LOST PERSPECTIVE III : REPERCUSSIONS
By Bellegeste
CHAPTER 4 : HERMIONE'S REVENGE
Harry arrived only a few minutes late for Transfiguration, the last lesson of the afternoon. He apologised to Professor McGonagall, explaining that he had had a meeting with Lupin. The Deputy Head let it go at that - already Harry was sensing a certain wariness in the teachers' attitudes towards him, as though he were an alien substance pending final analysis. The benefit of the doubt was a useful commodity; one which Harry hoped to sample regularly.
Professor McGonagall had a pile of disgruntled letters on her desk. They shuffled and grumbled, the emphatic red underlines flashing like Clabbert pustules, until the ornamental paperweight - a purple Scottish thistle, embedded inside a perfect sphere of polished glass - rocked and tilted alarmingly. Pursing her lips in irritation, she gave the letters an admonitory smack with the end of her wand. The paperweight transformed into a smooth, heavy, granite Curling stone, and the shuffling ceased forthwith. She returned to writing her replies.
Hermione, dragging her nose out of her text-book for a nano-second, indicated the blackboard where the day's assignment - the week's assignment, more like, thought Harry as he read it through - was chalked up. 'Explain and enumerate all stages in the various Transfiguration processes that would be required to replicate the Cinderella story. Bonus points will be added if, at the end of the exercise, your pumpkin is sufficiently edible to be made into soup. (N.B. For Health and Safety reasons, all live rats must be primed with a Befuddlement Charm.)'
Harry was stuck before he'd even started. He couldn't remember if the ugly sisters were just naturally hideous or if they had been hexed...
Later, outside the classroom, Hermione was bursting with enthusiasm:
"What a brilliant project! Wouldn't it be great if McGonagall lets us choose the best one and allows it to enact the whole story for us like a tableau vivant?"
Harry was less keen.
"Um. About the ugly sisters..." he began, doubtfully, but stopped as he saw Malfoy cruising in his direction, Crabbe and Goyle significantly visible in the background.
"I want a word with you, Potter," Malfoy drawled, his voice toxic.
Harry noted that they were back on surname terms; he wasn't surprised.
"Quilled any good essays today, Malfoy?" Hermione threw the comment at him with an uncharacteristic sneer. Harry boggled, failing to understand either Hermione's dig or Malfoy's equally barbed rejoinder:
"Do I detect a mouldy aroma? The delicate stench of Muggle mildew? Oh, it's you Granger. So sorry - didn't notice you there. Don't let me detain you, Granger. I'm sure you must be itching to go and feed that flea-bitten fur-ball you call a cat..."
Hermione looked at him in horror, then uttering a shrill cry of "You wouldn't! You beast!" she rushed off towards the staircase leading to the Gryffindor common room.
"So, what's the story, Potter?" Malfoy had thrust his face unpleasantly close to Harry's. Harry could see the blackheads on his forehead, concealed beneath the sleek, blond quiff. "Lost your nerve at the last minute? Bottled out? Couldn't go through with it? Thought you'd gain more kudos from some half-baked mock heroics? Trying to make me look like an idiot were you, Potter?" His pride had suffered a knock. Harry wondered whether he had been bragging to his Death Eater associates about his part in Snape's downfall.
"Get rid of the Mensa Mob," Harry nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle who were making a poor job of pretending to appreciate a valuable portrait, 'The Cauldron-seller of Seville', at the end of the corridor.
When they were alone, Harry attempted to explain, but Draco clearly felt he had been used and humiliated.
"I should have known better than to expect a Gryffindor to do a decent job. A straightforward assassination and you foul it up. What's the matter - couldn't cope with a simple, little 'Crucio'? A touch of conscience trouble, Potter? But now you're Dumbledore's Darling again..."
"Shut up, Draco, it wasn't like that. And, I owe you one for not grassing on me..."
"Oh, spare me the gratitude! What do they always say - 'If a job's worth doing, let a Slytherin do it'? I don't need you, Potter."
Malfoy's show of bravado was almost convincing. He strolled away, straight-backed and haughty, but Harry had detected an air of disappointment, of betrayed trust and a hint of something sharper – desperation perhaps. His parting shot had left Harry feeling distinctly uneasy.
x x x x x
Harry approached the Fat Lady with his finger on his lips and whispered, "Ssshhhh!"
"Oooh!" she exclaimed, her ample cleavage rippling in anticipation, "Is there a secret? I love secrets. Opening doors all day does get so terribly dull. I don't even get a uniform. Always imagined I could be rather alluring in navy with a lot of tassels and gold braid..."
"Please! Open up quietly. I want to hear if they're saying anything about me."
"Such an ego, for one so young!" she complained, but did as Harry asked.
With the round door fractionally open, Harry could eavesdrop quite effectively on the group in the Common room. As he had suspected, he was the main topic of conversation. He didn't recognise all the voices - thanks to Ginny's entourage, the place had been besieged by Ravenclaws. There seemed to be a lot of tiny shrieks followed by Hermione's anguished wail,
"I'm going to crucify that albino creep!"
Another knot of voices was talking about 'siding with the enemy' and 'sucking up to survive'. Harry's spine tingled; they were discussing him. The pompous tones of the Ravenclaw prefect, Anthony Goldstein, rose above the muddle of sound,
"That's what they call 'Stockholm Syndrome'."
There was a pause in Hermione's squeaking as she begged to contradict:
"No, surely that applies to situations in which the hostage allies himself with his kidnappers, and actively participates..."
Harry was galled that all his months of meticulous plotting and the sheer audacity of his plan's execution, not to mention the dramatic rescue finale (even if Draco wasn't impressed), had been reduced to the level of a psychological 'syndrome'. He stormed in.
"I wasn't kidnapped!" he declared, then, remembering his alibi, he back-pedalled, "Well, I was...but.. Hey! What's the matter with Hermione?" he changed the subject, kicking himself for his impetuosity.
She was sitting on one of the low chairs with Crookshanks, as usual, on her knee, though today he was perched rather primly in a Sphinx position, instead of doing his normal imitation of a comatose cushion. Hermione, with an expression of revulsion and dismay, was systematically parting his fur with her fingers, working her way from the special soft place just behind his ears, down the spine and all the way to the tip of the furiously lashing, tawny tail. She reminded Harry of a monkey grooming its mate for fleas... Every now and again she would emit one of the involuntary shrieks Harry had overheard, and make a grab for something amidst the dense fur.
"Problem?" Harry inquired, though the answer was obvious.
"That swine, Malfoy, has hexed him with 'Pulexio!' He's absolutely crawling with fleas. And they're so quick - I can't catch them. Ugh. It makes me itchy just to touch him. And that's not the worst of it - he's been asleep on my bed all day!"
"I'll sort him out for you," Ron offered, ambling over - the thrill of the hunt outweighing his sulk over their breakfast spat. "I've seen Hagrid do this to his chickens."
He stuck his wand into the infested fluff:
"Poppulex!"
A volley of tiny pops and sizzles burst forth, and exploding fat fleas shot out of the ginger fur like a batch of dark, leggy popcorn. With a banshee yeowl Crookshanks rocketed off Hermione's lap and took refuge under the cupboard, spitting instant death to anyone insane enough to approach.
"Stop it, Ron!" shrieked Hermione.
Somehow Ron managed to gurgle 'Finite' before succumbing completely to the mass hysterics that gripped the room.
"I'm glad you think it's funny," said Hermione in a huff.
"What does Hagrid do with the chickens, after using that spell?" Harry asked Ron, grateful for the diversion.
"Roasts them, mostly. Oh, I see..." said Ron, with dawning comprehension.
Harry was thinking back to the first Potions lesson of the term, though the aftershock of having narrowly missed being melted by Streeler venom had left his memories of that day rather hazy.
"Snape's got a Potion for infestations, hasn't he? Remember, he said it was good for poisoning Doxies and bugs and things. He's probably still got the ingredients in the lab."
Hermione considered the idea.
"I'll have to adapt it, so that it won't poison Crookshanks too. He's a cat, isn't he? Whatever we use, he's going to lick it..."
She deliberated for a while, carrying out a mental risk evaluation.
"Right. You're on. I'll give it a try. I'll need to borrow your Invisibility Cloak though, Harry."
"Whatever for?"
"Don't be obtuse. For when I sneak down to Snape's laboratory to steal the ingredients. I could do it tonight. Why are you looking at me like that?"
Harry was gawping at her in frank amazement.
"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, just go down and ask him. Explain why you need the potion, and he'll give you the stuff. He'll probably make it for you. Just ask him - he won't bite."
"Who won't bite? Crookshanks? He jolly well will..." said Ron, still chuckling.
"You've changed a lot, you know," muttered Hermione to Harry. "A year ago you'd have been nicking ingredients just for the fun of it."
And you wouldn't. Maybe I have changed, thought Harry; maybe it's just my attitude to Snape that's changed... Maybe I'm the same and it's the rest of the world that's different.
"I'm not the only one!" he countered. "What's going on with you and Malfoy?"
During Harry's absence, Hermione and Malfoy had had more contact than he had imagined. While not exactly snitching on Harry, the Slytherin had made it his mission to debunk Hermione's kinder interpretation of events.
"He kept saying all these dreadful things about you and Snape," Hermione said, somewhat apprehensive about repeating them in front of Harry, unsure how he might react. Harry could be both critical and defensive of Snape: his descriptions so far of the week at Snape Cottage had been beguilingly ambiguous.
"He said Snape had been in league with You-Know-Who all along - that he had delivered you to him as part of his Death Eater duty. Then he said that he deserved to die - that it served him right for betraying Lucius. I think he really wanted him to die. Malfoy said that if he were in your shoes he would have cut a deal with You-Know-Who - your life in return for exposing Snape's spying. Said he couldn't believe you hadn't thought of it! Seemed to think that was awfully funny.
"Harry, I was so sick of his stupid lies and insinuations - he got me really cross! So, before the Charms test last week - you've got to take it next Thursday, by the way - I swapped all his quills for ones made out of Augurey feathers. You know, the ones that repel ink. He couldn't write a word!"
Harry laughed obligingly. It was so typical of Hermione fondly to believe that the worst possible revenge was something that involved failing an exam. Malfoy had retaliated by putting a 'Mildew Mould' spell in Hermione's wardrobe, though how he had got into her dorm was a mystery. For days her clothes had reeked of musty dampness, foetor and decay.
"It was like wearing Malfoy's brain," she sniped.
Hermione's response had been, in Harry's estimation, below the belt. Quidditch solidarity had kicked in, and he found himself sympathising with the Slytherin as he heard how she had put Bundimuns in his broomstick, and all the aerodynamically perfect flight twigs had rotted off.
"Hermione! Draco flies a Firebolt F.I.T. !" he remonstrated. "That's sacrilege! I'm not surprised he knobbled Crookers. But it all sounds rather 'fungussy' - not very exciting."
She looked up at him from the rug where she was kneeling down trying to entice Crookshanks from under the furniture by rubbing her fingers together and mouthing strange, soft, kissy noises.
"Hmm. I suppose so. It's just that time of year. Lots of mouldy spores about," she replied vaguely. Then, in a harsh tone, totally unlike her normal voice:
"It's a Cold War with Malfoy. A War of Attrition. Stealth, strategy, sabotage - I'm going to grind him down like quartz crystals in a mortar."
There was something quite alarming about Hermione these days, Harry decided.
A warning growl revved from under the cupboard, a long, low, sustained vibrato. Luna Lovegood detached herself from the Ravenclaw clique and joined Hermione on the floor, expertly flicking and flitting a piebald Magpie feather just out of reach of the cat's swiping scalpels.
"Very nice fish restaurant in the Staden iwom Broarna," Luna commented, apropos of absolutely nothing, as far as Harry could tell. "In Stockholm," she added, unperturbed, continuing a conversation that had begun and ended with a one-liner at least half an hour previously.
Hermione was the first to catch the reference,
"Oh yes, you were going there with your Dad in the summer. Isn't the town hall on the bank of Lake Mälar meant to be some kind of architectural masterpiece? They call Stockholm the 'Venice of the North', don't they? Did you go everywhere in water-taxis and gondolas? Did you ever find a Crumple Horned Snorkack?"
As ever, Hermione's breadth of bucket-knowledge put Harry to shame. He could only look on and marvel.
"Not as such. That's not to say they're not there, though," Luna said mildly, straightening up and picking cat hairs off her robe.
"Hi Loony. How's life in 'Away-With-the-Pixies-Land'? Talked to any more trees? Read any more terrifying Tarots lately? When's our Harry going to meet a tall, dark stranger then?"
Luna was too easy a target, really, but Ron couldn't help teasing her anyway. She gave him - and Harry - the kind of pitying, scornful look that kids usually reserve for parents who have said something banal in front of their school-friends.
"He's already met him," she said oddly.
"I know what we need to get rid of the fleas!" Unable to rile Luna, Ron changed the subject back to the scratching cat. "One of those Muggle sucking gadgets!"
"A straw?" suggested Dean.
"Who would want to suck Muggles anyway?" said Neville.
"No. One of those things with a long pipe. A vacu- vacu- something."
"Vacuous idea?" said Hermione, with contempt.
"No. A vacuum-cleaner. We could use the nozzle to suck the fleas off."
"Oh, silly me, why didn't I think of that? And, naturally, Crookshanks is going to sit placidly while we vacuum vermin out of his fur with a long tube? I don't think so!"
"It'd work," Ron insisted. "Vacuums always work on the Enterprise. When they have a tricky alien they want to whoosh away into deep space, what do they do? 'Decompress the main Shuttle Bay!' Whoa! Whooaaa! Heurgh-hic!"
A resounding hiccough and startled exclamation rolled into one loud, glottic whoop, erupted from Ron's mouth. At the same time, a translucent pink membrane began to balloon around Ron's head, enclosing him in an inflating soft-shell helmet, pearly, iridescent and undulating like a bubble-gum amoeba.
Hermione stood back and watched, a Cheshire Cat grin of pride and satisfaction replacing her face.
"It worked!" She was self-congratulatory. "The timing needs tweaking a bit - the Hiccobubblus spell's supposed to cut in at the first mention of anything space-related. But - hey! - that's pretty neat, if I say so myself!"
She walked round Ron, surveying him from all angles, as if he were a living, modern art installation, with Ron all the while growing increasingly puce and frantic.
"Can he breathe inside that thing?" asked Harry.
"It should pop, any second...Now!" Hermione replied and, sure enough, the bubble burst on cue. Ron was left gasping for air, his face and hair plastered with the shreds of a candyfloss caul. Apoplectically sticky, he dived out of the Common room, clawing at the rosy goo that clogged his eyes and nose, and still wracked with fruity 'hic's.
Hermione hugged her triumph like a favourite teddy-bear.
"I've been waiting all day for that," she crooned, "ever since breakfast. You have no idea how many times today I've wanted to ask him if he'd run any good 'holodeck programmes' recently, or if he fancied a game of 'Parrises Squares'..."
"It'll take him all night to get that stuff out of his hair," Harry pointed out.
"Oh, a dollop of picoline should do it," Hermione said, airily.
"Picoline being...?"
"An industrial solvent made out of coal tar, horse urine and bone oil. I'm not joking! Look it up!"
"Hermione, what's got into you? Couldn't you have shut him up with a common or garden 'Silencio'?"
"But where would be the fun in that? What's the point of being magical, if you can't enjoy it?" she demanded, assertively unrepentant.
If this was Girl Power, Harry wasn't sure he liked it very much.
Now that the show was over, the Ravenclaws were heading back to their own rooms. Luna was the last to leave, drifting behind the others, unhurried and self-contained. As she passed Harry she murmured,
"You should do it soon."
"Do what?"
"That thing you're going to do..."
END OF CHAPTER 4. Next chapter: LIFE'S A BITCH. Lupin accosts Snape... Hermione makes the flea potion. But what does Harry say to upset Snape so much?
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