Chapter Five: Tales and Suspicions
Disclaimer: None of them belong to me, sadly. All characters are (c) J.K. Rowling and the Tolkien Estate.
Author's Notes: Dear. Freaking. Hell. An actual update! My muses dragged in at two o'clock this morning, smelling of vomit, cheap beer and cigars. They have been taken care of with astonishing gentleness until their hangovers subsided, and then were forced to drink a pint of salt water in pure 1700's navy tradition, even though only one of them has ever sailed in his life.
Oh well.
I'm extremely sorry for the lack of updates; this chapter would just not write, and I'm still not fond of it. And the sorting hat song, just to warn you, sucks. I am not a poet, thus it is very short. Probably the shortest in history. Sadly, I am sick and do not have time to reply to everyone's reviews right now, so, just to clarify:
REVIEWERS! I love you!!!!!!!!
* * * * *
It was on the Hogwarts Express that Hermione and Ron finally were able to coroner Harry, for their compartment was the only place where he was unable to escape from a conversation. The boy sat across the way from them, looking much like a man in front of a jury that would decide his fate.
"So, are you going to explain all of this or not?" snipped Ron, annoyed at his friend's lack of communication.
"What do you mean?" Asked Harry, though his façade of innocence was easily seen through.
"You know what we mean." Shot back Hermione. "You have been acting all strange, staying up late and sleeping all day, eating only when forced, always reading..."
"Like you're one to talk. When's the last time you put your book down to actually talk to us like a normal person?" He retorted hotly.
"Harry!" Cried Hermione, tears welling up in her eyes at the harsh comment, making the teenage boy bite his tongue in regret.
"What has gotten into you?" Barked Ron, glaring at Harry.
Harry heaved a sigh, running his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry, sorry...I...I just..." He sighed again, before telling them all he knew.
* * * * *
Aragorn found himself picking at the collar of his robes nervously, a habit that he thought he had lost after childhood. Normally public appearances were a breeze. In his lives he had been both king and general, a communal symbol of hope; yet he had never had to stand in front of the critical eye of hundreds of children, who all looked at him with evaluating eyes, waiting for him to slip up, to show a hint of evil or powerlessness that would mark him yet another one timer in the school's position of the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The older children were piling in now; he had not seen so many children in one place at one time since his own school days at Kingfisher, a small Wizarding school in the east United States. They showed no shame in staring at him like he was a new attraction in a circus, whispering thoughts and guesses as to his origins to one another.
He sighed, turning his gaze to the cloudy ceiling, which was spitting out a torrential rain that disappeared before touching the heads of the assembled crowd. The rain had kept on in such a manner since he had stepped foot in the castle, keeping him cooped up inside. He ached to scout the grounds, especially the dark forest that fringed them; the warnings of Dumbledore were clear in his mind, yet something about the forest drew him too it, bugging the back of his mind constantly as if he should remember it from some where. Sometimes his dreams wandered there too, amongst the dark trunks, following a golden-haired figure as he hunted for his supper, and sang songs in Elvish that caused Aragorn's heart to wrench, but dreams can never be trusted; they taunted him with images of his past friends. Frodo laughed with Sam as they poured over textbooks, young adults hurrying past them to their various classes, while Merry and Pippin chatted and joked in Muggle restaurants, having sword fights with their french fries; Boromir searched the car of a teenage boy whom he had pulled over, a Muggle Police badge shining on his chest, ironically in one of the spots where an arrow had pierced his body, and finally Geoffrey stood among the tents and dust of an archeological dig, supervising as his workers brushed at pieces of bone and clay immortalized in the dust, occasionally studying the pieces himself, comparing them to photographs in his dusty book.
"Aragorn? Are you alright?" Came a voice from his right, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turned to meet the severe yet almost grandmotherly gaze of Minerva McGonagall.
"Yes, I am fine." He replied automatically, smiling. She cocked an eyebrow at him, a disbelieving look on her face. Fidgeting a bit, feeling almost like he was a child again under Lord Elrond, he turned back to the children of the Great Hall, who all had settled at their various tables, waiting patiently as Professor Sprout carried a three-legged stool and a musty old hat out in front of the head table. Aragorn looked on in interest as the small eleven year old wizards stumbled nervously into the room; he had heard of the Sorting Hat of Hogwarts before, but had never seen it in action.
Suddenly, much to the shock of the first years, the hat shook itself, and a rip opened itself wide, half-singing, half-chanting, weaving its warning once more.
"Gryffindors, be not rash in word and action;
Hufflepuffs, do not let your heart blind;
Ravenclaws, look down not on your fellows;
Slytherins, let not power and pride bind.
War brews on the horizion;
Under one banner all must stand.
Side by side, no conflicts between
We will be an army grand."
Silence fell upon the assembled crowd, all expecting it to say more, but the rip closed tightly together like the hat was pursing his lips, and nearly everyone could feel the tension in the room. It seemed to be waiting for someone in the crowd to do or say something, and was quite unhappy when no one budged.
Slowly, the crowd of children began to applaud, a polite, quick paced clapping, but it only seemed to put the hat in a fouler mood.
Professor Sprout straightened up after giving the hat a confused glance, peering over her glasses at the list. "Avon, Patrick."
The sorting begun.
* * * * *
The second the feast ended, and Hermione had made sure that all the little first years had made it safely to Gryffindor tower, she raced to the library, tugging Ron and Harry with her.
"They should be around here somewhere..." She bit her lip in concentration, running her index finger along the bindings of the books. "Right about...here." Her finger met empty space, causing her to frown heavily.
"We've been in the building all of two hours and someone has already checked out the books we want. Figures." Muttered Ron, leaning against the opposite bookshelf.
"That's insane." Cried Hermione. "I am the only person in ten years to check out that book!"
"With good reason." Retorted the lanky red head. "You're the only one nutty enough to fall in love with a bunch of pointy-eared goblins." Hermione ignored him, leading the way back down the aisle. "Who else would check it out already?" she wondered aloud, sounding very put out.
Harry paused as they turned the coroner. Slowly moving backwards, he peeked back down the row. "How about a Death Eater?" He whispered, straitening back up. Hermione and Ron stared at him, both peering around the coroner quickly to see a tall figure replacing a book.
"The new DADA teacher?" asked Ron in a hushed voice. Harry put a finger to his lips, quickly glancing down the row again. A few seconds later he made a motion for the two to follow him. They walked back down the row, trying to look innocent as possible. Harry reached the spot where the professor was standing first, and pulled out an old, heavy book.
"This the book you were looking for Hermione?" He hefted it from his left hand to right, so that he could look at the title. Scrawled in gold were the words 'Elves: Myth, Fact, and Origins.'
"Yes!" She cried, pulling it from his hand before casting a glance around. "You think..." Ron and Harry both hurriedly shushed her.
"Alright, let's go check it out, shall we?" Said Ron loudly. Ron and Hermione made their way to the front desk while Harry paused, pretending to look at a book, while gazing out of the coroner of his eye at the tall, dark-haired man that was sitting at one of the library's many oak tables, tapping a finger against his lips, lost in thought. Suspicions rose in his mind, a strange over protectiveness for both his friends and the elf coming over him. He would not be so easily tricked this time.
* * * * *
"Do you really think he's a death eater?" Asked Hermione, the second they got into the Room of Requirement, which had made itself into a cozy little room, with a nice fireplace and comfy chairs in which the trio could sit.
"Why else would someone, sans you, would look up elves? Do you really think he's another elf-freeing fanatic?" replied Ron.
"It's too much of a coincidence." Added Harry. "I see the elf getting...well...transformed, in front of a group of Death Eaters, and suddenly a brand new DADA professor comes out of nowhere and is interested in elves." Hermione frowned, staring into the orange hues of the fire.
"No doubt that Voldemort's got everyone he can after that poor guy. I know I would if someone stabbed me in the eye." Said Ron.
"Alright then. We need to be careful then. Do not speak anything even mildly suspicious around the new professor, and watch him closely." Hermione began, tapping her fingers on the leather cover of the book. "I'll find out everything I can about where the elves came from, and try to find that book Voldemort had; it might be in the restricted section, but we can find a way to work around that. Invisible cloak if necessary. Meanwhile, Harry, keep an eye on your dreams; even if we cannot trust them completely, we may be able to get something out of them. We have to find that elf before Voldemort does." Harry and Ron both nodded, surprised at the authoritive tone that Hermione's voice had taken.
"Yes Mum. Right away." Muttered Ron as they got up to leave, causing Hermione to slap him lightly with the book. Harry smiled, suddenly glad to be back among his friends in the one place he would care to call home.
Disclaimer: None of them belong to me, sadly. All characters are (c) J.K. Rowling and the Tolkien Estate.
Author's Notes: Dear. Freaking. Hell. An actual update! My muses dragged in at two o'clock this morning, smelling of vomit, cheap beer and cigars. They have been taken care of with astonishing gentleness until their hangovers subsided, and then were forced to drink a pint of salt water in pure 1700's navy tradition, even though only one of them has ever sailed in his life.
Oh well.
I'm extremely sorry for the lack of updates; this chapter would just not write, and I'm still not fond of it. And the sorting hat song, just to warn you, sucks. I am not a poet, thus it is very short. Probably the shortest in history. Sadly, I am sick and do not have time to reply to everyone's reviews right now, so, just to clarify:
REVIEWERS! I love you!!!!!!!!
* * * * *
It was on the Hogwarts Express that Hermione and Ron finally were able to coroner Harry, for their compartment was the only place where he was unable to escape from a conversation. The boy sat across the way from them, looking much like a man in front of a jury that would decide his fate.
"So, are you going to explain all of this or not?" snipped Ron, annoyed at his friend's lack of communication.
"What do you mean?" Asked Harry, though his façade of innocence was easily seen through.
"You know what we mean." Shot back Hermione. "You have been acting all strange, staying up late and sleeping all day, eating only when forced, always reading..."
"Like you're one to talk. When's the last time you put your book down to actually talk to us like a normal person?" He retorted hotly.
"Harry!" Cried Hermione, tears welling up in her eyes at the harsh comment, making the teenage boy bite his tongue in regret.
"What has gotten into you?" Barked Ron, glaring at Harry.
Harry heaved a sigh, running his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut. "I'm sorry, sorry...I...I just..." He sighed again, before telling them all he knew.
* * * * *
Aragorn found himself picking at the collar of his robes nervously, a habit that he thought he had lost after childhood. Normally public appearances were a breeze. In his lives he had been both king and general, a communal symbol of hope; yet he had never had to stand in front of the critical eye of hundreds of children, who all looked at him with evaluating eyes, waiting for him to slip up, to show a hint of evil or powerlessness that would mark him yet another one timer in the school's position of the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts.
The older children were piling in now; he had not seen so many children in one place at one time since his own school days at Kingfisher, a small Wizarding school in the east United States. They showed no shame in staring at him like he was a new attraction in a circus, whispering thoughts and guesses as to his origins to one another.
He sighed, turning his gaze to the cloudy ceiling, which was spitting out a torrential rain that disappeared before touching the heads of the assembled crowd. The rain had kept on in such a manner since he had stepped foot in the castle, keeping him cooped up inside. He ached to scout the grounds, especially the dark forest that fringed them; the warnings of Dumbledore were clear in his mind, yet something about the forest drew him too it, bugging the back of his mind constantly as if he should remember it from some where. Sometimes his dreams wandered there too, amongst the dark trunks, following a golden-haired figure as he hunted for his supper, and sang songs in Elvish that caused Aragorn's heart to wrench, but dreams can never be trusted; they taunted him with images of his past friends. Frodo laughed with Sam as they poured over textbooks, young adults hurrying past them to their various classes, while Merry and Pippin chatted and joked in Muggle restaurants, having sword fights with their french fries; Boromir searched the car of a teenage boy whom he had pulled over, a Muggle Police badge shining on his chest, ironically in one of the spots where an arrow had pierced his body, and finally Geoffrey stood among the tents and dust of an archeological dig, supervising as his workers brushed at pieces of bone and clay immortalized in the dust, occasionally studying the pieces himself, comparing them to photographs in his dusty book.
"Aragorn? Are you alright?" Came a voice from his right, shaking him out of his thoughts. He turned to meet the severe yet almost grandmotherly gaze of Minerva McGonagall.
"Yes, I am fine." He replied automatically, smiling. She cocked an eyebrow at him, a disbelieving look on her face. Fidgeting a bit, feeling almost like he was a child again under Lord Elrond, he turned back to the children of the Great Hall, who all had settled at their various tables, waiting patiently as Professor Sprout carried a three-legged stool and a musty old hat out in front of the head table. Aragorn looked on in interest as the small eleven year old wizards stumbled nervously into the room; he had heard of the Sorting Hat of Hogwarts before, but had never seen it in action.
Suddenly, much to the shock of the first years, the hat shook itself, and a rip opened itself wide, half-singing, half-chanting, weaving its warning once more.
"Gryffindors, be not rash in word and action;
Hufflepuffs, do not let your heart blind;
Ravenclaws, look down not on your fellows;
Slytherins, let not power and pride bind.
War brews on the horizion;
Under one banner all must stand.
Side by side, no conflicts between
We will be an army grand."
Silence fell upon the assembled crowd, all expecting it to say more, but the rip closed tightly together like the hat was pursing his lips, and nearly everyone could feel the tension in the room. It seemed to be waiting for someone in the crowd to do or say something, and was quite unhappy when no one budged.
Slowly, the crowd of children began to applaud, a polite, quick paced clapping, but it only seemed to put the hat in a fouler mood.
Professor Sprout straightened up after giving the hat a confused glance, peering over her glasses at the list. "Avon, Patrick."
The sorting begun.
* * * * *
The second the feast ended, and Hermione had made sure that all the little first years had made it safely to Gryffindor tower, she raced to the library, tugging Ron and Harry with her.
"They should be around here somewhere..." She bit her lip in concentration, running her index finger along the bindings of the books. "Right about...here." Her finger met empty space, causing her to frown heavily.
"We've been in the building all of two hours and someone has already checked out the books we want. Figures." Muttered Ron, leaning against the opposite bookshelf.
"That's insane." Cried Hermione. "I am the only person in ten years to check out that book!"
"With good reason." Retorted the lanky red head. "You're the only one nutty enough to fall in love with a bunch of pointy-eared goblins." Hermione ignored him, leading the way back down the aisle. "Who else would check it out already?" she wondered aloud, sounding very put out.
Harry paused as they turned the coroner. Slowly moving backwards, he peeked back down the row. "How about a Death Eater?" He whispered, straitening back up. Hermione and Ron stared at him, both peering around the coroner quickly to see a tall figure replacing a book.
"The new DADA teacher?" asked Ron in a hushed voice. Harry put a finger to his lips, quickly glancing down the row again. A few seconds later he made a motion for the two to follow him. They walked back down the row, trying to look innocent as possible. Harry reached the spot where the professor was standing first, and pulled out an old, heavy book.
"This the book you were looking for Hermione?" He hefted it from his left hand to right, so that he could look at the title. Scrawled in gold were the words 'Elves: Myth, Fact, and Origins.'
"Yes!" She cried, pulling it from his hand before casting a glance around. "You think..." Ron and Harry both hurriedly shushed her.
"Alright, let's go check it out, shall we?" Said Ron loudly. Ron and Hermione made their way to the front desk while Harry paused, pretending to look at a book, while gazing out of the coroner of his eye at the tall, dark-haired man that was sitting at one of the library's many oak tables, tapping a finger against his lips, lost in thought. Suspicions rose in his mind, a strange over protectiveness for both his friends and the elf coming over him. He would not be so easily tricked this time.
* * * * *
"Do you really think he's a death eater?" Asked Hermione, the second they got into the Room of Requirement, which had made itself into a cozy little room, with a nice fireplace and comfy chairs in which the trio could sit.
"Why else would someone, sans you, would look up elves? Do you really think he's another elf-freeing fanatic?" replied Ron.
"It's too much of a coincidence." Added Harry. "I see the elf getting...well...transformed, in front of a group of Death Eaters, and suddenly a brand new DADA professor comes out of nowhere and is interested in elves." Hermione frowned, staring into the orange hues of the fire.
"No doubt that Voldemort's got everyone he can after that poor guy. I know I would if someone stabbed me in the eye." Said Ron.
"Alright then. We need to be careful then. Do not speak anything even mildly suspicious around the new professor, and watch him closely." Hermione began, tapping her fingers on the leather cover of the book. "I'll find out everything I can about where the elves came from, and try to find that book Voldemort had; it might be in the restricted section, but we can find a way to work around that. Invisible cloak if necessary. Meanwhile, Harry, keep an eye on your dreams; even if we cannot trust them completely, we may be able to get something out of them. We have to find that elf before Voldemort does." Harry and Ron both nodded, surprised at the authoritive tone that Hermione's voice had taken.
"Yes Mum. Right away." Muttered Ron as they got up to leave, causing Hermione to slap him lightly with the book. Harry smiled, suddenly glad to be back among his friends in the one place he would care to call home.