Author's Notes: I'm not one to complain or anything like that, but I would like to express some concern. I've noticed that I'm receiving less and less reviews (also, I am not trying to sound selfish, egotistical, etc.) with each chapter. This is somewhat disappointing and often discourages me from updating with the next chapter. To keep this story going, I really need the input of my readers so I can tell if there are aspects of this fic that need changing, things I need to clarify, and so on. Is my story really that bad that less and less people are reading?Reviews mean so much to the authors, whether they're incredibly short or long, and are essentially what keeps an author writing (apart from their pure passion for the art, that is). I quite like where my story is going, but that means nothing if my readers don't.
So! Sorry about the depressing introduction. It was just bothering me this morning and I thought I'd address it. Of course, I'm probably just being selfish, maybe all my readers are on vacation or their computers crashed (though I sure hope not). Like I said before, I highly doubt I'll be able to finish this before next Saturday, but I will finish this story for once. I promise. I like it too much to abandon it, and I can't even begin to wonder how many hours I've worked on it.
I thought I'd spend a little time getting back to you all on the few questions I've received, because answering your questions just makes me feel so important. )
Heather: Sorry, but this story is not and will not be Harry/Hermione. I know it might've seemed that way at a few points, especially since they spend so much time together, but they really are just friends.
silentmaniac: Maybe Harry likes Bella, maybe he doesn't. If you read the story closely, I think you'll be able to figure it out yourself.
fairymargarita: First of all, I absolutely love your name. Second, thank you so much for your wonderful review. I'm so glad to hear that you're coming online "every five seconds" to see if I've updated, but please, don't waste your time. I update usually around every ten days or so. But I am very happy to hear that you are so hooked onto this story, and when I receieved your review, it completely made my day.
Jexi: As I said to Heather, sorry, no Harry/Hermione.
holimontski: I was a bit confused by your review. Do you mean that you had already figured out Lestrange was after Harry & co.? I am sure I hadn't introduced that in the story beforehand; did I make it too obvious or something? Hmm.
And I know that I said this story was Ron/Hermione, and I know I've said this a hundred times. It is. Just be patient. I have no idea how long this fic is going to end up being. I apologize for the lack of general Ron-ness, so maybe this chapter and ones to come will make up for it. )
One last note - I have no idea if I have any British readers, but if so, then I do hope you, your families, and friends are all safe. I'd like to express my deepest condolences about the bombings this morning in London and will be keeping your entire country in my prayers.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: DUELING WITH BRAEDON
"What do you mean you left Intermediate Transfiguration in your bedroom!"
"Well, it's so dull that I guess I just forgot to take it out from under my bed," responded Theodore Lloyd with a satisfied smirk. "Besides, otherwise, I wouldn't have had room in my trunk for my new bag of dungbombs."
"Are you telling me you chose not to bring it back?"
"Yes. Everyone knows dungbombs are more important than Transfiguration."
"Then how, Mr. Lloyd, do you presume to continue in this class without your textbook?"
Theodore feigned a look of deep consideration for a moment, clearly enjoying the snickers and giggles he was attracting from his classmates. "Hm. That thought honestly hadn't crossed my mind, professor."
"Fifteen points from Gryffindor," snapped a peeved Professor Granger. The fourth-year Gryffindors all groaned loudly at this; even Theo Lloyd's smirk slipped and faded slightly from his face. He glared at Hermione and sunk into his seat, mumbling something unquestionably cynical under his breath.
"Right, well, for those of you who did bother to bring back the appropriate textbooks, please turn to page two hundred ninety-seven and silently read the introduction to partial transformation. You have roughly ten minutes."
There was a ruffling of pages throughout the classroom as the students all disjointedly searched for the assignment and, within minutes, had engrossed themselves in the text (though it was quite obvious nearly half were daydreaming rather than reading). Hermione heaved a great sigh and settled herself behind her desk, yearning for the final bell to ring and signal the end of her work day.
Much to the entire staff's disappointment, the holidays had concluded and Hogwarts was once again home to its students. Beginning the night before, the corridors were no longer vacant and eerily still but now full of hundreds of youths hurrying to their next lesson, retelling tales from their Christmas vacations, or skipping class altogether (which, of course, was highly frowned upon). Hermione found that she preferred busy Hogwarts to empty Hogwarts; with the school so occupied, she had less time to dwell on her own thoughts and the dark, ominous problems she was facing.
But however much she forbade her mind to, it kept persistently dwelling on certain dismal feelings, especially ones connected with the Auror meeting she had attended many days ago on Christmas night. The tense atmospheres that had surrounded the Aurors and their expressions haunted Hermione; their unease and panic alarmed her. If the most prestigious Dark wizard catchers of the country – of the continent, even – were so distressed, then the situation was clearly one to take seriously, which she had naturally never doubted in the least. Seeing the Aurors finally coming to realize the severity, however, finalized everything, making it all seem so much more realistic than she had believed. On numerous occasions, Hermione had found herself wondering if perhaps it wasn't all just a dream, a crazy hallucination of her mind, but she finally knew it indisputably wasn't. It was existent. And now, everything seemed to be magnified a hundred times; their limited time was real, the people involved were real, and, the most frightening of all: the danger was real. The peril Hermione had been aware of since she was acquainted with the knowledge of Bellatrix Lestrange's resurrection seemed no longer to be dreamlike and intangible. In just a short time, she had come to comprehend how the lives of everyone surrounding her were at stake and could so easily be snatched away by the ruthless Death Eaters and their even more merciless leader.
"Professor," came a sudden tentative voice from the front row. "There's this word here – it says – well, I don't know what it means, could you maybe –?"
Hermione waved her wand and a thick, black dictionary flew off one of the bookshelves at the back of the room. It traveled the length of the classroom, weaving between people's bodies, and landed with a resounding thud on the desk of a dark-haired Ravenclaw boy, who was glancing from the book to Hermione with round, uncertain eyes. He was silent for a minute, as if unsure of what to do with the bulky volume.
"That's a dictionary," Hermione explained irritably. "Feel free to look up the word yourself. For future reference, I am not a human dictionary –"
Several students chuckled as if daring to contradict their professor.
"– and if anyone else has any urges to research definitions, authentic ones are located at the back of the classroom."
The class all gave Hermione concerned, if not fearful, stares, then slowly returned their gazes to the assigned passage (or, in the case of some students, returned their gazes to the ceiling, which made it blatantly obvious they had no intentions of reading). Hermione was too exhausted and aggravated to conceal her emotions, and was quite aware that her class had noticed. However, no one dared to ask the professor if she was feeling quite all right in fear of getting their heads bitten off.
Another point Hermione was very well aware of now was that someone close to Hogwarts was definitely intricately connected with Bellatrix Lestrange; they were also, most likely, a Death Eater. She shivered at the thought. This person could be watching over them when they least suspected it, listening in on their private conversations and reporting their findings to Lestrange herself. This person was possibly responsible for the death of Irene Farnsworth and associated with the unfortunate frivolities of Hogwarts. This intangible presence, as mysterious as it was, also happened to be the center of all turmoil Hermione was focused on, whether she was aware of it or not. She felt an abrupt and inexplicable twinge of hatred towards the person she could not name but had spent so much time dwelling on. Quite uncharacteristically, she wished she could hunt them down and bestow upon them all the rage and fear swirling about her brain; at the very least, they deserved the same fate as Irene. That insolent, ruthless, disgusting excuse for a wizard, she silently seethed, clutching her quill tightly in her grip. If I could just get my hands on them, they'd be sorry they ever so much as stepped inside the Hogwarts grounds, the wretched piece of –
Hermione let out a startled yelp as the quill in her hand promptly snapped in two. She jerked her arm sideways and her elbow came in contact with a bottle of ink, which immediately flew across the desk, splattering the woodwork and Hermione herself in a dark, cold substance. The class all looked up simultaneously, thankful for yet another interruption, and stared bewildered at their professor; clearly they were thinking Hermione was finally falling apart.
As if on cue, the bell chose that exact moment to ring. The reverberating noise was punctured only by the sounds of students scraping back their chairs, mercilessly stuffing their books into their bags, as they began chattering amongst themselves in an end-of-the-school-day liberation.
"No homework tonight," Hermione called out shakily atop the various conversations. "Just, er, just come to class tomorrow prepared to discuss partial transformation – oh, Mr. Lloyd, make sure you stop by the library to pick up a temporary copy of your textbook, and please don't be careless enough to displace this one."
"Will do, professor," Theo said with a wink as he slipped out the door and into the bustling hallway beyond. Other students, however, were less cheerful and passed by Hermione wearing looks of disquiet, some perhaps on the brink of actually questioning their disheveled professor. All seemed to reconsider, to Hermione's immense relief. She was in no mood to explain to probing students the contents of her mind.
When the last of the students had filed from her classroom, she gathered up a stack of quizzes in dire need of grading and rummaged around in her desk drawer for another quill. The damaged pieces of the last one were strewn across the table's surface amidst the shining ink, which was quickly being absorbed into the wood. Her arms laden with papers, Hermione made to exit her classroom but finally came to her senses at the last moment and swung around once more, pointing her wand at her desk.
"Scourgify."
The remains of the quill vanished into thin air, as did the ink stains. A few piles of papers that had been knocked over during Hermione's clumsiness restacked themselves neatly, making the desk look as organized as it usually was. With a grim smile of satisfaction, Hermione turned on her heel and departed from her classroom into the virtually empty hallway beyond.
She silently made her way up staircases and through Hogwarts corridors, encountering nearly no one, as most students were lounging in their common rooms before dinner commenced. Finally, she came to a halt outside a large oak door that led to none other than the sanctuary of the staff room. With an unexpected wave of relief that classes had indeed terminated for the day, she entered.
A warm and comfortable atmosphere immediately engulfed the drained Transfiguration professor. Most of the armchairs scattered about the room were occupied by other exhausted teachers, gulping down large mugs of coffee in feeble attempts at rejuvenation, and thoroughly immersed in warmhearted conversations with one another. Hermione suddenly felt very affectionate towards the bustling staff room; here, she knew none of her co-workers would interrogate her on her petulant demeanor or dour expression. They had all gotten used to her new, unexpected bouts of depression and her lapses into deep thought over the past fortnight. Though Harry and Ron were the only two sincerely aware of the reason for her behavior, most of the staff dismissed it as stresses of a new teacher headed into her second term. They all, thankfully, were sensible enough to let Hermione be in times like these (but she was convinced it was more out of fear than consideration, as she had threatened to jinx a co-worker on more than one occasion out of pure irritation).
Oddly, Desdemona and Bella were nowhere to be seen, so Hermione made her way towards the fireplace where Ginny was seated with Harry and Ron. It was quite clear to her that the latter two were forcefully grinning and letting out faux shouts of laughter at whatever Ginny was conversing about, mostly for her benefit. Hermione was not as skilled as them when it came to concealing true emotions; she found it was much easier and satisfying to snap at any who dared to annoy her instead of convincingly acting false.
Before Hermione had properly approached the trio, she noticed a hesitation in the conversation and heard Ron distantly mention to Harry about having to finish a report for the Department of Mysteries. He had disappeared up the staircase without so much as a glance back to anyone, even her, when Hermione reached the backside of Ginny's armchair, vaguely looking after him. But even this obvious act of avoidance was not enough to concern her or manipulate her thoughts; instead, she greeted Harry and Ginny with a painful smile as fake as possible, and seated herself in Ron's recently-abandoned chair. She momentarily made eye contact with Harry, whose expression quickly changed to one bearing concern, but she looked away before he could make any comments. No words had to be passed between the two for Harry to understand what was on her mind.
"Have you any idea where Des or Bella are?" Ginny asked, craning her neck to look across the room as if expecting them to Apparate in at any moment.
"Haven't seen them," said Hermione truthfully. "Perhaps they had work to finish up? I know I should start grading these" – she gestured towards the stack of papers, which had begun wobbling, in her arms – "but I just can't work up any incentive."
"It's only the first day back, Hermione," Harry said with a faint smirk. "You're allowed to let yourself breathe, you know."
"I can breathe, thank you. I don't have a quill that can grade itself, though I wish I did. It probably wouldn't be very accurate, anyway, so I suppose I'll just end up doing these later, I did promise my sixth-years I'd have them back by tomorrow at least, and I'd feel just horrible if –"
What Hermione would feel just horrible about none of them ever discovered, for at that moment, the door burst open once again and two people spilled into the room, quickly attracting the attention of the whole staff. The missing Bella and Desdemona seemed to have finally appeared.
Though it wasn't a Bella or a Desdemona Hermione had ever seen before; on the contrary, they were quite unrecognizable, and she wasn't sure she would have recognized them at all if it hadn't been for their distinct robes and hair. They were both huffing and apparently either out of breath or very peeved, perhaps even both; their faces, however, were covered from left to right in large, purple boils, quite unlike any Hermione had ever known to even exist. The room winced in unison – these boils looked rather painful and cumbersome to have spread across one's face as casually as butter (though they did not resemble butter in the very least, which might have been much less agonizing).
Desdemona gave one fierce glare around the room and all heads bowed once more, busying themselves in anything to escape from her glowering temper. She let loose a low, rumbling growl and traveled over to where Ginny, Hermione, and Harry were seated, still gawking at her; she fell brutally into a nearby armchair, soon to be followed by an equally angry Bella.
"Des," Ginny breathed, clearly choosing her words very wisely. Her bulging eyes moved from Desdemona to Bella and back to Desdemona again. "What hap – what is that?"
"What does it look like?" retorted the infuriated Potions Mistress, growling for a second time.
"There was another, erm – well, an incident," explained Bella, who appeared to be slightly calmer than Desdemona, as she was able to form lucid sentences without letting lose unbecoming snarls.
"What?" Harry asked sharply. Hermione turned to look at him; behind the enchanted, almost mesmerized look in his eyes as he peered at Bella, she could distinguish apprehension, the kind of apprehension that was stimulated only during discussions concerning the dark proceedings of the Death Eaters.
Ginny gaped at her. "You don't mean –"
Bella nodded solemnly. "Desdemona was in the dungeons finishing her last class of the day – double Potions, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff – when, well, things… got out of hand."
"Don't make it sound so jolly," grumbled Desdemona, swinging her head around to frown at Bella. She immediately looked as if she wished she could retract the movement; she screwed her face up and grimaced, gingerly touching her hand to her boil-covered cheek.
"Something happened?" Hermione asked urgently.
"Yeah, something happened all right," Desdemona spat. "I was just assigning homework and had asked the third-years to bring up samples of their Tempting Tonic, nothing out of the ordinary there. One Hufflepuff boy was having trouble ladling a sample into his flask, he clearly brewed his wrong, it was simple enough but was not supposed to emit fireworks. Anyway, it slipped my mind that there's a Quidditch match coming up, you know, so I assigned a bit too much homework for their bloody liking. And what do they do? They hex me."
There was a short silence amongst the group as this unsettling information was absorbed. Then Harry asked, "When you say they, you don't mean –?"
"The whole class, yes, Harry," snapped Desdemona. "I turned my back for one moment and when the bell rang, I was bidding them good-bye and I realized none of my students had left. They were all facing me, their wands pointed at me like they actually knew what they were doing. One girl closest to me, a Ravenclaw who has never pointed her wand at anyone, to my knowledge, had this sort of… blank, manic gleam in her eyes. Like she was actually enjoying threatening a professor."
"Luckily, I was just passing by the classroom," said Bella, as Desdemona cut off to glare at Professor Flitwick, who saw her face and evidently decided wisely to take a detour around a grouping of desks, "and, well, twenty-some third-years all pointing their wands at a professor is never something to ignore. They got us quite well, though, as you can see." She gestured at her own face, flinching slightly as she did so and murmuring a soft "ouch".
"I don't believe this," uttered Hermione. She quickly shared brief eye contact again with Harry, whose brow was deeply furrowed. She knew this event worried him as much as it did her, but unfortunately, they could not discuss it aloud with Bella, Desdemona, and Ginny present.
"So then after Desdemona, er – well, Stunned a few students, just to defend us, of course," Bella explained quickly in defense of gasps from Ginny and Hermione, "the remaining ones began to drop their wands and look around as if they had just woken up from some sort of trance. The damage to us had already been done, though; I imagine a few of them got rather bad shocks from seeing two professors standing before them with such lovely purple faces." She attempted a weak laugh, but nobody else returned it.
"McGonagall came down, the whole situation was explained to her and to the students, who supposedly had no idea what they had just done to us," Desdemona continued. She shook her head as if she couldn't believe it. "They could have blasted off half our faces if I hadn't started Stunning. The ones I did Stun were sent to the Hospital Wing, and the class is going to undergo group analysis, or some rubbish like that."
"What about your –?" Ginny motioned towards Desdemona's marred face.
"If Madam Lucille can't cure us, we'll have to be shipped off to St. Mungo's," said Bella with a sigh. "She said we could suffer from long-term damage, though. Permanent scars or bruising, I think she meant."
Another tense lapse of silence followed the conclusion of Desdemona and Bella's tale. Hermione herself was fighting back the urge to hyperventilate on the spot; there hadn't been any exceptionally odd occurrences for quite some time amongst the students, everyone knew that. And now, upon the initiation of the last half of the school year, two teachers were attacked by a single class. She knew this could not be a coincidence. She also had an awful, gnawing feeling that Bellatrix Lestrange was growing stronger, gaining knowledge, or something of the sort. Her stomach quickly plummeted at the thought and seemed to disintegrate completely; she desperately wished to plunge into discussion with Harry, because surely he was thinking the same thing, but also knew they were currently restricted from doing so.
"Have you notified McGonagall?" Harry asked Bella.
"Of course," she responded, her boils quivering slightly. "She was extremely distressed at the news, to say the least. Poor woman. I do imagine she has enough on her plate as it is."
Harry nodded mutely.
Hermione's attention was diverted from the two purple-faced professors for the first time in minutes when a figure materialized in her peripheral vision at the bottom of the staircase. Ron seemed to have returned and, upon re-entering the staff room, nearly collided with an armchair when he spotted Desdemona and Bella. He looked too mortified to neither speak nor progress towards the huddled group. Harry had noticed Ron's entrance as well; in fact, it actually put him into motion. He immediately stood, attracting glances from the assembled women, and Hermione noticed that, as he spoke, he maintained direct eye contact with Ron. Something unspoken but understood passed between the men and Hermione felt as if, for once, she understood it too.
"I've got to go send a letter," Harry announced. "Good luck, you two, with your – with that," he added to Bella and Desdemona, vaguely waving a hand in the direction of their faces. "I'll talk to you later, Hermione. Ginny."
And with that, he joined Ron across the room and the two wizards quickly departed from the staff's sanctuary, pointedly avoiding sharing gazes with any professors they passed along the way. They didn't speak, which Hermione knew was deliberate; she was also sure of where they were headed. The Aurors at the Ministry would need to be notified of another occurrence instantly.
When she turned her attention back to the other women, she distinctly comprehended that they had moved on to discussing the upcoming Quidditch match. She felt no urge to participate in the conversation; it wasn't that she disliked Quidditch, particularly, because she didn't, but she could hardly expect her mind to focus on anything other than the story she had just heard. During an appropriate moments' silence, she announced her desire to depart early for dinner. Desdemona, Bella, and Ginny all agreed that it was a splendid idea, but Hermione was well out the door and down the corridor before they made any effort to follow her. For this she was thankful, however; she could tell another mood where she only wished to mull over thoughts and ideas was slowly creeping up on her, and during these short bouts where she felt as if she were cut off from the rest of the world, she preferred not to have much human contact.
It was going to be a lengthy, pessimistic dinner.
Several bitter, wintry weeks passed, showering Hogwarts in multitudes of snow piled so high that outdoor classes were being cancelled on a customary basis. Brave students could be seen through the foggy windows pelting one another with enchanted snowballs on the grounds; some even dared to venture across the frozen lake on contraptions that bore a great resemblance to Muggle skis. These students also would come down with severe frostbite after their adventures outside, and the professors were getting so annoyed that leaving the school was close to being banned altogether. Epidemics such as the flu were also spreading like wildfire, and the Hospital Wing was noticeably more occupied as of late. Of course, there was nothing Madam Lucille couldn't cure in a matter of hours, but Hermione had a sneaking suspicion that some students had taken to prolonging their illnesses in order to skip classes.
Along with regular cancellations of Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, Desdemona and Bella's classes were also delayed for several days while they were transported to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Instead of their boil-ridden faces improving, they only seemed to be exacerbating; the boils had indeed grown larger and were more vivid in color than ever. Hermione found herself wincing whenever she looked at Desdemona or Bella's faces and was slightly relieved when they left to be cured. But with few classes left for students to attend, one of them being Hermione's, the school seemed to be steadily growing rowdier; exams would soon be creeping upon them, and she wasn't entirely sure her fifth-years were even ready for their O.W.L.s. After consulting McGonagall and presenting her worries, Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures were soon continued in unused classrooms on the ground floor. The students were all very displeased at this and had obviously gotten used to the idea of so few classes; Hermione was careful not to reveal it was her doing that reinstated the classes for fear that any students decided to hex her like they had done her two unfortunate co-workers.
Things around Hogwarts were progressing quite smoothly and to Hermione's liking throughout January. No more unusual activities occurred, or at least to her knowledge. The Aurors had been alerted as to the hexing incident, but other than that, Harry hadn't heard from anyone inside the Ministry in weeks. McGonagall had called her, Harry, and Ron into her office on several occasions to discuss current affairs and always reminded them on their way out to keep their eyes open for any abnormal signs, which, of course, they already knew. It seemed as if new information was now scarce; Hermione was sure Moody and the other Aurors back at headquarters would owl them immediately if anything new was unearthed. They were all still uninformed as to where Lestrange and her Death Eaters were, who her mysterious correspondent was, or how exactly the students of Hogwarts were falling under her power, but Hermione knew stubbornly probing her mind would not cause fresh facts to suddenly pour out. Instead, she found her mood greatly improving as she spent less and less time dwelling on dark thoughts that she truthfully had no control over.
The only irritation Hermione still harbored during the harshest weeks of the winter was directed to none other than Braedon Keleher. Naturally, she was still infuriated about his antics and her behavior at the Rogue Chimaera on the eve of Christmas, and of course resented anyone who attempted to use her for their own pleasure. Luckily, she was not forced to be in contact with this man often. He mostly avoided the staff room on weekends (but she and Harry both knew where he was spending his time, and they did not mind in the very least); during the week, if he was present at all, he usually took to sitting in a secluded corner, looking over diagrams and sketches that could pertain to nothing except Quidditch. At meals, Hermione was sure to sit as far away from him as possible, but this was perhaps pointless. Braedon showed no interest in speaking to Hermione or even acknowledging the fact that she was a living, breathing person. The only time she had actually heard Keleher speak was at a Quidditch match mid-month between Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Bella often did the commenting for him, as he himself was usually smashed beyond being able to form coherent sentences, but as she was hospitalized along with Desdemona, this was impossible.
In fact, Hermione was actually slowly coming to put behind her the events in the Rogue Chimaera. She was indeed dwelling upon the said night less and less and concentrating on preparing her students properly for their approaching exams in June. It wasn't until one afternoon towards the end of January on a Hogsmeade weekend that the subject resurfaced one final time.
The staff room was lively and bursting with professors basking in the laziness of the weekend. Most of the school, except for the younger students who were prohibited, had traveled to Hogsmeade for the day along with chaperones Josie Hacklebush and Professor Sprout. Hermione was enjoying a comfortable fireside chat with Ginny, the papers she had been grading lying forgotten at her side. Ginny was excitedly informing Hermione on how the Venomous Doxies, a loud and vibrant musical group that had recently risen to fame and gained many obsessed fans across the country, were performing in a nearby town at the beginning of the summer. Bill, her eldest and favorite brother, had secured exclusive tickets for her and Ginny was completely ecstatic. Hermione listened and nodded at appropriate intervals, completely unaware at the time as to whom the Venomous Doxies were or what Ginny was talking about at all.
Suddenly, there came a crashing noise from across the room. Along with most of the staff, Hermione looked up to find Ron appear, yet again, at the foot of the staircase. She vaguely wondered why he spent so much of his time holed up in his room – he was very rarely ever seen in the staff room, at any rate. Ron stared wildly around, his eyes alive with evident anger, and his gaze finally came to rest on something in a far corner. Craning her neck, Hermione realized he was glaring daggers at Braedon Keleher, who was innocently absorbed in a large volume with a title referring to advanced Quidditch arrangements. The infuriated Weasley marched across the room with all eyes following him, came to a stop directly in front of Braedon, and jabbed him roughly in the chest.
Hermione was utterly confused, watching what obviously soon became a heated argument from her position by the fireplace with Ginny. She barely even noticed Harry appear by the stairs, looking forlornly at Ron, who had just snatched up Braedon's book and threw it across the room, narrowly missing a frightened Professor Yang.
"What's Ron doing?" Harry asked, arriving behind Ginny's armchair.
"He came running into the room and just started going off on Keleher," said Ginny. "I think he's gone mad, personally. It's about time. I've always wanted a go at Braedon myself, ever since he started here, but it looks like Ron got to him first –"
But Hermione wasn't listening to Ginny. She was watching Harry's expression carefully, something dawning on her as she did so. He looked all too innocent to be convincing, but behind the facade, Hermione could sense he was gazing at the argument with a sort of pained grimace and looked as if he had done something he now deeply regretted.
"Harry," she began slowly, assuming a mocking tone. "Have you any idea what's gotten into Ron?"
He turned to look at her, apology written all over his face. "I'm sorry, Hermione. I guess I – I accidentally let slip what happened on Christmas Eve, in the club with Keleher and all – don't look at me what way, I didn't mean to!"
Hermione planned to fix Harry with a very angry glower but was distracted when Ron's loud and vehement voice carried across the room to where she and the others were seated.
"All right, Keleher!" he yelled, retreating several steps to allow the apparently startled Flying professor to stand. "You and me, outside, now!"
"I, well – yes, of course, mate, but clearly you have no idea what you're going up against," muttered Braedon. He smoothed over his worry in a flash, plastering a sickening smirk across his flawless face and running a hand distractedly through his hair. Ron growled not unlike Desdemona had done the day she and Bella were attacked and whipped around, headed for the door. He ignored whispered comments and astonished stares from the other professors and was especially careful, it seemed, not to look at Hermione or Harry. In a matter of moments, he and Braedon had both disappeared from the staff room, the door shutting behind them with a small snap. Suddenly, the room seemed all too quiet compared to the previous animated dispute.
"Surely you don't think he's going to –?" began Ginny. Her mouth hung open in surprise.
"I think that's exactly what he's going to do," said Harry grimly. Hermione scowled at him; if Ron engaged in a physical fight with Keleher, it was his entire fault, and she would never be able to forgive him for that.
Abruptly, chairs all around the room squeaked as their owners pushed them back and darted towards the two windows against the back wall. Hermione, Ginny, and Harry all followed, Harry pushing past other eager professors in order to get a clear view out the window. Within a minute, two dark-robed figures, one with vivid red hair and another with blonde, had appeared amidst the dazzling serenity of the pallid snow. They marched out several yards until they were positioned in the very middle of the grounds just below the windows, two mere specks against the vast sheet of whiteness. Then they both halted suddenly and turned to face one another.
Ron seemed to be speaking with noticeable less fervor than he had back up in the staff room. Whatever he was saying to Braedon was not discernable, as far as anyone gazing out the window could tell. Hermione felt a panic sneaking up on her; she knew Ron was hot-headed, but was he really hot-headed enough to have a full-out brawl with another professor on the Hogwarts grounds? She was thankful most of the students were out at Hogsmeade, but that hardly eased her worry. McGonagall would absolutely slaughter Ron if she ever found out about this.
Braedon was now speaking too, gesturing with his hands and, from what Hermione could see, still grinning as if everything was one, huge joke. He placed a palm on Ron's shoulder and gave him an odd sort of pat on the back. Then, seemingly, he turned around and began making his way towards the castle doors.
But in one swift movement, Ron had drawn his wand and pointed it at the back of his retreating opponent; his mouth opened wide and a bright flash of light illuminated the staff room. The spell hit Keleher unexpectedly and he was thrown off his feet, doing several flips in the air, and then landing sickeningly ten feet from Ron. There were collective gasps around the room and Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. She glanced sideways at Harry and could see that his expression was now more pained than ever.
Once Keleher finally regained his strength, he stood to face Ron, all traces of merriment gone from his youthful face. He shot out his wand towards Ron and yelled something inexplicable but Ron, with his amazing reflexes, immediately put up a shield around him, causing the spell to merely bounce away harmlessly. Another hex sent Ron's away caused the shield to flicker and then die, leaving him completely unguarded. He fell to the ground and rolled, dodging yet another line of light, and thrust his own wand forward, yelling again. The whole scene was momentarily elucidated in stunning blue radiance and when it cleared, Braedon could be seen hanging upside down from an invisible source. Several professors around Hermione cheered and laughed at this, but she only frowned. As much as she despised Braedon, she would feel downright terrible if he was badly hurt.
Then, in a movement that shocked the entire room of professors watching behind the two windows, Keleher swung his legs forward, flipped, and landed with rather good posture in the snow. Ron was apparently caught off guard and had no time to shield or duck when a fourth spell was produced from his challenger's wand. It hit him squarely in the chest and knocked him backwards off his feet; his legs began to twitch uncontrollably as he lay in the snow, looking blatantly horror-stricken.
Harry groaned aloud. "Come on, Ron, this one's so simple. You know the counter-curse, I've used it on you dozens of times – hey, where are you going?"
Hermione had suddenly swiveled around, her heart racing, and began plowing through the crowd of professors in the direction of the door. She felt Harry's fingers grasp the material of her robe but shook him off easily, feeling rather annoyed by him and wholly concerned for Ron, which was a complete and utter paradox, she realized. She finally reached the door, yanked on the handle, and exited the room, very aware of Harry close behind her all the while.
Her feet knew the path, and because her mind was too jumbled to think straight along the way, she had arrived at the great oak front doors in the Entrance Hall in what seemed to be mere seconds. Footsteps reverberated to the top of the high ceiling, and all Hermione could hear in her ears was the ringing sound of Harry following her. Without waiting for him, she pushed on the doors and gasped as a cold, unexpected gust of wintry wind lashed at her face. But there they were, Ron and Braedon, some thirty yards away, battling it out with their wands aimed at one another.
"Hermione, stop!"
Gathering her robes around her tightly (she hadn't, of course, thought to grab a cloak on her way out), Hermione set off at a jog down the stone steps and landed in the thick snow below. Her legs were immediately swallowed up by the condensation, her pant legs now soaked up to mid-calf. She willed her leg to move forward and began trekking through the snow to the scene of the two clashing professors not far off.
She came to a halt a safe distance away from Ron and Braedon, both of whom hadn't appeared to take notice of her arrival. Keleher was laughing and ducked a blue jet of light that barely grazed the crown of his head. He was clearly becoming better at their game, while Ron was quickly losing patience. Ron's next curse collided with Keleher's abdomen; his eyes bulged in his head and he tripped on the hem of his robes, falling forward and landing face-first in a large pile of snow. Harry, who had just caught up to Hermione and was panting, emitted a small snort of laughter.
Braedon picked himself off the ground, now seething. He blocked Ron's next spell with a shield and, in the meantime, collected a handful of snow and began packing it together to form a ball. The shield flickered then vanished, as Ron's had, but Keleher was ready; he pointed his wand at the snowball in his right hand, yelled, "ENGORGIO!" and at once, the ball began growing rapidly in his hand. He flicked his wand again and before anyone knew what was happening, the massive snowball was hurtling itself towards Ron, who gave the impression that he had been frozen to the spot. He seemed to snap back to reality at the last minute and aimed a very well-placed hex at Keleher (leeks immediately began pouring frenziedly out of his ears; Braedon let out a high squeak and began running in circles, swatting at the slimy creatures with his wand to no avail) but he had done nothing to help his current situation. The snowball, which had continued growing along its journey to its victim, was now three times the size of Ron's body and promptly smashed into him with a sickening crunch. Hermione gasped again, but was not alone; she had a strong feeling that most of the staff, not just Harry, had followed and were now standing behind her as well.
There was now no trace of Ron anywhere – of course, he was obviously buried under the lumpy pile of snow just feet from the still shrieking Keleher, but no part of his body could be seen. The snowball seemed to have rendered him motionless, or perhaps even unconscious. And Hermione's stomach twisted so tightly that circulation might have been cut off from her brain, which could have explained her sudden and unfounded change of attitude.
She found her legs (surprisingly, they could still move, despite her suspicion that they were severely frost-bitten) and traveled forward toward Ron, slowly at first then faster and faster when the pile of snow still did not budge, nor did the victim underneath. This was all her fault, if only she hadn't let Keleher take an advantage of her that night, if only she hadn't even touched those drinks… or perhaps it was Harry's fault, as it was much easier to blame him for it all, but she honestly didn't know or care who was responsible, because if anything had happened to Ron…
Hermione reached the area she had estimated Ron to have fallen in and drew out her wand. "Ron!" she called desperately. "Ron, are you there? Can you hear me?" She melted the snow in a fat circle and nearly singed a strand of vibrant red hair in the process; her heart leapt into her throat and she dropped to her knees, digging through the wet snow with her bare hands. Finally, something long and dressed in dark robes materialized, covered in chunks of frost and looking quite frozen. The figure groaned and opened one eye gradually, then hoisted himself upward into a sitting position. He looked disgustedly at his arms and legs and shook them vigorously, sending snow flying in all directions. His wand was still clenched in his hand, its tip glowing slightly from previous use.
"Ron?" Hermione said tentatively. "Are you okay?"
"Think so," Ron muttered. His eyes strayed towards Braedon, who had not yet ceased from panicking around the snowy grounds of Hogwarts. A small yet satisfied smile appeared on his lips as he watched. "Should've seen that one coming, though. Bloody wanker," he added, nodding towards Braedon and speaking more to himself than to Hermione.
"Ron, you didn't – you didn't have to do that," said Hermione quietly. She had suddenly become very aware of nearly the entire staff watching some twenty feet away, a few of them laughing at Keleher but most interested in the confusing scene concerning the fallen Ron. Hermione bit her bottom lip; what was she doing? True, Ron could have gotten himself killed, but was that really a reason to begin acting civilized towards him when he had done nothing of the sort himself since their arrival at Hogwarts?
"Er," Ron muttered. A faint blush rose to his cheeks and his ears glowed momentarily. He averted his eyes and examined his wand closely as if searching for scratches or marks, but both he and Hermione knew he would find none. "That bloke's a prick, Hermione," he decided on. "He had it coming, you know. I'm not only one here who's wanted to jinx the hell out of him lately. And – Harry told me what happened, after what he did to you, he deserved –"
But something was repeating itself in Hermione's brain. She tuned Ron out for a minute and strained her ears to listen to the little voice. Ron could have gotten himself killed! it rang shrilly. Ron could have died, he could have hurt Keleher, what if a student stayed out onto the grounds, what if any of the students had actually seen it? What was he thinking
"What were you thinking?" Hermione shrieked suddenly, cutting Ron off mid-sentence. He blinked, looking quite taken aback by her unforeseen outburst. Hermione had surprised herself too, but a new emotion was boiling inside her, one of rage, fury, and annoyance at Ron's foolish actions. She knew she was missing the bigger picture here; Ron had just risked his own neck to achieve revenge on Keleher for what he had done to her, when none of it had involved him in the very least. She knew that meant something, but it would have to be scrutinized carefully, and she had no time for deciphering it now. Now, she was irritated at Ron's blatant stupidity.
"You could have gotten yourself killed!" she continued. Calm, collected, and logical thoughts were quickly extinguished in her mind. She rose to her feet, her hands balled at her sides, with Ron staring perplexedly up from the ground. "You're here for a specific reason, Ron, and you just can't go parading around, blasting professors off their feet because you don't like them! What if – what if a student had seen, Ron? What would they have thought? What if you accidentally hexed someone, or –"
"The only person I was aiming to hex was Keleher, Hermione," Ron spat. His logical thoughts seemed to have vanished instantaneously as well; when in a fight, neither of them had rarely ever remained composed, and now was not an exception. "And I don't exactly see any students around, do you?"
Hermione winced; she hadn't meant for this to turn into an argument. Obviously, Ron had no intentions of letting his pride get slaughtered on the grounds of Hogwarts with the staff watching. It was surely bad enough that Keleher had nearly bested him, but what would the other professors think if he got bested by Hermione in a shouting match? She couldn't let him win, though. She couldn't let him think she was anything less than furious.
"Use your head for once, Ron," Hermione snapped. "McGonagall didn't summon you here so you could duel with the teachers." She lowered her voice slightly so that it no longer carried over to the other assembled adults. "If she found out what you just – what you did, what you did to him," – she glanced at Braedon and noticed that the spell had undoubtedly not worn off, though it was hard to feel much sympathy – "she would be absolutely livid. And McGonagall doesn't need anything else to worry about, least of all immature Ministry Department Heads who think they still go to school here."
"I – I just did – you –" Ron was moving his mouth, but nothing of much sense was coming out. He finally took to glaring at her, still lying on the cold, soggy ground, snow freezing to the tips of his red hair.
Hermione too felt speechless. There was so much she wanted to say to the man lying at her feet, but the time did not feel appropriate, and she honestly didn't want her co-workers present, either. Rage seemed to take precedent over everything else, since that was what Hermione was best at conveying. However, she felt that no words were equivalent to her anger, and she had just realized how cold she actually was; the bottom half of both her legs were soaked to the skin, her hair was damp, her teeth were chattering. Snow had begun to drift down from the sky, settling in Hermione's hair (which was quickly becoming rowdier with the condensation) and sticking to her eyelashes. A growing urge to be alone was overcoming her; she knew she had to leave, go inside, crawl up in her four-poster bed and mull over certain thoughts that were currently ricocheting around in her brain.
"I have nothing more to say to you, Ron," Hermione said quietly, looking down at him sadly. He returned the gaze, but it was short, for seconds later Hermione pulled away and turned her back. As she had predicted, nearly the entire staff was huddled nearby, watching curiously and shivering at the same time. Hermione averted her eyes downward, feeling slightly embarrassed by her bold outburst that, no doubt, they all had heard quite well, as she began to trudge back toward the stone steps. She passed Harry along the way, who made a move to grab her arm, but seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand, still watching her. Once Hermione reached the stone steps, she pushed on the front doors and let them close behind her before breaking into an all-out run, sprinting through the corridors in the direction of her dormitory, very aware but indifferent to the tears streaming down her face.
The broom beneath his body was quick, slender, sleek; he fluently sped through the dense forest with ease, weaving in and out of the massive trees and brushing against their leaves. His pursuer was close behind, he knew, but thankfully was not as skilled on a broomstick. The time was late in the evening, and the sun had long since set, leaving for a very dark path through the forest. Branches cracked menacingly just feet away as the hunter steadily gained on him, and he began to grow worried that his broom would not outrun the other. He couldn't meet his erroneous demise now; he had a feeling that he was close, very close, to something he had been working towards for a reasonably long time. A vague clearing loomed into view ahead of him, and a thought shot through his brain: it was there! Whatever he had been searching for desperately was nearly at the mere disposal of his fingertips, just yards forward in that clearing. He leaned low on his broom, willing it to go faster, with the sound of the rushing wind roaring in his ears. He chanced a glance behind him and saw the hooded figure on the broom closer than ever, nearly on his tail; his pursuer let out a gleeful cackle and reached out a long, pale hand towards him, groping the air threateningly. He turned back around and focused on the clearing as he hurtled along, skirting tree trunk after tree trunk in the darkness. He was nearly there… just a few more yards, and he would finally achieve it. He just knew that it would be there, his gut told him so, and he had to get to it first before –
Harry suddenly bolted up in bed, having just been roughly awoken from a peculiar dream. He quickly came to notice that he was not on a broom in a forest but instead was lying in his dark dormitory, alone, with sweat trickling down his forehead. The dream, however odd and meaningless it seemed to be, had been vivid and for some reason wouldn't leave his mind. Harry felt thoroughly tired and groggy and had no intention of mulling over the dream again at this hour of the night, whatever hour that was.
He glanced to his right and, with a slight pang of panic, saw that the identical four-poster bed was empty. He then quickly reminded himself that Ron was rooming in the hospital wing for the night at the persuasion of Madam Lucille; though no lasting damage had been done, he had been rather badly banged up during his brief quarrel with Braedon Keleher (it had taken half a dozen professors, including an enraged McGonagall herself, to control and transport Keleher, who did not stop shrieking and sprouting leeks from his ears for hours). With a deep sigh, he lowered his head back onto his comfortable pillow, and decided he would visit Ron in the morning to recount his dream before it escaped him entirely.
Harry's head had barely touched the material before he bolted up again in the dark, stiffening and hardly daring to breathe. He had just realized what had awoken him in the first place; something tall was moving across the room by the bookshelf, an ominous shadow in the obscurity of the dormitory. His hand instinctively reached for his wand, which he kept concealed under his pillow during the hours of the night. Squinting, he saw the shadow move again and realized, with a slight twinge of alarm, that there was more than one. Actually, there appeared to be several tall shadows over by the bookshelf, imperceptible to the normal eye. He was even beginning to wonder if he hadn't imagined the movement when a muted thud met his ears, the obvious sound of a thick book being knocked off the shelf.
It was then that Harry was sure he was not alone in his room after all.