking about Jeremy Upwood, Professor Charon, and the mysterious Battenby House.
But it didn't. Oh, everyone else seemed to have forgotten it entirely … Ron and Hermione only remembered when Harry reminded them. It was almost as if – and he supposed it might not be beyond the realm of possibility – that some spell was in effect. Clouding their minds. Making everyone who had witnessed the strange events suffer a sort of Memory Charm. Affecting all of them, but apparently not Harry.
He wondered if his ability to remember somehow tied in with his ability to resist the Imperius Curse and his luck at withstanding other spells. Wondered if he should try to get an audience with Dumbledore. He was being eaten alive by questions. What held him back was the notion that Dumbledore might have been behind, or at least aware of, the spell, and might not take well to knowing that it hadn't worked on Harry.
For the time being, he did his best to think of other things. There was a whole new season of Quidditch practice to look forward to, and at their first meeting in an overwhelming vote, the rest of the team chose Harry to be their new captain since Alicia Spinnet had graduated. He wasn't sure if he was up to it, but was honored by their faith in him and determined to try.
The composition of the team had changed drastically since Harry was first made Seeker. All of the rest had been older than him, and most had graduated and moved on. He was very pleased with the performances of both Ginny Weasley and Dennis Creevey. Ginny, on her new Skyblazer, was a whirlwind of red and gold as she pursued the Quaffle. And Dennis, small but tough, proved to be able to whack a Bludger farther than any other Beater in the school.
If Quidditch kept Harry busy and sent him to bed most nights with aching muscles, it was only a drop in the bucket compared to the workout he got in a new class he'd signed up for this term. Magical Combat, also taught by Madame Hooch, was only open to sixth- and seventh-years.
They would be learning various magical defenses such as creating invisible shields against projectiles. Harry wondered if that could be applied on the Quidditch field, thereby sparing him a bruising from the Bludgers, but the spell required such concentration that he knew he couldn't do that as well as keep his eye on the Snitch). They would learn to momentarily make their hands and arms hard as iron, for blocking a blow or delivering one. They studied spells to increase their strength and agility – under the effect of one of these, Harry became dizzyingly quick – and spells to strike at a distance with unseen fists of force. The classic attack spells – fireballs, lightning bolts, jets of scalding water, daggers of ice – were included in the curriculum too.
Ron was in Magical Combat with him, as were Neville, Dean, and Seamus. Of the sixth-year Gryffindor girls, only Parvati took that class and seemed to find great delight in trouncing and humiliating Harry and Ron most of all. She claimed she didn't still hold a grudge over their neglect of her and her sister Padma (who was in Ravenclaw, and luckily the Magical Combat course had Gryffindor doubled with Hufflepuff), but after a session of repeatedly blocking what would have been viciously low hits from Parvati, Ron swore that she was still in a snit.
Hermione disdained that class, believing that magic was meant for knowledge and doing constructive things, not beating people up. She was carrying a heavy course load, not so heavy as the year in which she'd had to resort to a Time-Turner just to make it to every lesson, but she still had half again as much homework as Harry and Ron. She had decided on a challenging triple major of Charms, Transfigurations, and Thaumaturgical Engineering, with a split minor of Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures. Her paper on house-elves was so well done that, despite its obvious editorial slant, it was published in the quarterly journal of the English Witches Association.
Just listening to her talk about her classes gave Harry a headache. Since Quidditch wasn't available as a major, he went with Defense Against the Dark Arts and Magical Combat, in both of which he had been getting extensive extracurricular experience anyway.
Ron couldn't make up his mind. His grades were adequate but average. He didn't shine in any particular subject, and didn't do abysmally in any either. He and Harry would never earn top marks in Potions, not as long as Snape was teaching, and Divinations wasn't regarded by either of them as worth any serious time.
Mr. Weasley was after Ron to major in Muggle Studies, the better to follow in his footsteps and take a job at the Ministry of Magic. Ron was against it, partly because his older brother Percy was already working there and after suffering Percy the Prefect, Percy the Big-Head Boy, Perfect Percy, for so long, Ron wanted to do something else. He just didn't know what.
The work was harder than in previous years. They were getting near to taking their O.W.L.s, and it was past time to buckle down. A lot of students who'd been coasting and socializing their way through school were suddenly becoming aware of this, so the atmosphere in the sixth-year classrooms was much more studious and intent.
Gradually, though, as the novelty of the first week wore off and things got down to serious business, Harry started noticing things. Out of the corner of his eye. Half-heard when his mind was elsewhere. Sensed in some intangible way that he couldn't describe.
Presences. He detected presences around him. Not the ghostly, spiritual sort that would send Professor Trelawney into tremulous rapture at a Manifestation. Not the chill wind of a dementor, or the amiable nearness of one of the castle ghosts. Not even Peeves the Poltergeist, who could never quite be described as 'amiable.' This was something else. Something new.
Weirdest of all was the feeling that they'd always been there, but he just hadn't noticed before.
He mentioned this to Hermione one afternoon in the library. She was deep into a book, as usual, but raised her head to listen. Strands and straggles of hair fell across her face, she had an ink smudge on one cheek and a bit of feather stuck to the corner of her mouth from the quill she'd been chewing, and the way she was bent over the book gave Harry a hitherto unsuspected and entirely incredible view right down the front of her blouse. It was almost enough to make him forget what he was saying.
"Maybe you're not looking right," she said.
"Huh?" Harry flushed guiltily, but of course she wasn't talking about what he was looking at now.
"The Potion of True-Sight," she said. "It's supposed to let you see that which is normally unseen."
Tantalizing prospects danced in Harry's thoughts and he banished them. Surely that wasn't the purpose of the potion, to look through girls' clothes. He concluded that somewhere along the line, he'd developed a dirty mind. Maybe it was just part of being sixteen.
Hermione sprang up (ruining his view) and vanished into the stacks. While she was gone, Harry tried to go back to his studies but heard conspiratorial voices and muffled laughter from a corner of the library. His roommates, Ron among them, were crowded into that concealed nook, away from the prying eyes of Madame Pince, the librarian.
"Look at this one," he heard Seamus Finnegan say, and then there was a stifled spate of whistles and noises like "wuh-ho-ho!"
Ron, looking around to check and make sure they were unobserved, saw Harry and beckoned. Hermione still wasn't back, so Harry got up, marked his place, and went to see what they were doing.
The boys were huddled around a large book that Seamus was holding. It was open to a photograph of a shapely witch in pointed hat, corset, garter, stockings, and high-heeled, high-buttoned black shoes. Because it was a wizard photograph, she wiggled her bottom and pursed her lips at them.
"What are you doing?" Harry asked. "Where'd you get that?"
"From the Art section," Seamus snickered. "It's works of art, all right! Look at this next one, but don't drool on the book."
He turned the page and showed them a witch in a see-through gauze dress. She was holding the skirt well above her knees, and leaned over so that her breasts nearly tumbled out the deep neckline. They couldn't see everything, but they could see quite a lot.
"Turn to the next one," urged Ron, his eyes alight.
Seamus did, and as one they all went, "wow!" so loudly that they then cringed and waited to be discovered, chastised. But luck was with them. Madame Pince must have been elsewhere in the library.
The picture was of a nude woman lying on a fur rug, her body wrapped lovingly around a broomstick in a way that suggested it wasn't flying that was on her mind.
"What is this?" Harry asked, marveling.
"Enchantresses, The Photos of Cliffton Stratford," Seamus said. "You know, the famous nude photographer."
"You mean like in Squire magazine?" Ron grinned. "Fred and George had a subscription to that, but they only got one issue before Mum found out. She hit the roof."
"Those are pornography," said Seamus. "This is art."
"What's the difference?" said Dean Thomas. "A naked witch is a naked witch."
"Pornography is evil," said Neville breathlessly. "My gran says it turns nice young boys into brutes and anyone caught looking at it should have their you-know taken off with tinsnips."
This pronouncement brought them all to wincing silence for a moment. Then Seamus asserted again, "This is art."
"You ever seen one?" Dean asked.
"What, pornography?" Ron made a face. "No, like I told you. Mum got ahold of it before any of us had a chance for a peek, and threw it straight in the fire."
"A naked girl!" said Dean, exasperated. "In person, for real, not just a picture."
"Yeah, sure," boasted Seamus. "Lots of times."
"Like when?" Dean challenged.
"Well … have you?"
"Once," said Dean with a lascivious smile. "My cousin Polly. We were on holiday at the beach, and she snuck out late one night to go skinny-dipping. I saw her coming back to the house, bare as the day she was born."
"This lucky bloke's seen hundreds," Ron said, taking the book from Seamus and flipping through it. "What I'd give to have his job."
"I don't think Hogwarts offers that as a major," Harry said, laughing.
"Should say not," said Seamus. "He was expelled from Hogwarts thirty years ago."
"For what?" Dean asked. "Taking naked pictures of girls?"
"I don't know for sure, but there was some sort of scandal, all right." Seamus reached over Ron's arm and turned to the 'about the author' paragraph at the back. "See? 'Despite his interrupted schooling, Cliffton Stratford went on to complete his education elsewhere.' He was expelled."
"Turn back," Ron said, snatching the book away. "I saw something."
"I'll bet you did," chuckled Dean. "Botties and bubbies as far as the eye can see."
"Take it easy, Ron," Harry said.
"Oh, sure, that's fine for you to say." Ron blurred through the pages, image after image of nude witches flashing by. "You've got that Invisibility Cloak, it's not like you couldn't go into the girls' changing room any time you wanted."
"Cor!" said Seamus. "Have you, Harry?"
"No!" he cried. "Of course not." He could have smacked Ron for blabbing, too … he'd been careful to keep that cloak a secret from all but a few friends, though some probably suspected.
"Bloody hell," said Dean. "I would. Lend it to me, what do you say, Harry?"
"Not a chance!"
"Here!" cried Ron, so loudly that they had to hush him. He jabbed his finger at the page. "Her. That one. Know who she looks like?"
The image was of a witch in what looked like a naughty outfit inspired by a school uniform. Her blouse was open all down the front, her skirt hiked in back to reveal wispy underwear, and she was leaning sideways on the edge of a desk with her long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles.
She held a supple switch, the sort that some of the classrooms still had on display as mementos of the days when discipline had been handled by other methods than subtraction of House points. Mr. Filch the caretaker would have dismissed the switches as sissy punishments, fondly recalling the days of racks, iron maidens, and involuntary Transfigurations.
"Saucy!" Seamus ogled her. "A shame we don't have teachers like that! She could switch my backside any time at all!"
"But look at her," Ron said. "Look close."
"I look any closer, my eyes will fall right out of my head," said Dean. Neville, leaning over his shoulder, said nothing but his eyes bulged so that they might fall out at any minute.
Ron tapped the picture again. As it moved, the witch slapped the switch meaningfully against her palm and re-crossed her legs. "Call me crazy, but add forty years or so and what do you get?"
"An old naked witch," said Seamus. "Why would we want to do that?"
Harry blinked, looked, blinked again. "I say, Ron …"
"You see it too?"
"See what?" demanded Neville.
"It is crazy," Harry said. "But she could almost be a … a young McGonagall."
"What are you looking at?"
When Hermione spoke, they all jumped and whirled around. Ron slammed the book so fast he crushed his thumb in it and yipped in pain. He hid it behind his back and they stood, a human wall with guilt writ large upon their faces. Hermione read that guilt and her eyebrow went up.
Harry didn't know about the others, but his dirty mind insisted on trying to put her in that book, Hermione with her skirt hiked and her blouse open. Then, suddenly, he thought that the others were envisioning just that, and wanted to spin around and punch them all. How dare they!
"It's a library," said Seamus in all innocence. "What do you think we're looking at."
She said nothing, just gave them more eyebrow.
"It's homework," Neville tried, his words coming out in a squeak better suited to a pinch-mouse.
"Homework," she said.
"Sure, that's right, homework," they all blathered.
"For what class?"
Five different answers spilled out. They shared around a grimace, and then Ron stuck out his chest and got all huffy and said, "Well, and who appointed you assistant librarian, anyway? It's none of your business."
"Fine," she said curtly. "Harry, do you care at all about this potion I just went and looked up for you, or would you rather stay here and study art?"
He felt like his cheeks might burst into flame, they were so hot. Meekly, without a word, he shuffled toward Hermione and then followed her back to the table where their books were spread. She slammed the new one down on the tabletop with a crack like a gunshot, drawing a stern scowl from Madame Pince.
"How long were you there?" Harry asked, not really wanting to know.
"Long enough. Honestly, I don't know what it is with you lot. Naked pictures. What next? Those horrible spanky-governess books from the high shelf in the Victorian Literature section?"
It was Harry's turn to make with the eyebrow and Hermione's turn to blush.
"So I heard, anyway," she finished lamely.
"Don't be mad," he said. "We were just looking. It's not like it did any harm."
"It's degrading. What are normal girls supposed to do when all the boys are so obsessed with pin-ups and supermodels? You get to expect everyone to look that way, and then we're not good enough."
"Trust me, Hermione, you'd be good enough," Harry said. "You're as pretty as any of those naked witches. In clothes, I mean, because I haven't seen you … uh …"
He suddenly heard himself, heard the stupid things that were coming out of his mouth, and shut up fast. He closed his eyes and waited for the explosion. What would she do? Clout him over the head with the heavy, musty book she'd just brought back from the Potions, Elixirs, and Unguents section, that was his first bet.
When he wasn't clubbed senseless, or poked with the sharp end of a quill, Harry risked opening an eye. Incredibly, Hermione didn't look half so mad, looked almost flattered judging by the pleased little smile she wore.
Rather than push his luck, Harry pointed at the book. "Did you find it?"
"Yes, the recipe's in here," she said, sounding like she wasn't quite all the way composed. She cleared her throat and smoothed back her hair. "Yes. The Potion of True-Sight. You squeeze a drop into each eye, and it will show you things that can't normally be seen."
"Like someone in an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry asked. He thought again of Ron, saying that with it, he could sneak into the girls' changing room any old time, and turned red again.
Hermione didn't notice, or, if she did, didn't ask. "Probably. I bet Snape has some on hand."
"Yeah," said Harry glumly. "Once he found out I had that Cloak, he would. But I can't just ask to borrow some."
"I didn't say you should," she said pertly. "We can make it ourselves. It's easy, and we've already got everything we need."
"Thanks, Hermione. You're swell, you know?"
"I didn't do anything. You could have gotten the book yourself."
"But you knew about it, and you've always got good ideas. I like you."
He froze. What he'd meant to say was "I like that," but it hadn't come out quite right.
Hermione was very still.
"Uh …" he said.
"I better go," she said, gathering up her stuff. "Got an Arithmancy quiz tomorrow and I need to go over my quadmagic equations."
"Listen, Hermione, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say --"
She smiled at him, a quick smile, there and gone like a distant flash of lightning. She started to leave the table, then turned back. "I like you, too, Harry."
Then she was gone.

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page copyright 2002 by Christine Morgan / christine@sabledrake.com