A/N: Ceres Vesta- para sa 'yo 'to… sorry, but I don't fancy the idea of a Harry-Hermione relationship that's not purely platonic (kasi nababaklaan ako kay Harry). Kudos to all Filipino authors out there.

Chapter four: Muggles and Dark arts

            If the blinding light streaming through my window wasn't enough to wake me, I swear the sound of Parvati and Lavender padding about, getting dressed, would.

            Repressing a grunt of disapproval (which I'm sure they wouldn't be keen on so early on in the day), I swing my legs over the edge of my bed and trudge towards the bathroom for a quick shower, if I'm that lucky.

            "Hermione, hurry up, will you?" Parvati calls out through the door, impatience evident in the unusual briskness of her voice.

            I hurriedly rinse off and get dressed. I hadn't realized I took so long in the bath.

            Coming out, I sheepishly mutter an apology to Parvati, who was, by now, tapping her foot on the floor.

            Thinking back on last night's events, I remember thinking something was different about Professor Phelps. He seemed….I don't know exactly, just that he was odd for a wizard.

            Shaking my head, I sling my book bag over my shoulder and head downstairs to the Common Room to meet up with Harry and Ron so we could have breakfast together.

            "Morning!" calls out Harry, busy polishing his new broom so early in the morning.

            "Mm-hmm," mumbles Ron, who's beside Harry, tinkering with Harry's old Firebolt.

            Smiling, I try to drag them away from their brooms.

            "Come on, if we don't hurry there won't be any food left for us," I say, hoping my tactic would get them to leave their brooms. True enough, as I suspected it would, it works.

            "Well, what are you waiting for, Harry? Let go of your broom for a bit and let's go," says Ron, as if he wasn't doing exactly as Harry was.

            I roll my eyes, and he sees it.

            "What are you rolling your eyes at?"

            "Nothing," I reply. "Just marveling at how broomsticks apparently give people great big spaces where their brains should go."

            Grinning, I hurriedly step out the portrait hole before they realize what I said, wrestle me, and get us late for breakfast. Again.

            I could hear them running after me, laughing like mad.

            "You know we'll wrestle you one time or another, Hermione Granger!" Harry calls out, obviously panting from the combined effort of running, laughing and shouting.

            "Yeah, you better watch out!" hollers Ron, sounding a little less strained.

            Rounding the corner, I enter the Great Hall a good full half a minute before them and head straight for the Gryffindor table to the far right.

            "Oooohh…you're gonna get it, Hermione," pants Harry, dropping onto the seat to my right.

            Ron forgot to make any threats as soon as he caught sight (and smell) of English muffins, bacon and eggs, and blueberry pancakes with maple sauce. He immediately plops onto the seat to my other side and piles food onto his plate, all thoughts of payback gone for the moment.

            Reckon that means I'm wrestle-free for now, then. Honestly, you'd think at this age, they'd have tired of wrestling me to the ground.

***************

             Ron seemed to have forgotten about our chat back at The Burrow. He talks to me normally, if a touch strained. I did try to talk to him alone last night but before I could get a word out, he gives me this sullen, hurt look and mutters that "There's nothing to talk about." After that, Harry comes in and gives Ron the old Firebolt. Maybe I should try again tonight, but I doubt I could prise the two from their brooms even if I dance naked. But the hurt look he darts at me whenever he thinks I'm not looking is driving me crazy. A sigh escapes me.

            "Something the matter?" Harry says, frowning a bit.

            Frown lines are beginning to show at the corners of his eyes. Sometimes too, he gets this far-away look that scares me. When that happens he seems to age twenty years in a blink. There are days too when he forgets how to smile.

            "Nothing," I reply, smiling a bit. "Just worried that you'll wear your broomsticks out from all that polishing. Maybe I could give you a hand?"

            Harry chokes on his pumpkin juice. Oddly, the two grow crimson and share a look above my head. Ron hurriedly stuffs some sausages into his mouth, thumping a still-spluttering Harry rather hard on the back with his sausage-free hand.

            "Honestly, Ron, one would think you never had any dinner last night," I say, rolling my eyes at his ever-bottomless stomach.

            I pick up my book bag and sling it over my shoulder, motioning for Harry and Ron to do the same. "If you don't want us to be late for," I pause, scanning my course schedule, "Double Potions with Slytherin, let's go."

            "Wow, Double Potions with Slytherin! I'm so excited! Let's go, Harry, we wouldn't want to miss that for the world!" says Ron, tugging over-enthusiastically on Harry's sleeve, disdain evident on his face; not to mention he was doing a bad impression of the cartoon "shiny eyes" (the eyes that cartoons on the telly get when they get something really great).

            Harry cracks up at this. I smile. I haven't heard him have a good laugh in so long, save for the recent ride on the Hogwarts Express. I find I like him better when he laughs, he doesn't deserve to feel so old most of the time. It's as if he hasn't anything to live for anymore. I reckon losing your parents and godfather (not to mention having the weight of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds on your shoulders) does that to a person, no matter how tough that person may be.

            We hurry off to the dungeons for Double Potions with Professor Snape. Honestly, I swear Professor Dumbledore, or whoever draws up the schedules, sets us up with Double Potions with Slytherin on the first day of school on purpose!

            Sigh.

            We get there just in time. Our bottoms barely touch our seats at the back of the dingy classroom when Professor Snape bursts through the doors, his robes billowing loudly behind him as he strides briskly to the front of the room, immediately writing on the chalkboard.

            Getting out my quill, inkpot and parchment, I sigh and get ready to take notes.

            All in all, Potions wasn't half bad. Professor Snape just docked off fifty points from Gryffindor, gave fifty to Slytherin, yelled at (and humiliated) Harry thrice and Ron and I twice each. I daresay this is one of his better days.

            Classes came and went fairly fast and Slytherin-less, thankfully. By lunchtime, Harry, Ron and I (not to mention every Gryffindor seventh year, as far as I could tell) are positively quivering with excitement. We have our first Defense against the Dark Arts class right after lunch. Too bad we have it with Slytherin.

            Oddly enough, Harry and Ron don't need nagging today, as they bolt down their lunches like mad. I reckon we should have Defense Against the Dark Arts everyday. That way, I wouldn't have to nag them constantly.

            Gathering our book bags, we head off to Defense Against the Dark Arts rather faster than we usually would our other subjects.

**********

            Professor Phelps stepped into the room and stood behind his desk.

            He took out a folded sheet of what suspiciously looked like ruled paper from his trouser pocket and proceeded to unfold it and call out names, ticking them off (with what Harry highly suspected was a ball-point pen) one by one in the process.

            "Bullstrode!"

            "Crabbe!"

            "Finnegan!"

            "Granger!"

            "Goyle!"

            "Longbottom!"

            "Malfoy!"

            "Parkinson!"

            "Potter!"

            "Thomas!"

            "Weasley!"

            "Zabini!"

            As the last name had been called for attendance, he shoved back the sheet of ruled pad into his back pocket.

            Facing the class, he asked, "What is a wizard's greatest weapon?"

            Everyone in the room exchanged glances, puzzled by the question, until finally, Hermione tentatively raised her hand and, pointing to her wand, said, "Please, Sir, I believe it's our wands."

            "Good answer, Miss-"

            "Granger, Sir, Granger," Hermione filled in eagerly, pleased that she had once again started the year off with an answer that was-

            "-incorrect, I must say, however."

            Practically the whole class thought they had heard it wrong, but Professor Phelps said it again.

            "It was a good answer, but wrong. The greatest power you have, like everyone else, lies here," he said, bringing up his right hand and tapping his index finger to his temple. "Everything starts here. Without this, you can't do much. You keep relying on your wands, and soon enough, one day will find you wand-less. When that day comes, what will you do?"

            Silence dominated the room; everyone was busy mulling this over.

            "Don't even bother writing to your Mummies and Daddies complaining that you can't use your wands because I'm warning you now, you won't be needing your wands in my class. All wands will be collected and kept for safekeeping at the beginning of each class by-" he paused, checking a folder on his desk, which Harry suspected was a seat plan, "Mister Malfoy."

            It was hard to tell who groaned louder-Harry or Ron.

            "As we have started, kindly come up one by one and bring your wands. Put them here now," Professor Phelps said, beginning to call out names alphabetically and placing the wands in an ordinary looking chest before locking it with a combination padlock.

            "Please Professor," began Hermione. "I'm afraid we weren't told what book we would be needing for your class. Would you have any recommendations then, sir?"

            "None, because we won't be needing them," answered Phelps with a smile. "This is going to be a practical course."

            Ron and Harry shared a glance, grinning.

            "Sounds like Professor Lupin," observed Ron. Harry nodded his head. Professor Lupin, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts during their third year was by far their favorite teacher ever.

            "Let us pretend that I am…," Phelps mused, stroking a knuckle along his jaw. "…Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard alive."

            A collective gasp rose from the class. Even Ron looked uneasy, shifting slightly in his seat. Harry grimly nodded, realizing that Phelps was all business. He glanced at Hermione, who looked a bit startled but was otherwise nodding too.

            "Er," Neville quavered. "You mean You-Know-Who don't you, sir?"

            "No," Phelps replied, eyes narrowing. "I mean Voldemort." His gaze swept over the class, pausing briefly on Harry and Hermione. He added reproachfully, "It's about time you started using his name properly. Invoking his name gives you power over him- as wizards you should know that."

            At that, the class exchange puzzled looks, Malfoy trying to look like he knew all along.

            "I see that this is new to you all," remarked Phelps. "Names belong to you and you alone. Being such an intimate part of you, they become more than just words- they become magic at its most primitive, its most elemental and thus its most powerful. All sorts of things can be done to a person just by knowing his name. Apellomancy, Demonology and Necromancy all require the use of specific names. Malumency, the summoning of demons requires the practitioner to know the true names of the demons he will summon, making them write their names in a book which he keeps. When summoning, indeed it is important to not let the demon know your name as that knowledge would allow him to escape your will and turn on you."

            "Well," Malfoy drawled. "If it were that easy why hasn't He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named conked out yet?"

            "If he were so stupid," Ron snapped. "That he wouldn't take precautions, he'd be you instead of the greatest dark wizard alive."

            "What's that supposed to mean, Weasel King?" Malfoy sneered, going quite red in the face.

            "That would be quite enough, Mister Malfoy and Mister Weasley," Phelps interrupted before Ron could retort, "I'm sure the class would love to see your highly interesting and trivial discussion some other day, but for now, let's get to work. Everyone from this side to this end," he continued, drawing down an imaginary line separating the class from the middle to the right, "push your desks to the right end of the room. The rest, do the same, but to your left." After this had been done he continued, "The person opposite you is to be your training partner for the rest of the year."

            Ron's bewildered "Training partner?" was lost to Malfoy's indignant cry of, "I will not train with some bushy-haired mudbl-"

            CRACK. Malfoy landed unceremoniously on his face with a sickening crack, courtesy of Hermione's leg, which had lashed out and connected with the back of Malfoy's knees.

            Pushing himself up to a kneeling position, Malfoy faced Professor Phelps and bit out, "You're not going to stand there and pretend nothing happened, are you? You saw what the wench did!"

            "What? I thought this is what Professor Phelps intended for us to do," retorted Hermione.

            "Despite your lack of respect Mister Malfoy, I'm afraid you have a point. Five points from Gryffindor for unnecessary violence. But yes, Miss Granger, that was exactly what I meant by training. Malfoy, come up here."

            Draco warily stepped up to the middle of the room, coming to a halt directly in front of the intimidating professor, eyeing him somewhat shiftily.

            WHOOSH. Malfoy found himself having a staring contest with the floor for the second time of the day.

            "Get up," ordered Phelps. Malfoy did so, grudgingly; his eyes narrowed in mildly suppressed anger.

            This time, when Phelps' leg swept in, Malfoy jumped back. "Well done, Malfoy," he said. "But what about this?" His other leg snapped up, the instep of the foot stopping barely an inch from a shocked Malfoy's cheek. Ron sniggered.

            "Funny is it Weasley?" Phelps called out, turning to where Ron stood. Barely visible, his fist shot out in a blur coming to rest on the top of Ron's nose. "You are all slow and useless without your wands- a fact which the Headmaster has noticed. I am here to remedy that."

            "I don't see the relevance of this," Malfoy muttered. Phelps stalked over to where the wands were being stashed.

            "Get your wand Malfoy," he ordered. When Malfoy had done so he added, "One hundred points to Slytherin if you can hex me." Malfoy looked unsure.

            "Two hundred points then."

            "Sir, your wand…?" someone called out.

            "Come on boy," he taunted. "Can't do it? Little wuss, little wuss…"

            At that, Malfoy's wand shot out as he cried, "Dolorus do- Argh!" His wand flew across the room, landing with a clatter in a dustbin. Phelps began coiling the whip he had so suddenly used, coolly watching Malfoy inspect his hand. "You see the relevance now? You have come to see your wand as the be-all and end-all. I will teach you how to win without a wand, to seize victory just when your opponent thinks you are defenseless."

            The class stared at him in awe, even Crabbe and Goyle. Malfoy looked shaken.

            Phelps continued, "Professor Dumbledore has informed me that starting tomorrow, all seventh years are to assemble at the Entrance Hall at five-thirty in the morning for training. This will be until seven-thirty. In addition, all my seventh year classes will be double ones. The attire you will wear tomorrow morning will be provided by your respective Houses, and I am told that you will find them in your common rooms after supper. That is all for today- class is dismissed."