cxcix. fortunato

The pages of the Daily Prophet crinkled softly under Hermione's fingers as she read the paper.

"Hmm. The Whitchurch Wailers won their last game against the Corris Carriers, one hundred and fifty to zero. Apparently, it was a rather quick and dull game." The page wrinkled, a square portrait of a familiar, distasteful man smiling from the front. "And, of course, Gaunt is on a tear, campaigning for his reelection at the end of the year."

On the narrow, white bed, Harriet harrumphed. Hermione continued reading.

"The Ministry's passed a new amendment to the law forbidding the importation of Minotaur horns. And they're entertaining a new petition for the introduction of Aqrabuamelu into Being status, though we both know that'll fail here in Britain. The Ministry is ridiculous."

Again, Harriet made a soft, indifferent sound of acknowledgment. Hermione lifted her eyes from the paper and frowned at her. The younger witch appeared very small in the plain bed, her sheets tucked in tight, though the top of her arm remained visible, bent and strapped against her chest as it was.

Hermione tried very hard not to stare.

Two days had passed since the accident in the dormitory. Merlin, it had been horrid—the snap of bones breaking, blood splattering the sheets, the disgusting pop of joints coming apart. Elara had proved more useful than Hermione, as when she'd started to panic and Harriet had screamed in agony, Elara had grabbed Harriet under the arms and ordered Hermione to help her get the witch out of the room.

A clever decision, in hindsight. The pungent aroma of half-rotted Mandrake leaves had hung over Harriet's bed, a clear indication of what had been going on. Elara had hit Harriet, insensate in pain, with a Scouring Charm that left her sicking up soap bubbles in the hallway, but it erased the potion's smell from her mouth. It'd been cruel, but it'd eliminated evidence of their wrongdoing—wrongdoing that could easily place Harriet in Azkaban.

They'd dragged Harriet to one of the outer couches of the common room, and Hermione ran back to their beds to find a Transfiguration text—any text—so she could throw it open at Harriet's feet. When she returned to the common room, Elara had ordered Verpia and Knight—who'd been entirely too engrossed in their inappropriate conduct to note their presence or absence from the room—to get Madam Pomfrey.

Hermione told the witch it'd been a practice spell gone wrong, that she'd misfired from her pincushion in an attempt to turn it into a hedgehog and hit Harriet. It was a horrendous excuse, Hermione knew, but she'd been unable to come up with a better lie at the moment. Though skeptical, Madam Pomfrey took the excuse at face value in favor of looking after her patient, but Hermione knew next they saw McGonagall, she'd be furious.

A small sigh built in her chest, but Hermione kept it inside. She couldn't help how her attention wandered to what bit of Harriet's arm remained visible above the sheet. Bandages and gauze peeked from around her scrawny shoulder, her scar stark white and inflamed about the edges.

Madam Pomfrey hadn't disclosed all of Harriet's needed treatment, of course, but Hermione had stayed long enough the first evening to hear the matron whispering about 'amputation' and 'regrowth' to the Headmaster. By the time she'd been allowed to see Harriet again the next afternoon, her twisted, deformed arm was normal again, but Harriet's face was sallow with deep, sleepless circles under her eyes. Hermione imagined it must have been a very painful night.

Hermione felt stupid for not dissuading Harriet from trying this. They hadn't even gotten a glimpse of the creature—just…bones, and flesh in the wrong places. She knew exactly how dangerous Animagus transformations could be, having read the subject extensively before Elara attempted her own. Why hadn't she been more insistent? Why hadn't she demanded they use more caution, be more careful?

She flipped to the next page in the paper, ignoring how her fingers tightened. "The Ministry lotto number was apparently 'two,' only two, and has caused a bit of a scandal."

Harriet snorted. "Idiots."

"Quite." Hermione paused in her reading to study Harriet again, who wriggled slightly and grimaced. "Are you all right? Do you need anything?"

"No," she huffed, scowling. "Pomfrey Charmed my arse to the mattress."

"She what?"

"I—tried to leave this morning," Harriet admitted. A slight blush colored her sickly cheeks. "But I fell because of the stupid pain potion she gave me that makes my legs all wibbly. I had to lay on the floor until Pomfrey found me."

Hermione didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You're meant to be resting."

"My bloody legs were fine!"

Shaking her head, Hermione folded the top of the paper down. "So…has Professor McGonagall come to speak with you yet?"

A shudder racked Harriet's body. "No, thank Merlin. Or maybe it'd be better to get it over with while she thinks I'm meek and wounded and upset."

She was meek and wounded, whatever Harriet's pride asserted. As for upset—well, Hermione imagined anyone would be upset if a project they'd devoted time to for months on end had gone pear-shaped. "Elara said, based on what you've told her, it should be possible to find your form." She hesitated, picking at the paper's corner. "She said it's there, but you'll have to attempt pulling it out again."

"I'm not in a real rush to try again here, Hermione."

"No, I imagine not." The sigh she'd held in escaped this time, and she rifled the Prophet. "Right, well. Where was I?"

Unfortunately, before Hermione could delve back into whatever insipid drivel the Prophet had decided to publish, the doors to the infirmary creaked open. They couldn't see the doors from where they were, hidden behind a privacy partition near the rear of the wing, but it only took a moment of listening to recognize the footsteps—or, rather, the lack thereof. Professor Slytherin hardly ever made a sound aside from the faint hiss of his silk robes on the stone floor.

He came around the partition without announcing himself, and Hermione froze, uncomfortable with the wizard's sudden, intense scrutiny thrown upon her. Harriet stiffened in the bed, and had her posterior not been attached to the mattress, Hermione surmised she might have made a run for it.

"On the mend, Potter?" he said, though his tone framed the words as a statement—a demand—more than a question. Of course, Hermione didn't believe the wizard capable of exhibiting any real concern. Nothing beyond what would possibly inconvenience him.

"Yes, Professor."

"Good." He flicked his wrist and wordlessly summoned two black envelopes into his hand. The first he dropped into Hermione's lap without ceremony, and she nearly fumbled it upon the floor. The second he held out to Harriet, waiting, leaning a little too closely over her bed as Harriet dragged her usable arm out from under the sheet to accept the missive. "I won't tolerate your absence from my generous invitation, Miss Potter. Wounded or not."

"Of course, Professor." Harriet couldn't have sounded more bored if she tried, but she displayed the proper obeisance, and Professor Slytherin found no further need to remain. He swept from the ward with his usual ghostly silence, trailed by his green robes. Harriet ripped into the envelope with her teeth.

"Bloody brilliant," she snarked, spitting a bit of parchment from her mouth. "Of course, he chooses now of all times—or, rather, two days from now?" She read the letter inside, turning it toward the light. "Two days from now, in the middle of the bloody night, meeting in the entrance hall. If he tries to make us go in the bloody forest again…."

"Are you going to be well by then?"

"Yeah. I'll at least be out of the infirmary."

Hermione worried about how this would affect Harriet's chances. She'd reported prior how Professor Snape believed the second trial would test their convictions, searching for a candidate malleable enough to bend to his wishes while having just enough backbone to not bend for others. Hermione hoped whatever task he'd dreamed up, Harriet could conquer it with her injury.

She resumed reading the paper, if only because it disguised her restless thoughts and gave Harriet something to listen to. She couldn't worry about Slytherin's trial. There were no clues, no preparations to be made, and though Hermione had never done anything in her life with the intent of losing, she very much understood this was not something she was meant to win. There was no winning this game.

"Skeeter's done another piece," she commented.

"Don't say that wretched woman's name to me. Daft cow over-egging the pudding."

Hermione ignored the comment, knowing if they got into a discussion on Rita Skeeter and her so-called journalism, they'd be here for a very long time. "It's relatively buried, considering it's another jab at Longbottom. A fluff piece on his behavior in History of Magic. There's even a bit in here about something Remus told him, dressing him down." Hermione didn't continue to read aloud, stopping instead to scan the article again, then a third time. She frowned.

Now, if one weren't familiar with Remus, they might assume him the kind of professor who'd give a student a telling off in front of others—Merlin knew Professors Snape, Slytherin, and—to an extent—McGonagall had no difficulty doing the same. However, Hermione knew Remus would do no such thing. He was the sort of teacher who preferred taking his students aside to address in private, usually with tea and an accompaniment of biscuits.

That doesn't make sense.

Too soon, Madam Pomfrey came about, and Hermione was rousted from her spot and told to go to class. "Can you bring me a book when you come again?" Harriet begged, ignoring the stern look given by Madam Pomfrey and the reminder she was meant to be resting, not reading. "Please? I'm going spare."

"Oh—which book, then? We have a test in Care of Magical Creatures on Monday, so would you like that text—?"

"A novel, Hermione. I don't want to study. Merlin."

Pomfrey managed to push Hermione from the ward, and she huffed under her breath as she left, rushing as she heard the warning bell. She didn't quite make it to the dungeons on time, but by some miracle, Professor Snape said nothing. His back remained turned to the room as he wrote on the blackboard, and Hermione slipped into her seat.

The empty spot between her and Elara felt much larger than it should have.

"How is she?" Elara whispered as Snape continued writing, the chalk clacking hard on the slate. It sounded like the man was attempting to stab it.

"Bored. Trying Madam Pomfrey's patience—but doing better this morning. Did you feed Livius?"

"Yes. He nearly bit my head off, but it's done."

Snape finished writing out the title and structure of their potion today and whirled around, causing the front row of students to flinch. Hermione couldn't be sure, but she thought the angles of his face appeared particularly grim, like the wizard hadn't gotten much sleep.

"Quiet. The first person to speak out of turn will lose fifty points for their House."

No one dared breathe.

Hermione maintained her usual diligence in taking notes as Professor Snape began the lecture, but she couldn't help that her mind started to wander, seeming to rubberband back to the confusion she'd experienced in the infirmary. The half-folded issue of the Daily Prophet remained tucked on the top of her bag, and if she turned her head just so, Hermione could look down and see part of the stark print.

Remus wouldn't berate Neville in front of others—which meant, yet again, Rita Skeeter had managed to find information that should be impossible for her to know. Remus wouldn't have given the reporter the time of day, and Longbottom would have never imparted facts that Skeeter could use to paint him in an unflattering light. Of course, she could be lying entirely, but Remus had vaguely mentioned to Harriet in passing during one of their afternoon teas that he needed to have a word with Neville about his behavior, and Harriet had been suitably smug in relaying that fact to Hermione and Elara.

Now, how Skeeter had known about that meeting remained a mystery.

The lecture eventually transitioned into the practical portion of the double period, and while Elara did her part by setting up the cauldron and retrieving their tools, Hermione joined the queue for the student cupboard, getting their ingredients. The potion wouldn't take much thought, honestly. It required precise timing and stirring, something even Longbottom could manage if he stopped mucking about for five minutes at a time.

Hermione almost wished Professor Snape had set something more challenging, if only to keep her mind centered. However, the Potions Master showed little interest in teaching, seated behind his desk, rubbing his fingers against his temple. Barely ten minutes had elapsed, and already Longbottom and his partner Lavender had messed up their Equanimity Potion, using the wrong species of moth wings. Goyle stuck the blunt end of his ladle in his nose, pulling a face, and Crabbe guffawed.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

The potion between her and Elara came together at a swift pace, and when they had nothing to do but to wait for the swirling blue liquid to simmer, Hermione slipped the Prophet from her bag and reread the article that had her so flummoxed. Though brief, the language used sounded very much like Remus. It must have come from him. So, the question remained, how did Skeeter manage to get the information?

An eavesdropping Charm of some sort? Hermione had never heard of such a thing, and it most definitely wouldn't work all the way from London. Magic lost potency over time and distance; places like Hogwarts or the Ministry retained their integrity through the original relays set by their founders—little spells, almost vampiric in nature, how they took tiny sips of magic to hold themselves together. Should the school be abandoned tomorrow and left to go to seed, the old spells would fall, crumble. Fade.

No, Rita Skeeter could not be maintaining that kind of spell—should it exist—from London or anywhere else in the isles aside from Hogwarts. But she couldn't be in Hogwarts, barred by the Headmaster along with all other members of the press. Was it possible she had something like Harriet's cloak and used it to move about the school? Was that how she'd been present at the Yule Ball?

Hermione gave their potion a look over, then glanced at Professor Snape. He still sat at his desk, though he'd move on from glowering to inspecting another class's samples in a contraption even Hermione didn't have a name for. Whatever he saw disappointed him, as he sneered and made an ugly red mark in his grade book.

She shoved the Prophet back into her bag. Careful not to be seen, Hermione slipped her Atlas out from her robe pocket and into her lap, angling her knees below the table so the glow wouldn't be readily apparent. She retrieved her wand and tapped the lens. "Non Ducor Duco."

Elara turned her head, a slight frown tipping her lips. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Nothing. Just—checking something."

"Hmm. You know our potion is nearly done."

Hermione hadn't known that, and realized she'd lost more time than she thought in introspection. "Oh, yes, of course. Will you get the glassware?"

Elara rolled her eyes, knowing an excuse when she heard it, but she nonetheless stood to get extra vials from the shelf by the sinks. Hermione used the distraction to tap the Atlas again. "Search: Rita Skeeter."

It brought back the image of Skeeter's labeled dot easily enough, but her surroundings were blurred, the lines unrendered. She's somewhere we haven't been, Hermione surmised. Definitely not Hogwarts, probably the paper's headquarters or her own residence.

Hermione gave the Atlas another tap, clearing the results. She hardly paid any notice to Elara decanting their finished product. "Search: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The whole of the school bloomed into view, and Hermione used her finger to slide about within the defined edges of the wards. She hadn't a clue what she was looking for, but she sometimes gave the map an idle lookover. She perused the Atlas while experimenting with it from time to time, testing its limits, contemplating potential improvements. She still had great plans for the probability ward Terry had helped her compile.

Thinking of him brought a slight flush to Hermione's cheeks, and she couldn't help but flick through the floors and levels until she settled on the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. She stared at the little dot labeled "Terry Boot," seated next to "Anthony Goldstein" in the front row.

Now you're just being a silly twit, Hermione Granger. Move along.

"Hermione."

"Hmm," she said, tracing the drawn corridors, the little details and flickers of magic giving clues to other locations and hidden secrets. Harriet had put a great deal of time into creating the icons for the legend.

"Hermione, I'm going to be late for choir practice."

"Hmm."

"Class is over, you understand?"

"Right, right. I'll be right there…."

Hermione navigated the mostly aerial view of the castle's interior, trailing different dots until she found the infirmary. Harriet remained in her bed, and Hermione hoped she'd stopped being stubborn and had gotten some rest.

Nothing at all seemed out of the ordinary as she made a quick circuit, her wand still clasped by four curled fingers while her thumb slid against the warm glass. She would have to look for Rita Skeeter again and see how—or if—she was managing to get onto the school grounds. As it stood, she didn't spot anyone out of place, not even the odious Aurors milling about the entrance hall. She'd already memorized their names.

Just as she meant to finish her inspection with a final glance at the dungeons, Hermione flicked her thumb and passed Professor Snape's office. Inside was a single dot.

She stopped, shocked, and pulled back.

Professor Snape didn't allow anyone in his office alone. He kept it locked tight if he wasn't in attendance—and considering the wizard sat at the front of Hermione's class currently, he was definitely not entertaining office hours!

Bartemius Crouch. What in the world was Mr. Crouch doing in Professor Snape's office? His storage cupboard more specifically?

"Miss Granger!" Hermione nearly dropped the Atlas to the floor as she startled, the Potions Master now looming by her table, radiating displeasure. A blink cleared her eyes, and she looked around to see the rest of the class had already vacated the room. Only now did she recognize Elara's words to her, telling her the bell had rung.

"Is there a reason I have to stand around waiting for you to drag yourself back to reality and get out of my classroom?"

"Pr—Professor," she said aloud, overcoming her shock. "Professor, someone's in your office."

Whatever pithy comment the wizard had—and Hermione knew he had something particularly cutting for her, given his severe expression—Professor Snape swallowed it. "What are you on about, Granger?"

Wordless, she handed the Atlas for him to take. He narrowed his eyes as he did so, the blue light unkind to his pale complexion as it glowed across his face. Hermione noted the fake eye reacted oddly to the magic, a curious, fractal glimmer in its black surface, though Snape didn't notice.

He didn't say anything. His lips curled when he saw the label moving through his storage cupboard, and he dropped the Atlas on the desk. Hermione grabbed it before it could bounce to the floor, but Snape had already whirled from the room in a flash of dark robes. She didn't have a reason to do so, but Hermione grabbed her Atlas and her bag and ran after him.

Outside the classroom, she nearly collided with a Beauxbatons student, then a seventh year coming out of the Wandmaking class farther down in the dungeons. A myriad of people lingered in the main passage, headed higher to the entrance hall and the Great Hall beyond. By the time Hermione caught up with her professor, he'd disappeared into his office, leaving the door ajar, and when she stepped inside, it was empty aside from Snape.

Crouch left with the crowd, she realized. Or he set an alarm to know if Snape was coming.

Hermione sank sideways onto the only available guest chair as Professor Snape banged on the frame of the library painting guarding his storeroom, ordering the visible patron to attention. "Who did you let through here?" he demanded.

"I beg your pardon, sir! But the password was given, though there was no body present."

The emphasis of the words stressed the split in "no body," which Hermione took to mean the perpetrator had been invisible. Snape snarled at the painting and all but wrenched it from the wall in his haste to get it open, disappearing into the storage cupboard.

Hermione stared after him for a moment before her attention wandered over the rest of the professor's office, looking for anything out of place—not that she'd necessarily know, the space being packed with all manner of odd and—and bizarre jars. Really, she hated that room and the low, lingering sniff of formaldehyde in the air. It unnerved her. Snape unnerved her.

One of the shelves had books on it. The volume at the end read "The Cask of Amontillado & Oth—" on the spine, the end of the title degraded by fingers rubbing the gilded letters.

An explosion of noise sounded from the cupboard. "Son of a whore!"

Hermione's heart jumped into her throat, and she nearly bolted for the door. She gaped, open-mouthed, as Snape returned to the main office, seething. "Miss Granger," he said. "How accurate is that toy of yours?"

She stuttered for a moment, doing a great rendition of a Babbling Beverage before she could get her bearings. Her wits had a shock after dashing to his office and hearing the man bellow obscenities. "Yes, sir—I mean, we've have—mostly, sir. Yes. Accurate."

Snape's jaw clenched, and an eyelid twitched.

"What…why would Mr. Crouch be in your storage cupboard, Professor?"

"Because he was stealing from me, you insufferable chit!" He kicked his chair from behind his desk and sank into it, leaning heavily on his elbows. He made short, aggravated motions with his hands, rubbing his face, before he froze and spoke. "You are dismissed, Miss Granger."

Dismissed? Was that it? Well, if Professor Snape knew more about what Crouch was doing in here, he wasn't sharing. Frustrated—but also shaken by Snape's furious attitude—Hermione forced herself to stand again, one hand gripping her bag's strap, the other sweaty as it held the Atlas and her wand.

As she left, Hermione's gaze cut across the bookshelf she'd seen earlier. Her mouth popped open, and she spoke without warning, "Professor? May I borrow that?"

Severus lifted his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe what he'd heard. He followed Hermione's pointed finger to the last book on the shelf, then looked back at her, incredulous.

Before he could explode—because Hermione could see his barely leashed temper rising like the vein in his temple thumping—she rushed to say, "For Harriet. In the hospital wing. She's—bored."

For the longest moment, he said nothing, and Hermione could only hear her own breath and the lingering chatter of students moving through the corridor. His expression blanked like a chalkboard being wiped clean before he stood and walked to the shelf. He took the volume, then walked around his desk and held the book out to Hermione. She had to quickly slip her bag's strap onto her shoulder to free a hand to take it.

"Get out."

Hermione went, and didn't look back.