Chapter Nine: The paper tiger: it's grrrrrreat!

Professor McGonagall wasn't in class the following morning.

Harry and Ron were only a few minutes late, and they were careful to keep quiet as they made their way to their seats, looking around nervously at the confused faces of the students. After five more minutes, the students began murmuring amongst themselves. "Maybe it's a test," Ron whispered. "Maybe we have to find her—find what she's transformed into."

"Somehow I don't think so," Harry said, looking around. "Maybe she forgot?"

"It's not like her," Ron insisted. "She's stiff as a broom handle, she is. I think she memorizes all her schedules at the beginning of each term."

The murmur turned into a loud confusion, and went on until a passing ghost looked in. "Oh dear," It mumbled, then hurried off. A few moments later, Dumbeldore was striding into the classroom, his robes spreading behind him. "Everyone, quiet down," He said, moving to stand behind McGonagall's desk. "I've sent someone to look for the Professor—she should be here any minute, so there's no need to get noisy." Despite his reassuring tone, he looked nervous. It was likely he'd never expected Professor McGonagall to be late, either.

Another half an hour passed before the Professor came running in, looking disheveled and very upset. She skidded to a halt in front of her desk, straightened her hat, then apologized profusely to Dumbeldore, explaining that she'd been "held up on important business in the Gryffindor dormitory". Dumbeldore gave her a long, appraising look, then shook his head and left the classroom.

The rest of the class was uneventful, save for the whispered rumors of just what the professor had been doing to make her late to her own class. No one managed to come up with a convincing answer, though there were some interesting theories. Professor McGonagall ignored it all.

**

As much as Hermione liked Harry, she had to admit even to herself that his theories about Kiyoshi were—well, crazy. She'd done some research for him mainly to humor him, but she knew she wouldn't really find anything. She was angry at him, though, because his stupid research had almost gotten her in trouble. She couldn't afford to ruin her perfect grades.

Professor Wolf's class was the worst—she could never seem to fully understand the concepts Wolf was trying to convey, not like she did in her other classes. How things like love and hate could affect the way spells worked; how one's magical ability relied not on the strength of their will, but that of their soul. As much as Hermione studied her textbooks and the extra reading Professor Wolf assigned, she couldn't see what he saw.

Which is why she shouldn't have been surprised when Wolf asked her to stay after class a moment and calmly informed her that she had the lowest grade in the class and was failing.

"I'm what?!" Hermione screeched.

"Please lower your voice," Wolf said gently. "I understand you're upset. You needn't worry too much; there is plenty of time to make up your grade before the end of term reports."

Hermione swallowed, determined not to cry in front of Wolf. "What… Can I do to get a higher mark?" She asked shakily.

Wolf sighed and steepled his fingers. "You may want to find someone to tutor you. Mister Kamagaki seems to be getting along fairly well, despite his… Lack of class participation," He said, looking away for a moment. "Or if you'd like, I can try to help you after your classes. What you really need to do, Miss Hermione, is open your mind a bit. Try not to think of magic as a science, but an art. You see—let me think of an example. Have you ever been in love, Miss Hermione?"

"No." Her tone was cold.

Wolf shook his head. "No, I suppose not. Well, let's try this: if, in your transfiguration class, you do marvelously and are highly praised by your teacher and friends, how then will you do in your next class?"

"Even better," Hermione admitted, speaking from experience.

"Why?"

Hermione thought for a moment, then replied, "Because I was in a good mood, I suppose." She shook her head. "I don't see what any of this has to do with—"

"You recall the warm feeling you get when you're praised," Wolf interrupted. "That is emotion, Miss Hermione. That is magic, raw and pure. When you are in love, it is not a warm feeling you experience, but a burning, searing fire. Hate will do the same, if strong enough. You can use the magic that you produce on your own to do great things. Do you understand now?"

Hermione nodded, even though she still didn't see how what Wolf was saying could work. Magic from love and hate? Muggles fell in love and experienced hate just the same as wizards did, and they couldn't work magic. She quietly excused herself and went back to the Gryffindor dorm, her emotions seething. What was she going to do if she couldn't pass Professor Wolf's class?

She lay in her bed for an hour and a half, even when the other students went down to dinner. She tried reading Blood and Roses, but couldn't find any of the hidden meanings Wolf had talked about during class. Angrily she threw the book down, then snatched it back up again and set it carefully on top of her other books. She felt the familiar warmth behind her eyes that meant tears were coming, and buried her face in her pillow. "Failing," She sobbed into her pillow. "What am I going to do?" She propped herself up on her elbows, then shook her head. "I have to go back and see him," She said, and slid off of the bed. "There has to be something he can do."

The halls of the school were eerily quiet without the noise and bustle of the students, though roaming the grounds at night was nothing new to her. She hurried along, hoping no one would see her. No one could know what she was doing, where she was going. No could know that she was—She stopped just short of the door to Wolf's classroom, listening.

There was the scrape of a chair on the floor, a crash and a gasp.

Was there someone in there with him?

A whispered name—what—

Hermione stepped close enough to see into the classroom without being seen. She peered through the door, holding her breath.

Then turned away quickly, reddening. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to erase the image from her mind, but it seemed burned, carved into place. What am I going to do? She thought, panicking. If I tell Dumbeldore, Professor Wolf will fail me for sure, and then—She realized she'd been running only when she skidded to a stop and found herself halfway down the hall. If I tell Dumbeldore. If. She knew what she had to do.