Hermione spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sink into a
lasting slumber. Images of Diana, great and terrible flooded her mind. As
the rosy-figured dawn appeared, she quietly showered, dressed and brewed a
cup of tea. She sat down with her schoolbooks and settled herself into a
familiar routine—she turned off her mind to problems of goddesses and
sacrifices, of souls and murder and reviewed for Advanced Potions.
Her studying was interrupted with the harsh arrival of Draco Malfoy. "It's a quarter after four," he grumbled with barely opened eyes. "Why the hell are you studying?"
Hermione shrugged. "Why the hell not? I have nothing else to do."
Malfoy yawned. "It sounds odd, but most people like to sleep at night time."
"It's no longer nighttime. Besides, you're awake." She regarded him shrewdly. "Dressed, apparently showered..."
He scowled and with his customary drawl gave the most cliché and Draco Malfoy-like response possible. "Malfoys aren't most people."
That was the end to their morning discussions. Draco heated up his own special blend of teas, which, Hermione noted, were surprisingly aromatic. "It's probably Chai," she pondered, somewhat amused. Draco Malfoy, metrosexual?
Probably, she noted a moment later. The hair was definitely gelled and his hair products probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
At six thirty, Hermione loaded up her bag and went to the Great Halls. A sleep-deprived Harry and Ron greeted her wearily.
"It's early," noted Ron lamely.
"Yes," commented Hermione dryly as she watched Harry spill orange juice over his robes.
"Missed my mouth," he explained to the table.
"Amazing how much I care," Hermione added sardonically. Ron and Harry regarded her with confused expressions.
"'Mione, it's too early in the morning for your rancorous wit," said Harry finally. "Spare me. Please"
"What's first?" asked Ron.
"Advanced Transfiguration," replied Hermione, taking a bit out of some toast. "And wands are not necessary.
"Why?" asked Harry. "Shouldn't we all bring our wands? What if Hogwarts is attacked in the hour that we have class? What if this is just a diabolical plot of McGonagall's to set us up and..."
"Shut up, Harry," said Ron kindly. "It's just one less thing to carry." He assembled his bags. "I'm going to go up now. Coming, Hermione?"
"I suppose so," she grumbled.
"Meet you up there" called Harry.
"Did you two sleep at all last night?" demanded Hermione as they began the steep climb to the Transfiguration room.
Ron grinned. "Nope. None of the Gryffindor sixth year men did."
Hermione snorted. "Men? Ron, you guys are no more 'men' than myself or Ginny."
Ron looked quite agitated. "Of course we are! Didn't we once help an innocent man escape certain death? Don't we aid the innocent, help the helpless?"
"Didn't you ask me the other night if I would ever make out with your sister?" retorted Hermione.
Ron chuckled. "That was the liquor talking."
Transfiguration began with Professor McGonagall clapping her hands loudly. "I want to make it clear," she stated sternly, "That this is quite a defining year for you. You will discover how much magical aptitude you actually have—how much you can hope for—and what you will never achieve. Some of you will not be able to do half of this course." She paced across the room slowly, advancing towards Neville. He whimpered. "That is, of course, not directly your fault. We are not equally powerful."
She stopped her pacing and continued. "However, you are still expected to complete all the assignments, experiments, trials and the like. I will not tolerate any lame excuses and anyone who fails to meet the requirements of the class will be immediately thrown out."
"Questions?" Not a word was spoken. "Good. Put your books away."
As the class complied with this order, McGonagall gave further instructions. "Today we will be doing basic magic, magic that I taught you in your first class." She nodded towards Ron. "Mr. Weasley, please hand out these feathers." He nervously took the jar and handed a feather to every student.
They stared blankly at her. "You know the words," she said calmly. "Levitate it."
Choruses of "Wingardium Leviosa!" flooded the room, followed by an array of creative curse words and swearing.
"Wingardium Leviosa," said Hermione quietly, wondering what McGonagall's reaction would be as the white feather floated towards the ceiling.
"Good," said McGonagall impassively. "Now keep it there." Bored and frustrated, Hermione gazed intently on the feather for the next five minute. It never wavered.
At the end of the five minutes, only two feathers were at that high aptitude—Hermione's and Malfoy's.
"I'm not thoroughly disgusted with all of you." McGonagall gave a small smile to the two succeeding students and frowned up on the rest. "You couldn't keep a feather in the air for more than thirty seconds, excluding Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy successfully completed the task."
She held up her own feather and muttered a single word and the feather melted into teapot. "Simple? No. Possible? Yes?"
The class sighed and resigned themselves to trying desperately to transfigure the feather. Again, at the end of five minutes only two students had completed the task.
After another brief lecture by Professor McGonagall, the class moved on to basic defense charms. Exclamations of "Expelliarmus!" filled the air as the Disarming Spell failed for practically everyone.
This was an easier one for Hermione. All she had to do was glance at Professor McGonagall (who held the only wand in the class), mutter and it flew into her hand.
"I'm impressed," Prof. McGonagall said softly.
"Expelliarmus," snapped Draco, outstretching his arm. The wand snapped to attention and lurched to join the Slytherin. He smirked at Hermione as she struggled to grip the wand.
"You hold no power of me, Malfoy," she said haughtily. "Prisedia!" She fired the freezing charm on the wand, stopping it in its tracks as it attempted to zoom towards Malfoy.
McGonagall paused thoughtfully at Hermione as she plucked her wand from the air. "Wandless magic is an art, a technique," she said sagaciously, gazing on the dissatisfied faces of her students. "One most of you sadly lack. Class is dismissed."
As a frustrated Harry packed up his books, Hermione perked at his expression. It was one of doubt, aggravation and annoyance. When was there a spell or a magical power he didn't possess? And this time, there was no Snape to tutor him in this art.
"Granger, you stay with me," commanded McGonagall.
"Yes, Professor," she said meekly as the rest of the class exited. McGonagall approached her quietly.
"That was quite impressive today, Miss Granger. I'd like to see the limit of your abilities."
"Pardon?" Hermione could not decipher what her professor meant.
McGonagall peered at her closely as she retrieved a bottled spider from her desk. She emptied it on the floor. "You know Unforgivables, don't you?" she said evenly.
"Professor! Of course not!" Hermione struggled to maintain an outraged tone.
"You don't have to lie. It's not a bad thing, to know them. The evil is in practicing."
"You're powerful, Hermione," said the older woman after a pause. "I wonder if you even know the extent of your own abilities. And this is the best way to find out." She glanced at Hermione. "Kill the spider."
Flashes of the deer she had slain poured into her mind. Hermione shook her head furiously, "Professor, I can't," she babbled. "It's a living creature. I cannot kill it just for a whim, it's not right..."
"It's not a whim, girl!" snapped McGonagall. "As your teacher—as your superior—as a full-ranked witch—I order you to perform the curse."
Hermione shook her head as she felt the hot tears forming.
"You can't fail at this task! You can either do it—and yes, kudos to you. You are perhaps as powerful—perhaps more so—than Dumbledore himself!" Prof. McGonagall was getting agitated. "If you can't, then we know your limit. You know what you can't do. You'll know that in these dangerous situations you can't count on your abilities for defense of this nature!"
Hermione swallowed a gulp of air and stared at the spider, curled up on the floor. The legs, shaking vehemently seemed to be trembling at the sight of her, a sixteen year old girl about to perform the most dreaded curse of all time. The curse that had killed hundreds of her kind, of wizardkind...animals...
"Avada kedavra," she whispered hoarsely as a blinding green light flashed in the classroom. That dreaded rushing noise she had first heard in Moody's classroom filled her ears once again, like an inevitable sense of foreboding.
McGonagall's eyes glittered. "This is indeed interesting, Miss Granger." She picked up the unmistakably dead spider by its legs and tossed it out the window.
"I have to go," said Hermione in a small voice as the spider fell out of the window, its dead weight dropping to the ground below.
(A/N—Yeah for metaphors! Also a big wOOt for losers who are at home on a Friday night, typing fanfiction.)
Her studying was interrupted with the harsh arrival of Draco Malfoy. "It's a quarter after four," he grumbled with barely opened eyes. "Why the hell are you studying?"
Hermione shrugged. "Why the hell not? I have nothing else to do."
Malfoy yawned. "It sounds odd, but most people like to sleep at night time."
"It's no longer nighttime. Besides, you're awake." She regarded him shrewdly. "Dressed, apparently showered..."
He scowled and with his customary drawl gave the most cliché and Draco Malfoy-like response possible. "Malfoys aren't most people."
That was the end to their morning discussions. Draco heated up his own special blend of teas, which, Hermione noted, were surprisingly aromatic. "It's probably Chai," she pondered, somewhat amused. Draco Malfoy, metrosexual?
Probably, she noted a moment later. The hair was definitely gelled and his hair products probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
At six thirty, Hermione loaded up her bag and went to the Great Halls. A sleep-deprived Harry and Ron greeted her wearily.
"It's early," noted Ron lamely.
"Yes," commented Hermione dryly as she watched Harry spill orange juice over his robes.
"Missed my mouth," he explained to the table.
"Amazing how much I care," Hermione added sardonically. Ron and Harry regarded her with confused expressions.
"'Mione, it's too early in the morning for your rancorous wit," said Harry finally. "Spare me. Please"
"What's first?" asked Ron.
"Advanced Transfiguration," replied Hermione, taking a bit out of some toast. "And wands are not necessary.
"Why?" asked Harry. "Shouldn't we all bring our wands? What if Hogwarts is attacked in the hour that we have class? What if this is just a diabolical plot of McGonagall's to set us up and..."
"Shut up, Harry," said Ron kindly. "It's just one less thing to carry." He assembled his bags. "I'm going to go up now. Coming, Hermione?"
"I suppose so," she grumbled.
"Meet you up there" called Harry.
"Did you two sleep at all last night?" demanded Hermione as they began the steep climb to the Transfiguration room.
Ron grinned. "Nope. None of the Gryffindor sixth year men did."
Hermione snorted. "Men? Ron, you guys are no more 'men' than myself or Ginny."
Ron looked quite agitated. "Of course we are! Didn't we once help an innocent man escape certain death? Don't we aid the innocent, help the helpless?"
"Didn't you ask me the other night if I would ever make out with your sister?" retorted Hermione.
Ron chuckled. "That was the liquor talking."
Transfiguration began with Professor McGonagall clapping her hands loudly. "I want to make it clear," she stated sternly, "That this is quite a defining year for you. You will discover how much magical aptitude you actually have—how much you can hope for—and what you will never achieve. Some of you will not be able to do half of this course." She paced across the room slowly, advancing towards Neville. He whimpered. "That is, of course, not directly your fault. We are not equally powerful."
She stopped her pacing and continued. "However, you are still expected to complete all the assignments, experiments, trials and the like. I will not tolerate any lame excuses and anyone who fails to meet the requirements of the class will be immediately thrown out."
"Questions?" Not a word was spoken. "Good. Put your books away."
As the class complied with this order, McGonagall gave further instructions. "Today we will be doing basic magic, magic that I taught you in your first class." She nodded towards Ron. "Mr. Weasley, please hand out these feathers." He nervously took the jar and handed a feather to every student.
They stared blankly at her. "You know the words," she said calmly. "Levitate it."
Choruses of "Wingardium Leviosa!" flooded the room, followed by an array of creative curse words and swearing.
"Wingardium Leviosa," said Hermione quietly, wondering what McGonagall's reaction would be as the white feather floated towards the ceiling.
"Good," said McGonagall impassively. "Now keep it there." Bored and frustrated, Hermione gazed intently on the feather for the next five minute. It never wavered.
At the end of the five minutes, only two feathers were at that high aptitude—Hermione's and Malfoy's.
"I'm not thoroughly disgusted with all of you." McGonagall gave a small smile to the two succeeding students and frowned up on the rest. "You couldn't keep a feather in the air for more than thirty seconds, excluding Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy successfully completed the task."
She held up her own feather and muttered a single word and the feather melted into teapot. "Simple? No. Possible? Yes?"
The class sighed and resigned themselves to trying desperately to transfigure the feather. Again, at the end of five minutes only two students had completed the task.
After another brief lecture by Professor McGonagall, the class moved on to basic defense charms. Exclamations of "Expelliarmus!" filled the air as the Disarming Spell failed for practically everyone.
This was an easier one for Hermione. All she had to do was glance at Professor McGonagall (who held the only wand in the class), mutter and it flew into her hand.
"I'm impressed," Prof. McGonagall said softly.
"Expelliarmus," snapped Draco, outstretching his arm. The wand snapped to attention and lurched to join the Slytherin. He smirked at Hermione as she struggled to grip the wand.
"You hold no power of me, Malfoy," she said haughtily. "Prisedia!" She fired the freezing charm on the wand, stopping it in its tracks as it attempted to zoom towards Malfoy.
McGonagall paused thoughtfully at Hermione as she plucked her wand from the air. "Wandless magic is an art, a technique," she said sagaciously, gazing on the dissatisfied faces of her students. "One most of you sadly lack. Class is dismissed."
As a frustrated Harry packed up his books, Hermione perked at his expression. It was one of doubt, aggravation and annoyance. When was there a spell or a magical power he didn't possess? And this time, there was no Snape to tutor him in this art.
"Granger, you stay with me," commanded McGonagall.
"Yes, Professor," she said meekly as the rest of the class exited. McGonagall approached her quietly.
"That was quite impressive today, Miss Granger. I'd like to see the limit of your abilities."
"Pardon?" Hermione could not decipher what her professor meant.
McGonagall peered at her closely as she retrieved a bottled spider from her desk. She emptied it on the floor. "You know Unforgivables, don't you?" she said evenly.
"Professor! Of course not!" Hermione struggled to maintain an outraged tone.
"You don't have to lie. It's not a bad thing, to know them. The evil is in practicing."
"You're powerful, Hermione," said the older woman after a pause. "I wonder if you even know the extent of your own abilities. And this is the best way to find out." She glanced at Hermione. "Kill the spider."
Flashes of the deer she had slain poured into her mind. Hermione shook her head furiously, "Professor, I can't," she babbled. "It's a living creature. I cannot kill it just for a whim, it's not right..."
"It's not a whim, girl!" snapped McGonagall. "As your teacher—as your superior—as a full-ranked witch—I order you to perform the curse."
Hermione shook her head as she felt the hot tears forming.
"You can't fail at this task! You can either do it—and yes, kudos to you. You are perhaps as powerful—perhaps more so—than Dumbledore himself!" Prof. McGonagall was getting agitated. "If you can't, then we know your limit. You know what you can't do. You'll know that in these dangerous situations you can't count on your abilities for defense of this nature!"
Hermione swallowed a gulp of air and stared at the spider, curled up on the floor. The legs, shaking vehemently seemed to be trembling at the sight of her, a sixteen year old girl about to perform the most dreaded curse of all time. The curse that had killed hundreds of her kind, of wizardkind...animals...
"Avada kedavra," she whispered hoarsely as a blinding green light flashed in the classroom. That dreaded rushing noise she had first heard in Moody's classroom filled her ears once again, like an inevitable sense of foreboding.
McGonagall's eyes glittered. "This is indeed interesting, Miss Granger." She picked up the unmistakably dead spider by its legs and tossed it out the window.
"I have to go," said Hermione in a small voice as the spider fell out of the window, its dead weight dropping to the ground below.
(A/N—Yeah for metaphors! Also a big wOOt for losers who are at home on a Friday night, typing fanfiction.)