Title: Diagon Burning (4/20)
Author name: One Eyed JAck
Rating: R
Summary: Harry Potter is one of the few who remain skeptical when Lucius Malfoy emerges from Azkaban with a full pardon and a plan to start an evil-fighting organization. Exposing Malfoy as a fraud won't be easy amid lies, fights, and hidden agendas. One motorway accident, two definitions for SPEW, three levels of Ministry alert, and lots of four-nication. Chapter 4-Purgatory: Draco gets ass, Professor Avery wears Quidditch gear, and Harry gets familiar with purgatory. Not the place.
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Some canon information in this chapter comes from the Lexicon.
Author notes: Special thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far as well as to Gena and Oli and co. for the betas. Naodrith and Alissa Raboin also looked over earlier versions of the fic.
Diagon Burning
Chapter 4:
Purgatory
The first day of term, Harry woke up, showered, walked down to the Great Hall and proceeded to write DIE in his porridge with his right index finger.
The enchanted ceiling was gray and foreboding and Hermione wore a frown to match. "You really should eat your breakfast, Harry," she said, fixing him with a critical stare. "I'm not sure touching it lets you tap into its full nutritional value."
"Thank you, Hermione." Harry jammed his finger deeper into the porridge. "I had no idea." He wished he hadn't gotten out of bed.
"Eat some bacon, then," she said, pushing the serving bowl toward him. "You'll starve and make yourself sick."
"That is pretty nasty, mate," Ron said, peering at Harry's breakfast over Hermione's shoulder. "Not that I don't sympathize with not wanting to eat the porridge—"
Harry flicked some gruel at him. Ron ducked and it hit a little first year girl in the face. She turned around, shocked, and, seeing Harry with his guilty hand still dripping, promptly burst into tears and rushed out of the hall.
"You great bully," Hermione remarked dryly, taking a bit of toast.
Harry looked at Ron and, at the same instant, they burst out laughing.
A chorus of hoots heralded the arrival of the morning post. Harry was just about to actually eat some porridge when the Daily Prophet landed smack in the middle of his bowl. He fished it out and wiped the gruel off on Ron's shoulder as Hermione paid the delivery owl its three Knuts. When they unfolded it, Harry's first thought was relief that there was nothing about Malfoy or SPEW. The byline read A "GIANT" ACCIDENT, which seemed harmless enough compared to Rita Skeeter's recent scoops. The story featured a picture of two Ministry of Magic Obliviators waving in front of an overturned Muggle tractor-trailer. A bloody thumb the size of Hermione hung from the truck's grate.
"Listen to this," Hermione said, beckoning Harry and Ron closer as she began to read the paper:
"GRAMPIAN, SCOTLAND—A motorway catastrophe occurred just seven miles north of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when asixteen foot giant wandered onto a Muggle interstate, colliding with a truck. Understandably, the Muggle driver did not survive the collision, but he gave as good as he got. Pieces of the giant have been found as far away as Laurencekirk, eighteen miles to the north.
"With such a large crash radius and so many Muggles on the scene, the Ministry of Magic had one of its toughest cleanup challenges in years. 'Forget the riots at the Quidditch World Cup,' said Haggis Jenkins, Head of the Department of Magical Catastrophes, 'we haven't faced a disaster this bad since Ilfacombe Incident of 1932.' A source inside Jenkins's department tells the Prophet that the Ministry had to cast Memory Charms on more than 200 Muggles, as well as locate nearly as many pieces of the giant. The remains were banished to an undisclosed, yet sanitary, location.
"According to Muggle eyewitnesses, who have since been Obliviated, the giant wandered out of the pine forest on the right side of the motorway at approximately 8:13 yesterday morning. Apparently not noticing the eight lanes of traffic, it walked right onto the expressway, causing sixteen car collisions before being hit itself. 'One minute I was driving,' says Therese P. Hartwick, a Muggle tourist from York, 'and the next the little ones were screaming and the biggest man I'd ever seen was tramping across the highway with a pine tree stuck in his mouth like a toothpick!'
"But what was a giant doing in England in the first place? They've been banned from entering or residing in the country since the Repatriation of Unfriendly Races Act of 1978 which, as the reader certainly remembers, was passed by the Ministry in response to the giants' oath of allegiance to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. As well as a toothpick, the pine tree might serve as the key to unlock this insidious and dark mystery. The woods the giant wandered out of are in fact the back end of what many Hogwarts alumni remember as the Forbidden Forest. In fact, as mentioned in the beginning of this article, the accident took place only seven miles from the grounds of the Hogwarts School.
"It would be little short of calling Albus Dumbledore senile to suggest that he had no idea what was lurking so close to his school. How could the wizard who discovered the twelve uses of dragon's blood and defeated the dark wizard Grindelwaldoverlook a giant? That's hardly a small detail. He must have known about it. In that case, why would Albus Dumbledore possibly allow such a dangerous beast near our children? Even though the answer can only be troubling, in no way would the Prophet like to suggest that Dumbledore's ambition has grown so great he would consort with Giants in an attempt to increase his power, putting our children indesperate danger as a result.
"'I will of course be directing SPEW to make a full and impartial inquiry into the Headmaster Dumbledore's involvement,' saidLucius Malfoy, public servant and father of Hogwarts sixth year Draco, when informed of the accident. 'Such an investigation is essential to ensure the safety of our children.'"
There was a shocked silence.
"Well." Hermione obviously didn't know quite what else to say. "That explains why Hagrid wasn't at the staff table last night."
Harry couldn't quite believe it. "Grawp got hit by a truck."
"No, I'm sure it was the other giant lurking around the Forbidden Forest," Hermione said dryly.
Ron paled. "Don't say that. I wouldn't put it past Hagrid to invite his extended family."
"Oh, I knew tying Grawp to the pine trees was a bad idea!" Hermione threw the Prophet down on the table. "He was ripping them out left and right and it was only a matter of time before he got loose. Hagrid should have known better than to bring him here."
"I think Hagrid's probably figured that out by now, Hermione," Harry said. "Considering that they found bits of Grawp in Laurencekirk."
Hermione scowled. "And Lucius Malfoy's blaming Dumbledore! I just can't believe him."
"Unfortunately, you're pretty much alone on that." Harry poked his porridge angrily.
"Ron doesn't believe Malfoy either," she said. "And you don't, Harry—and most of Gryffindor and the Order—we all know he's lying." Harry rewrote DIE in his porridge and tried not to look at her.
Ron nodded. He had a quiet, contemplative look on his face that was almost altogether unfamiliar. "We'll beat SPEW, Harry. Even if we die doing it." Harry and Hermione blinked at him. He flushed. "Not that I'm planning on death or anything."
-
When Pansy and Draco arrived at breakfast, Theodore Nott was staging a loud conversation with Millicent Bullstrode and Blaise Zabini, both of whom looked exceedingly bored.
"So my only question for Malfoy is, what is he thinking, getting in another fight with Potter before he's even been at school twenty-four hours? I mean, it's hardly the most politic of moves."
Pansy sat down between Draco and Nott. Draco reached for a platter and calmly buttered a piece of toast.
"He came out as the clear victim last week in Diagon Alley, but what does he do? He's got an advantage over Potter, and he blows it. How? By getting in a fight with—guess who—Potter! Again!"
Pansy tapped Nott on the shoulder. He jumped. "Hey Nott," she said, "seems to me Draco doesn't care."
Draco brushed the crumbs from the toast onto his napkin.
"Well, he should care—he can't go letting an uppity half-blood get the best of him."
Blaise whispered something to Millicent, who snorted a laugh. Hardly the most ladylike of characters, Millicent. Nott seemed to sense he was losing his audience. Pansy smirked at her bowl of porridge.
Nott cleared his throat and reached across Pansy to thump his fist on the table in front of Draco's plate. "So, Malfoy, how's your affair with Potter going?"
Draco didn't even deign to reply to that. He reached across Pansy and emptied the crumbs from his napkin onto Nott's lap. Nott's grin faltered but he didn't back down. "Getting some good action with him, are you?"
"What are you going on about, Nott?" Pansy said, examining her nails. Her right pinky nail was a little ragged. She had a habit of gnawing on it when she got bored.
"Oh, nothing in particular."
Draco had finished his toast and was now dissecting an orange.
"You didn't mean nothing," Pansy said pleasantly, placing a hand on Nott's thigh.
He swallowed.
"Now, would you mind," her fingers slid higher, "telling me exactly what it was you meant by that?"
Nott, she noticed, seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. Experimentally, she flicked her fingers to the inside of his thigh. His breath hitched.
"Nott?" she said sweetly.
If their smirks were any indication, Blaise and Millicent seemed to be enjoying the show immensely.
Nott exhaled. "Nothing."
She dipped her fingers under and stroked. "Really."
"It's just that"—swallow—"with the amount of time that"—inhale—"Malfoy spends trying to"—Pansy grabbed him; he gripped at the edge of the table—"get at Potter"—ragged exhale, and the next words came out in a rush—"you'd think he was trying to get into Potter's pants."
"Now, Nott," she said patiently, "what part of Draco constantly tormenting Potter makes you think he'd want in Potter's pants?" She continued to stroke.
Nott looked pointedly at her hand.
She laughed. "Ah, Nott. It was a good try. But," she grinned, and gripped him tighter, "there's a problem with your logic." She leaned in close and whispered against his ear, "I don't want in your pants." With one last squeeze she released him, and just in time, too: a second later he ruined his trousers. He would have to change them and be late for first bell Advanced Potions, and wouldn't that be fun, to see what he told Snape?
Draco stood up. "I'm going to go bother Weasley."
Pansy cocked her head at him. "What? Why?"
"Because I can."
-
"Hey Weasley," Malfoy sneered, walking up to the Gryffindor table. "Your mother's fat."
"Hey Malfoy," Ron snapped back, "your mother's a whore."
Harry laughed.
Malfoy shrugged. "No, that's what your mother would be if she wasn't so fat."
"Talk to Ron like that and I'll hit you so hard you forget how to move."
"Make sure you bring a fork then, Potter," Malfoy said unintelligibly.
Harry made a stabbing gesture and, apparently satisfied, Malfoy walked back to the Slytherin table. Harry picked up his spoon, scooped out DIE, and flicked it at the back of Malfoy's head. It stuck. The day was looking a lot better.
"Good, everyone's established that they can, indeed, act like first years," Hermione shook her head, "in case there was any doubt after the SPEW speech."
Ron blinked at Harry. "A fork?"
Harry shrugged. "Malfoy was being dramatic in jail, saying he'd kill me and grind me into the ground until I bled and stuff. So I just told him I'd beat him to death with a fork. Which I would," he said pleasantly.
"Then I'll be sure to carry one around," Ron said, pocketing his fork.
Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Boys."
"Oh, come on." Harry smiled at her. "You'd run Malfoy through if you had the chance."
"I'd choose something long, sharp, and effective, though," she said meditatively. "Not a fork."
"A spear?" Ron suggested. "A sword?"
Hermione smiled. "I was thinking a kabob."
"Yum," Harry commented.
Ron smirked. "How would the Prophet cover that, I wonder?"
Harry didn't miss a beat. "Malfoy Heir Impaled on Kabob, Dead from Massive Trauma."
Hermione shrugged. "I doubt even his father could glorify that one."
"Malfoy Heir Sacrifices Self to Help Solve World Hunger?" Harry suggested.
Hermione made a face. "That was rhetorical. Stop being such a pessimist."
"I don't think he'd make a huge dent in the problem," Ron said, offhand. "The sight of Malfoy really puts me off food."
"They don't have to put that in the article, though," Hermione said.
"You know," Harry remarked, "I guess the long-term probability of Malfoy being run through with a kabob is really small."
"Dammit," Ron said wistfully.
-
When Malfoy walked into Potions class, he still hadn't noticed the wad of gruel stuck the to back of his head. If Harry looked carefully, he thought he could still make out the word DIE. If only the rest of the class had been quite so satisfying. Harry and Hermione filed into the Potions classroom, followed by Padma Patil and Terry Boot. It was a fully inter-House class—most upper-level classes were, it turned out—although a quick glance around the room confirmed that Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs were disturbing outnumbered: he and Hermione made up the entire Gryffindor contingent, and Hannah Abbott was the lone Hufflepuff. The rest of the class included half a dozen Ravenclaws and every single Slytherin in the year. The Slytherins sneered and catcalled as Harry and Hermione selected a table near the middle. "Let's see how long you last, Potter," Pansy Parkinson jeered. "I wouldn't give you a week."
Harry ignored her and sat down. Nothing worse than usual. Hannah Abbott, who had never spoken a word to Harry—had never spoken a word at all, that he could remember hearing—squeaked and scurried to the furthest-back table in the room. The Slytherins cackled. Theodore Nott burst through the door, late, and doing up his belt. For some reason the Slytherins cackled again.
"May I have your attention," Snape said. Harry turned and nearly yelled: Snape stood directly in front of his desk. "Potter," Snape said softly. The Slytherins laughed. The slimy bastard must have snuck up on him while he was watching Hannah.
"Yes, sir?" Harry said, doggedly attempting politeness.
"As you all know," Snape said, turning away from Harry without even threatening a detention, amazingly, "this is my Advanced Potions class, Level One of two, in preparation for the N.E.W.T. exam for which you will sit at the conclusion of your seventh year. In order to be admitted into this class, you must have scored an Outstanding on your O.W.L., although admission is, of course, subject to the teacher's discretion." That explained how Crabbe and Goyle had made it into the class, because if those two had scored an O on the Potions O.W.L., Harry would eat Buckbeak. He watched Goyle drool on the desk. Alive.
When Harry looked back at Snape, he thought he saw a glint of something ugly flash through his beady black eyes, but he turned away from Harry and continued, "Therefore, I will expect you to maintain a higher level of competency than in previous years. Ineptitude," he did not pretend to stare at anyone but Harry, "will not be tolerated."
Harry could feel the Slytherins smirking across the room.
"So," Snape continued. "We will begin with a Disarming Draught. This potion is most commonly used against opposing wizards before duels, as it prevents the wizard from performing defensive magic on himself and slows his reflexes. The first half of this potion consists of the Draft of Peace, which you learned last year. As Potions has always been a cumulative course, there should be no need for me to remind you of the brewing instructions for this potion. Every ingredient you need you will find in your Advanced Potions kit—provided," Snape said silkily, "that you have an Advanced Potions kit." Harry swallowed. "You have fifteen minutes. If you are not finished at the end of that time, you will receive no marks. Begin."
"You don't have an Advanced Potions kit?" Hermione hissed after he mumbled a request for powdered badger claw.
"I didn't know I was going to be in Advanced Potions!" Harry whispered furiously.
"You got an O on the exam, you had to have known!"
"Snape all but told me I wasn't in his class. He sent me an owl that said the day he'd let me in would be the day he was no longer Potions Master!"
"You shouldn't make assumptions," Hermione huffed, but fiddled around in her satchel and pulled out a second Advanced Potions kit.
"You bought two?" Harry said. "No, that's not surprising."
"You can never be too prepared," Hermione said, measuring out a tablespoon of essence of hellebore.
"Right," Harry said, and opened the potions kit. Draft of Peace…he desperately tried to remember. Something about wormwood, and increasing the heat while stirring seven times…
When Snape called time, the contents of Harry's cauldron were pale gray. He glanced at Hermione's perfectly clear potion. What had he done wrong? Was it the—
"Add three drops of leech juice," Hermione whispered. "That should neutralize it."
Harry glanced up. Snape was checking the Slytherins' cauldrons; he should have time. He dropped in the leech juice and the potion turned clear. "Thanks," he said. "I couldn't have—" He stopped at Hermione's warning eyes.
"Potter," Snape said. "Let's see how you've done with this one." He examined the contents of Harry's cauldron, looked up, and said, "Not too badly."
Harry blinked. "What?"
"You successfully created the Draft of Peace," Snape said. "Here are the instructions for the rest of the Disarming Draught. You may continue."
After Snape checked Hermione's cauldron, she turned to Harry, incredulous. "Was Snape just civil to you?" she said.
"He must have inhaled fumes from the Draft of Peace," Harry said. "Made him forget who he was."
"Must be," Hermione said, and returned to her cauldron.
Harry glanced at the instructions. Powder one small bicorn horn, add, stir four times. Increase heat to 170 degrees, stir three times. Crush five bats' eyes...
"Five minutes," Snape said. Harry looked down. His dark red potion was nowhere closer to Hermione's milky white. "Mr. Malfoy, will you help me to inspect the potions? Take the left side of the room."
"Of course, sir." Malfoy stood up and walked over to Hannah Abbott. "A nice effort, but you failed miserably." She burst into tears.
"You forgot to add thistlewing," he told Mandy Brocklehurst.
"You stirred counterclockwise, McDougall," he said to Morag. "It's always clockwise after adding liquids, don't you know that?"
He arrived at Hermione's side. Her potion was perfect, everyone knew it, but Malfoy still said, "You added half a bat-claw too many, Granger."
"It has no effect on the potion," Hermione said. "Bat claws act as neutralizing agents in this potion."
Malfoy smiled superior. "Even so, you should know better than to tolerate sloppiness."
He turned to Harry. "Well, Potter," he said, eyeing Harry's cauldron, "what have we here?"
"A Disarming Draught."
Malfoy laughed. "No, I don't think we do. In fact, I don't have any idea what you did. Do you, Potter?"
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, Professor," Malfoy called. "I think you need to take a look in Potter's cauldron."
Snape didn't look up from his discussion with Goyle.
"Professor?" Malfoy scowled, impatient. "I guess I'll just have to go get him." As he walked past, his hand knocked against the bottle of dingbat droppings Harry had left open, sending it flying into the cauldron. The potion let up a puff of ugly purple smoke and began to boil dark green.
"Did you see that?" Harry hissed at Hermione. "Malfoy knocked the—"
"Mr. Potter." Snape had finished talking to Malfoy. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to test your potion for the rest of the class." He smiled nastily. "On yourself."
"But sir—"
"If you managed to brew the potion correctly, it should have no more effect on you than to make you feel slightly lethargic. Fill a beaker now, Potter, and come forward."
Hermione took one look at his potion and swallowed, which was not particularly reassuring. Harry dipped the beaker into the cauldron and walked to the front of the room.
Snape took the beaker from Harry and examined it. "Well," he smirked, "I can guarantee that that is not a Disarming Draught. What could it be?"
The Slytherins grinned but didn't say anything. Harry doubted that they knew, either.
"I suppose there is one way to find out. Drink it, Potter."
"No."
Snape stared him down. "An Advanced Potions student should never create a potion of which he does not know the effects. I expect, therefore, that you know exactly what you have brewed. Drink the potion, Potter, or I will force you to drink it."
"You can't force me to drink it."
"Do you remember your lifetime ban from Quidditch, Potter?" Snape's eyes bored dark into Harry's. "Umbridge never lifted it. Dumbledore may have ceased to enforce it, but if I were to remind someone…" He fingered his wand. "Fudge, for instance…I think that, in light of recent events, he might remember why it is…dangerous to have someone like you in the air, with so many opportunities to cause harm to your fellow students."
Harry glared at him. "You wouldn't."
"Really?"
Malfoy laughed. "Go ahead and refuse to drink the potion, Potter. I'll be more than happy to see you banned from the Quidditch pitch."
That did it. Harry tipped the beaker back and downed it in a single gulp.
Nothing happened. Snape and Malfoy in particular looked disappointed. But then a loud rumble escaped from somewhere in Harry's gut, and Malfoy began to snicker.
"Mr. Malfoy," Snape said, "do you know what Potter has managed to create?"
Malfoy had trouble talking through his snickering. "I think, sir, he's made some variety of Purgatory Potion."
"Purgatory?" Harry said.
"Not the place, Potter, although I'm sure it will feel like you're there after a few hours," Snape said, amused. "It is a form of purgative, and a very strong one you've made, if the volume of those noises is any indication. Consider yourself, lucky," he added with a nasty smile. "All you have to do is add knotgrass to create the quick, deadly, and incredibly effective Rasputin's poison. It's virtually undetectable, because it tastes exactly like vodka."
Harry still didn't understand, but Pansy Parkinson yelled"Potter's gonna barf" and suddenly the upward movement of his bowels made sense. He blanched.
"Why don't you get out of here, Potter, before you embarrass yourself worse than you already have?" Blaise Zabini said.
Harry ran from the classroom, Malfoy and Snape's laughter rising above the laughs of all the others as the door slammed behind him.
-
During lunch Draco pulled Pansy into a storage closet and pushed her up against the wall.
"What was that for?" she said. He removed his hand from under her skirt.
"No, not that. Don't stop," she said. "I meant this morning. What was that with Weasley?"
"Don't bring up the Weasel while we're snogging."
Pansy ignored him. "Why'd you go after Weasley after Nott said you only bothered Potter? You didn't have to go after a different Gryffindor just to prove something to Nott. You don't care what that little piece of shit says."
He bit her neck. "I wasn't," he said, "trying to prove anything to Nott."
"Well then, what were you doing? Why'd you go after Weasley?"
"Because I could."
That was the same answer he'd given her before, and it didn't mean a thing. He hadn't even said it to her face this time; he was staring at her left breast like he expected it to start talking or something. But before she could probe further he said, "Shouldn't I be asking you why you gave Nott a hand job at breakfast?"
She smirked and parroted back, "Because I could."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I was interrogating him."
"That's an interesting method of interrogation."
"Effective, too. Use what they want against them." She grabbed the bulge in his pants.
"Ah," he said. "And where did you pick up this particular technique?"
She grinned. "From you."
-
Defense Against the Dark Arts was still an unknown quantity. Harry walked in between Hermione and Ron. He had spent all of lunch throwing up in the bathroom. Luckily, Hermione had found him at the end of the period. She gave him a roll and an Indigestion Charm, and although Harry still felt a little queasy, she had forbidden him from skipping class. Thankfully, there were no Slytherins in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The most menacing thing in the classroom was Lavender and Parvati, who were sitting in the front row, giggling something about professional Quidditch players and the size of their broomsticks.
Hermione made an exasperated noise. "Those two wouldn't even be here if Professor Avery wasn't halfway decent looking."
Parvati, having heard, turned around. "Like you'd never act that way, Hermione."
Ron's cough sounded suspiciously like "Lockhart."
Hermione glared as they filed into the second row. Harry pointedly refused to take out his book. Avery hadn't changed the book since Umbridge's choice of Defensive Magical Theory last year and he'd rather take double Potions than spend another year with that trash.
Seamus, Dean, and Neville sat down behind them and a hush fell over the room, broken only by Lavender's excited giggles.
"Get over it," Seamus said to Lavender. "Harry and Ron play Quidditch, too!"
Lavender glowered at him.
The door clicked open.
Parvati squealed and Lavender fainted. Harry looked at Ron and they both started to laugh.
Avery strode into the room clad in full Quidditch regalia, protective gear and cloak. His colors and insignia proclaimed him a member of the Chudley Cannons squad, but from Ron's fanaticism and Harry's friendship with Ron, they both knew those robes weren't the actual team robes. Ron's dad had bought Ron the same Official Fan Replica Robes at a Cannons game when he was eight; they still hung on the wall over his bed at the Burrow.
"Professor Snape bet me ten Galleons that if I wore Quidditch robes to class, at least one girl would faint," Avery said, surveying the classroom. "I guess I owe him some gold. Would someone mind escorting Miss…"
"Brown," Parvati piped up.
"Would someone mind escorting Miss Brown to the Hospital Wing?"
"Oh, uh, I'm sure Lavender will recover quickly, Professor Avery, and she'd really hate to miss your first class," Parvati said hastily. If she batted her eyelashes a little more rapidly she'd probably pass out herself. "See? She's recovering already."
Lavender moaned accordingly.
Avery looked at her sideways and then opened a door on his desk, pulling out a piece of parchment. "This will be the first and only time I'll call roll—just to get everybody's name down. I think by sixth year you're all too old for a rigid disciplinarian. If you come to class or not, it's your choice, and you're old enough to understand the consequences." He looked down at the parchment. "Lavender Brown."
Lavender gave a weak moan.
"Seamus Finnegan."
"Here." Seamus raised a hand. "So you're saying we can skip?"
"I'm saying that if you come to class, you'll learn something, and if you don't, it's your loss," Avery said. "Hermione Granger."
"Present." Hermione raised a hand. There was a small smile on her face, which was surprising. Harry had figured she wouldn't be too pleased with Avery's attendance policy.
Avery made a tick by her name. "Neville Longbottom."
"Here."
"Parvati Patil?"
"Yes?" Parvati smiled.
"Harry Potter."
"Yeah." Harry raised his hand. Avery met his gaze for a second and then his eyes flickered upward to the scar. Harry stared at Avery. Avery looked away.
"Dean Thomas."
"Here."
Avery made a tick on his list. "And that would leave Ronald Weasley."
"Ron, and present," Ron said, raising his hand.
"Good, then," Avery said, tossing the list onto his desk. "Now, wands away."
Harry's throat tightened. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't stand another year like Umbridge.
Either unaware of or purposefully ignoring the class's grumbling, Avery picked up a piece of chalk and wrote:
ENEMIES OF THE MINISTRY
on the board in wide block lettering. He let the chalk drop.
"Now, could someone define this term for me?" He looked around the class. "Anyone?"
They stared at him silently.
He nodded. "As I expected." He picked up the chalk again and added, beneath ENEMIES OF THE MINISTRY,
DEATH EATERS
"Who can define this term for me?"
The class was still silent, now out of disbelief.
Harry didn't bother raising his hand. "Murdering bastards."
Avery looked at him. "Eloquently put, Mr. Potter, but let's take a look at our textbook, shall we? Please turn to page three, in the chapter 'What is Defense Against the Dark Arts?'"
"I'll read!" Parvati's hand shot into the air.
Avery nodded slightly. "Third paragraph from the top."
Parvati found her place. "The Ministry of Magic," she began, "is a peaceful body that maintains excellent relations with the overwhelming majority of British wizards and foreign governments. The Ministry prides itself on its standards of decency and justice for wizardkind."
"Lying bastards," Harry said, but no one appeared to notice.
"However," Parvati continued, "the Ministry understands that not all wizards, organizations, and wizarding nations place so firm an emphasis on these values as the Ministry does. The Ministry recognizes, therefore, that certain measures must be taken to protect the wizarding public from these enemies of the Ministry."
"That's all, Miss Patil, thank you," Avery said. "Now, Mr. Weasley, could you explain who these enemies of the Ministry might be?"
"Death Eaters," Ron said without hesitation.
"Exactly." Avery held up the book. "The point of that little exercise is this: in newspapers and books, as in conversations, what people say and what they mean are entirely different matters. Therefore, one of the most important skills you can ever hope to develop is the ability to read between the lines. Homework: find me an article in the Daily Prophet or any other newspaper and tell me what it's actually saying." He put the book down. "Class dismissed."
Seamus looked at his watch. "That was five minutes."
"It's a trick," Neville said.
But Avery was already out the door.
Dean shrugged. "I'm going to go find Ginny before Transfiguration." And he was gone too. Neville, Seamus, Parvati, and Lavender weren't far behind.
Hermione looked pensive. "That was a surprise."
"I thought he was a Death Eater," Harry said.
"Me too," Ron added.
"Well there's nothing to say he isn't," Hermione said. "We just know he's not stupid."
"And he owns Chudley Cannons souvenir robes," Ron volunteered.
"Which has exactly nothing to do with it," Hermione said.
"A Death Eater wouldn't wear Cannons souvenir robes," Ron insisted. "The Cannons don't sell robes to Death Eaters. And can you imagine Malfoy wearing Cannons robes? It'd be a disgrace to the name Chudley."
"Malfoy would never wear orange robes," Harry said. "It'd make him look like an inmate."
"Now that's the way I want to see Malfoy," Ron said.
Something about Malfoy was tickling at the edge of Harry's mind. Malfoy. Death Eater. Something to do with—"Hermione, what was the name of the law firm that sent me the probation letter?"
"What?" Ron said.
"Parkinson, Avery, and Bloom," she replied immediately. Then, "Avery."
Harry nodded, and eventually Ron caught on. "Same family, you think?"
"Yes," Harry said.
"It must be." Hermione's eyes widened. "That would connect him with the Malfoys. Not directly, but…"
"Yes, it would," Harry said.
"Well." Hermione drummed her fingers on the desk. "We now know that he's smart enough to hide it."
Ron smirked. "Maybe we should read between the lines."
Hermione smacked him on the side of the head. "Shut up, Ron."
"He wants us to like him," Harry said, thinking hard.
Hermione sighed. "Which means we can't trust him at all. As if a Death Eater name and Malfoy connections weren't bad enough."
"Constant vigilance," Ron growled. His Moody impression was surprisingly good.
Harry laughed. "See, Hermione? We have learned something."
She rolled her eyes. "In theory."
-
Avery opened the door after only the second knock. "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson, please come in. What can I do for you?"
"Professor Avery! How are you?" Pansy said. Without waiting for an answer, she hurried on, "We just wanted to welcome you back to Hogwarts."
"We're glad you're our new DADA teacher," Draco said. "At Quidditch tryouts my second year, I remember hearing about Cal Avery. I never thought you'd become my teacher." He wondered if he was laying it on a little thick, but Pansy cut him off.
"Here's a token of our welcome," she said, thrusting what looked like a knobby ball of wool at Avery. "Some of our housemates made it."
Avery unfolded it and studied it for a few seconds. "It's a hat," he said finally, as if it surprised him.
"Crabbe and Goyle knitted it for you," Draco told him. The hat was green and gray in alternating stripes of varying widths—he supposed that keeping the stripes similar in size would have been too much to ask. It had a large green and gray pom-pom on top.
"Is Slytherin ordinarily spelled this way?" Avery said, holding the cap towards them so they could read GO SLYTHIRN embroidered in green on the gray bottom stripe.
Pansy glanced at Draco. "They tried, I suppose," she said, managing not to laugh.
Avery was not so successful in hiding his smirk.
"We were hoping you would wear it to our first Quidditch game, sir," Draco said. "It's on the 28th. Against Gryffindor."
"Always a big game," Avery said, turning to put the hat in his desk. Draco wondered if Avery would actually wear it. Draco wouldn't.
"A big rivalry, at least. I don't know if it's going to be a big game—Gryffindor's awful this year," Pansy said. "They graduated all three Chasers and both Beaters last year. Practically their whole team has never played together before."
"They've still got Potter," Draco said.
"Potter," Avery said. "Is he as good as I hear he is?"
"Well, Draco's never beaten him," Pansy said, with a sideways look in Draco's direction. "But other than that, I've always thought that Quidditch Monthly tends to confuse Potter's fame with his Quidditch skills."
"Even so, Potter didn't make it onto the Gryffindor team as a first year on fame alone," Avery said. "Wasn't he the—"
"—youngest player to make a House team in a hundred years. Yes." Avery had no idea how many times Draco had heard that line. Every time Draco mentioned that he played Quidditch for Hogwarts, someone inevitably brought that up. "And he's not bad. But I don't think he should be the main focus of our strategy," Draco said, staring at Pansy.
She took her cue. "Professor Avery, you were a Chaser for Slytherin when you were here, right?"
"Yes," he said. "I was a reserve my second year and a starter third through seventh."
Not many players started for Slytherin as third years at any position other than Seeker. They didn't tend to hold up well with Slytherin's physical playing style. "Well, sir," he said, "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind taking a look at our Chasers and seeing if you have any suggestions for them. Professor Snape helps us with administrative difficulties"—such as taking practice time away from Gryffindor as often as possible—"but I'm sure he wouldn't object to us gaining the expertise a professional Chaser could offer."
"Would you please, Professor?" Pansy said. "It would really mean a lot to our Chasers."
"I'm sure it would," Avery said. "When do you practice?"
Pansy smiled. She was really very pretty when she smiled.
"Tuesdays and Thursdays at eight and Mondays and Fridays at seven," Draco said.
"Would Thursday work?"
"Thursday would be perfect," Pansy said.
Avery smiled back at her. "I'll look forward to it."
"Me too," Pansy said.
"Professor Avery," Draco said, "while we're here, Pansy and I were wondering what you could tell us about professional Quidditch. We're both on the House team—she's the Keeper and I'm the Seeker and Captain—and even though I'm not sure that either of us definitely wants to pursue Quidditch as a career, we want to keep our options open."
"Of course," Avery said.
"So, could you tell us how you got into pro Quidditch?" Pansy said.
"Well, recruiters for British and Scottish teams typically make it to the last two or three games of the season to look at older students, but they aren't allowed to approach students until after the last game of their seventh year season—Dumbledore's rule, to keep the pressure down, you see."
"How many students get recruited each year?" Pansy said.
"More than you might think. Hogwarts is a big feeder school for the British and Irish League. The school does a pretty good job of preparing you for pro Quidditch. You don't hear about many of the Hogwarts grads—Hogwarts hasn't graduated many big-name Seekers recently—but at least one Slytherin went pro after graduation each of the seven years I was here."
"How well does it pay to be a—"
"Professor Avery," McGonagall's head said from the fire, "I need to speak with you, immediately, in my office."
Pansy nearly shrieked; only Draco's hand on her arm steadied her.
"Can it wait a few minutes, Professor McGonagall?" Avery said, gesturing at Draco and Pansy. "I'd like to finish our discussion, if I could."
"It can't wait, Professor," she said. "Now, if you would." Her head disappeared from the flames.
Avery stood up. "Sorry about that, Mr. Malfoy, Miss Parkinson. I would love to finish our talk some other time, but if you'll wait just a minute…" He rummaged around in his desk drawers and pulled out a haphazard stack of papers. "Here are some pamphlets that can tell you more about the recruiting process and professional Quidditch in general. Give them back whenever you're finished with them, no hurry. I'm sorry, once again, to have to cut our discussion short, but, if you'll excuse me, I have to go."
"Excuse me, Professor, but would you mind if we stayed here to take a look at these?" Draco said. "If we take them back to the Common Room, the entire place will probably jump on us trying to look at them—"
"You know how the lower years are when the Gryffindor match is coming up," Pansy said. "They see the word Quidditch, they go crazy."
"And we'd really like to take a look at these in a place where we can concentrate on them fully," Draco finished.
Avery was looking between them like there was something he should be realizing and wasn't, but he was also itching to leave and it showed, so he said, "Fine. Just lock the door when you leave."
"We won't be too long," Pansy said to his retreating back, and shut the door. "What was that about?" she said. "Stay here and read the pamphlets? Draco, what are you—"
He unknotted his tie and began to unbutton his shirt.
Pansy laughed. "Here?"
Draco smirked and pushed her back against the desk.
-
A day like this could not have happened to anyone but her. Ginny had forgotten to set her alarm clock the night before, and had overslept, which wouldn't have been such a big deal if Olivia Wright, Regan Williams, and Julie Hughes, the other three girls in Ginny's year, hadn't barricaded off the bathroom in preparation for their first DADA class with Professor Avery—"Cal," they'd corrected her, "his name is Cal"—and they didn't finish until halfway through breakfast, by which time Ginny was starving and frustrated, and then there wasn't any hot water left and the sinks were clogged. And there wasn't any bacon at breakfast and the toast was cold, and she requested fresh toast but breakfast ended before it arrived but she felt bad leaving because she knew it would upset the house elves if nobody ate the hot toast, so she waited until it came and she was already late for the first class of the year.
She hurried to the DADA room, only to find that nobody was there, and when she checked the schedule she learned that the DADA classes were in a different room on the opposite side of the castle entirely, and she started to hurry towards it, and that was when she ran into Peeves, who'd thought it would be funny to drop a chandelier from the ceiling just in front of her, and she threw up her arm to protect her face and got little shards of glass all in her arm, and she had to spend all morning in the infirmary while Madam Pomfrey removed each individual piece of glass with a pair of tweezers, because nobody had ever bothered to invent a spell to remove thousands of tiny, sharp objects from a person's skin. Ginny was thinking about creating that spell because she never wanted to spend another morning like that again, or maybe she should just kill Peeves instead. It was hard to decide which would be of greater service to wizardkind.
And now she had to go to Professor Avery and explain to him why she had missed the first day of his class. Maybe it would be easier if she just said she'd overslept.
Ginny knocked on Professor Avery's door.
No answer.
She waited a few moments then knocked again.
Still no answer, but she heard a muffled sound, like a cough.
"Professor Avery?" she said.
He didn't say anything, but she heard the muffled coughing sound again. What if he was choking, and he was trying to get to the door, and he couldn't breathe?
She jiggled the doorknob; it was unlocked. "Professor?" she said one more time for good measure, and opened the door.
"Oh! Professor! I didn't know you—I'm sorry, I—"
Professor Avery wouldn't be laughing in this situation, would he? Ginny turned back around. She had barely glanced in the office before, but Draco Malfoy's hair and Pansy Parkinson's bemused chuckle were hard to miss.
"Don't you ever knock, Weasley?" Pansy said. They both sat up on the desk.
"I did." Ginny's eyes were anywhere but on them. The ceiling, for instance, was looking better every second she stared at it. "Apparently you didn't hear me."
"Hmm," Pansy said. "I wonder how we could have missed it."
Malfoy's arm snaked around Pansy's shoulders. Ginny looked away again, but not in time to miss his grin. "I don't know, Pansy." He was stroking her hair now. How could they be so utterly self-assured when she'd just walked in on them, and she'd never needed to see that much of either of them, but it was like visiting St. Mungo's and staring at all of the patients with third arms and elephants' trunks for noses: you were horrified but you couldn't stop yourself from looking.
"I think maybe you were, um, a little occupied, and I'll just be leaving now, but what are you doing in Professor Avery's office anyway?"
"I thought it was fairly obvious, Weasley," Pansy said. "Or hasn't your mother talked to you about the birds and the bees?"
"That's not what I meant," Ginny snapped, uncomfortably aware of her inevitable blush and of Malfoy's fingers tickling down Pansy's side. "But speaking of that, do you two ever do anything but that? You're like rabbits or something."
"No, Weasley," Malfoy said patiently, "that would be your parents."
"Oh, shut it, Malfoy. You know what? I really don't care why you're doing it on Avery's desk. You can just go ahead and continue."
"How thoughtful of you," Pansy said.
Malfoy rolled on top of her on the desk as Ginny shut the door.
-
It was at least one in the morning, they were the last two people in the common room, and Hermione would still not lay off. "I think we need to at least offer Hagrid our condolences!"
"I never met the thing!"
"That doesn't matter, Ron. If one of your brothers had gotten hit by a truck, wouldn't you want people to offer their condolences?"
Ron considered. "Unless it was Percy. Then I'd send the driver a thank you letter."
"Ron!"
"It doesn't matter, anyway. My brothers know how to cross the street."
"Yes, well, they're not giants."
"Exactly!"
"Just because Grawp wasn't human doesn't mean you shouldn't feel sorry that he's dead."
"I shouldn't? He almost killed you!"
They heard a thump outside the entrance to the common room. "What was that?" Hermione said.
Ron opened the door to find Harry knocked out on the floor. "He must've been sleepwalking," Ron said. "He did it all the time at Grimmauld Place."
"Oh," Hermione said, grabbing one of Harry's arms and helping Ron drag him though the portrait hole. "So you really don't think we should tell Hagrid we're sorry his brother died."
"I never said that."
"Oh, so your prejudice against nonhumans was just a show, was it?"
"What?"
"You're prejudiced against nonhumans. Admit it."
"Only the ones who want to kill humans!"
"You can't make that big of a distinction. There are lots of very worthy creatures who dislike humans."
"Oh, because Aragog and his colony of giant tarantulas are obviously in need of magical rights."
"This isn't about giant tarantulas. It's about giants. Hagrid is our friend."
Ron looked sullen. "I know that."
"And he'd at least pretend to be sad even if Percy died."
"Percy never tried to kill you."
"Even if he had, Hagrid would still offer his condolences to your family."
"Hagrid wouldn't offer his condolences. He'd say he was sorry."
"That's the same thing. Are you trying to suggest that Hagrid isn't as intelligent as a full human, Ron Weasley, because that is just—"
"That's not—oh look, Harry's waking up!"
"I don't care. Ron, you are just—"
"Hermione?" Harry said groggily. "What am I doing on the floor?"
Hermione glanced wildly at Ron.
"You feel asleep on the couch," Ron decided. "You must have rolled off."
"Oh," Harry said. "Okay."
"Harry," Hermione began, "am I justified in suggesting that Ron is prejudiced against nonhumans?"
Harry looked wildly from one to the other. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep," he declared, and did.
"Me too," Ron said quickly, and escaped to the dormitory before Hermione could stop him. He dragged Harry all the way.
