Disclaimer: Harry Potter remains the property of J.K. Rowling and any other publishers or organisations which I don't know, but don't want to anger. The concept of the Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. I write purely for the sake of my own and everyone else's enjoyment.
A/N: Thank you a thousand times for all the wonderful reviews. This chapter was actually going to be longer, but I decided it was sufficient enough. Wouldn't want to bore you. Enjoy!
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Chapter Fourteen: A day in the life of . . .
Harry found himself in the library the next day after classes had finished — alone. There had been a brief incident with Madam Pince when he had accidentally wandered in front of the Restricted section, but he'd managed to escape her shrewish eyes before they'd jerked in his direction by leaping into the next isle, which happened to be romance fiction. Blushing slightly at the cover of a certain novel (which depicted a very pretty buxom-dressed witch who blew him a kiss) he hurriedly made his way out of that section, and ventured deeper into the library. He was surprised to find two ginger heads bent over a table and pouring over some thick books in between the Dragon Breeding and Monstrous Creature isles.
". . . she'll do her lid if we don't tell her!" George was whispering ferociously to Fred, who was scribbling away on a fresh piece of parchment.
"Who says we don't have to tell her?" said Fred, his quill pausing momentarily as he looked up at his twin.
"Ah, I see. Don't tell her all of it —"
"Don't tell who all of what?" Harry interjected.
The twins' heads whipped around. Fred quickly stuffed the parchment he'd been scribbling on into his pocket.
"Harry!" he said, a little too cheerfully.
"Smashing to see you here in the library of all places," George continued, just as cheerfully.
"Well considering I've been going to the library almost every day to look for that ingredient, I'd say that makes your statement somewhat redundant," Harry said, his hands in his pockets.
The twins looked momentarily amazed, then pleased. "I see you've been taking lessons from Elizabeth. Keep going and not even Snape will be able to match you in sarcasm," Fred grinned.
"Snape can go rot!" Harry spat, not certain if he was angry at the thought of being compared to Snape, or just irritated at the thought of Snape himself, or just feeling betrayed at the brief mention of his sister, whom he wasn't sure he had forgiven yet. "What are you two up to then?"
"Nothing to worry your pretty head over," said Fred, arranging the quills back into his knapsack. "How're Ron and Hermione these days by the way?"
"Fine," Harry mumbled, shuffling forward to sit into a chair opposite them. "I take it you heard about our little spat the other morning?" he added.
George twirled his wand. "You could say that the whole common room heard you, but then again, you could say that they hadn't at the same time."
Harry scrunched up his nose. "What?" Sometimes listening to the twins was a chore.
"I mean we were already awake, Harry dear," said Fred, now having packed everything away. "We were in our room, lying on our beds, twiddling our thumbs—"
"And talking about the world. Particularly the female aspect—"
"—when we heard your dulcet tones rise in such a sweet pitch we were obliged to investigate the source of the beckoning sound."
"Alas that you were already prancing out of the portrait hole by the time we got there," George concluded.
"Prancing?" Harry asked.
"Well it seemed to fit in with the whole 'sweetness' theme," George said, looking thoughtful. "Otherwise we would have used 'storming' out."
Harry grinned.
"So!" Fred slapped his thigh like an old man would do before standing up. "I take it by your admission of 'Fine' earlier, that things are back as they should be between you three?"
Harry looked down at the table and slumped in his seat. "Sort of." He looked back up and saw the twins exchanging glances. "What I mean is, we've forgiven each other. Hermione and I. Ron really didn't have anything to do with it."
"For once," Fred mumbled. "But that is wonderful, Harry, 'deed it is. However, I'm afraid that George and I have a previous engagement. Frightfully sorry to leave you hanging like this, old boy!"
"Alone, we mean," George added.
"But we really must go."
Before Harry could think to question the twins once more they had already swung up there bags, run down the isle, and disappeared around the corner.
Harry had to contend himself with sitting for five minutes in the gloomy library thinking about nothing (which was very hard to do, and he was sure he hadn't achieved it) before he, too, walked out.
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After the somewhat pointless conversation with the twins Harry found himself wandering the grounds near the lake in a sort of hazy plod that if anyone was to see from a Hogwarts window would assume he was going to drown himself. But Harry just didn't care anymore about what other people thought. It had hurt and angered him at first about all those untrue stories wizards everywhere were telling about him, but now that just seemed so inconsequential compared to the betrayal he was feeling on account of his sister. He was also feeling very confused. Mostly because he had absolutely no idea why she had done what she had done.
Stop it! Harry told himself firmly. You agreed you wouldn't think about it until the time came to question her.
That was right. Harry would not think about it at all.
He had a while before his detention with Umbridge, and sitting down by the birch tree seemed like a good idea to while away the hours. Of course Harry understood that it was probably an even better idea to actually do his homework and all the assignments that were due (courtesy of OWLS this year) but he just couldn't summon up enough energy to do so. Also, Hermione and Ron were in the common room right about now, and despite having forgiven each other, he still did not want to face them just yet. The hurt was just too fresh.
Harry was so busy thinking about not thinking about Elizabeth's betrayal that he tripped over something just as he reached the birch.
Falling flat on his face with a mouthful of dirt was not what he had in mind to do instead of his homework, but it was what he did.
"Yuck!" Harry spat out some wet dirt. Surprisingly, it did not taste like one would think wet dirt to taste like. It had the crushed sandpapery substance one would expect of it, yes, but it tasted bitter and not at all like its fresh, earthy smell suggested. For some reason, Harry rather assumed it would have tasted like—
Click click click.
Harry froze as he was getting up from the ground so that his position now faintly resembled a dog's stance. He had heard that clickety sound before, or at least one very similar to it, and he suddenly hoped that it wasn't what he thought it was.
Slowly, Harry got up from his crouch and turned around.
There! Behind him, the thing he had tripped over. Sigmund!
Harry stared at the red shiny Blearglob, appreciating, for one bizarre moment, its resemblance to a Blast-Ended-Skrewt.
Then Sigmund's roving satellite-like antennas caught his attention and Harry suddenly became so furious that his vision hazed for two seconds.
How dare she! Harry thought, clenching his fists so hard that his nails bit into his palms. He didn't even stop to think how Sigmund had come to be here, at Hogwarts, and when Elizabeth had sent him and why. It was obvious to him. But how dare she pretend to care? How dare she check up on me? Spy on me?
Because Harry had no doubt that was what she was doing at this very moment. Her and Emma.
"Yeah?" Harry spat at it. "Having a good gawk? It's not like you care, is it! I want you to get lost! I never want to see you again! I wish I'd never met you! You hear me?" His breathing became erratic. "STOP SPYING ON ME . . . ! AND HERE'S ONE FOR THE CAMERA!"
He aimed a kick at the Blearglob that he largely miscalculated because he almost slipped in the mud again. Sigmund scuttled backwards extremely fast, gave Harry a look with his tiny black eyes and executed a perfect dive into the lake so that only a faint plop could be heard.
"Good riddance," Harry muttered, then suddenly, he was struck with the bizarre urge to cry. He did not give into it. But he was forced to acknowledge that Elizabeth's betrayal had hurt him far more deeply than he had first assumed.
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"You know what to do Mr Potter."
Umbridge gestured with her stumpy fingers to the seat opposite her, then to the quill that rested on the table beside a fresh sheet of parchment, looking innocent and unsuspecting. But Harry knew it wasn't. And pretty soon, he was sure the back of his hand would bare proof for all who cared to look.
And her sickly sweet voice was fraying his nerves. He didn't know how much more girlish simpering he could take from the toad sitting across from him.
Harry picked up the quill, took a moment to mentally glare at it, then began to write 'I must not tell lies' over and over until the cramp in his hand became even more painful than the cuts on the back of it, which were now bleeding quite heavily.
He counted to three, then resumed his writing. He didn't dare look up at Umbridge to see if she had noticed his momentary pause. For some reason, he didn't care either way. But he almost regretted that thought when Umbridge set down her own work and bent forward, leaning her face into her chunky hands so that it squashed upwards, making her appear even more bulbous and toady and wrinkly than usual. Harry fought the urge to grimace and shudder and show all those emotions which signify disgust.
"You may stop now," she said, quite ignoring that Harry had already done so. Which was very unusual. Harry thought that she ought to be jumping at the chance to reprimand him for some stupid slight such as stopping to write when she didn't order him to, and the fact that she wasn't put him completely on his guard. Something was going on, that was certain.
"Hem hem," she began, and Harry —who had put his hand under the table so that she wouldn't get the urge to check and see how far the cuts had penetrated— clenched his fist at the sound. "It has come to my attention that you had recently changed locations, Mr Potter."
All Harry could do was gape, wondering how she had come by that knowledge. The words "So, what of it?" immediately came to mind, but he stopped his tongue in the last second. Umbridge would not appreciate rudeness. So all he said was "Yes."
Umbridge giggled, and this time Harry could not stop his face contorting into an expression of horror and disgust at the sound, which sounded as though a hoard of flies had been swallowed by a large-bellied toad and were now buzzing around angrily inside its stomach. Luckily, Umbridge had closed her eyes when she laughed and had not seen.
"Tsk tsk. Now that won't do at all, Mr Potter," said Umbridge, after finishing her bout of giggling. "When I ask a question you must answer 'Yes Professor Umbridge' or 'No Professor Umbridge'. Now let's try again." She tapped her desk sharply with a pudgy forefinger. "Had you recently changed locations, Mr Potter?"
Harry unclenched his teeth. "Yes, Professor Umbridge."
"Very good." She paused, her eyes glittering almost manically. Harry fought not to draw back. "With whom had you changed locations?"
Harry was sure his heart started palpitating in that moment. "What—?" was all he managed to get out before Umbridge interrupted: "What I mean is, with whom did you go to the Ministry for Magic —more precisely the International Transfer Office— on August Twelfth, to change your location? Could it be the same person you are currently living with, perhaps? One Elizabeth Evans?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business . . . Professor."
The maniacal gleam went out of Umbridge's eyes. "I'll have you know, Mr Potter, that —"
"It really isn't any of your business," Harry concluded, now thinking it an absolutely brilliant idea to continue in this vein. "Where I live is nobody's business but my guardians', and those I choose to give my address to. And since my new address is currently registered at the Ministry, I don't see how and why there would be a problem. It's all perfectly legal. Which means I don't see the point of you questioning me for something that is unrelated to this detention and really none of your business."
There was utter silence for thirty seconds. Then: "An extra week of detention for you Mr Potter."
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Harry did not get angry. He did not get furious. He didn't even get hurt. What he did get was a heavy sense of injustice.
So he went straight to Professor McGonagall.
Her face registered suspicious surprise when she opened the door to his knock. Harry was just thankful she hadn't put on her tartan dressing gown yet. Somehow, it made her appear even more formidable, as though she made up the intimateness that her clothes presented by becoming even more strict as a sort of defence mechanism. "Potter," she greeted in her brisk way. "Aren't you supposed to be in detention?"
"I just finished. Can I come in?"
McGonagall apprised him with a singular raised eyebrow before stepping aside. Harry hurried over the threshold and she closed the door behind him. She moved over to stand beside her desk, gesturing for Harry to sit. Harry shook his head. "No thank you, I'll stand." He already felt intimidated coming to her office like this, there was no need to help the situation along by having McGonagall staring down at him throughout their conversation, making her appear even more intimidating.
"As you wish, Potter. How can I help you?"
"Well, as you know Professor, I've just come from a detention with Umb— I mean Professor Umbridge. And well," he paused, knowing McGonagall would not be pleased, so he finished quickly, "I've just received another one."
"You mean," McGonagall breathed, pinching the bridge of her nose, "that after the conversation we had—"
"But it wasn't about that at all!" Harry burst out, indignant. "She'd started asking me questions, about why I'd changed houses, and with whom. She knows about Elizabeth Professor!"
McGonagall looked shocked at this. Her eyebrows went up and her mouth went down. "That she's your sister?"
"No," Harry was forced to admit. "I don't think so. But the fact that she mentioned her is worrying. So I told her to mind her own business, that it was perfectly legal to change houses, and she gave me a week's worth of detention!"
"Well you'll just have to go to those detentions. Merlin knows we need to win the Quidditch Cup again this year; although, how we can possibly do so when our star seeker is permanently unavailable. . ."
"What! Professor . . . !" he couldn't believe she was bringing that up.
"What do you want me to say, Potter?" she stared at him. "I warned you not to aggravate Dolores Umbridge, yet you continue to do so. It's out of my hands now."
"But what about fairness? She can't give me a detention because I told her to mind her own business about my private life at home."
"You have been spending far too much time with your sister, Potter," was what McGonagall said.
"So I've been told," said Harry, pausing to consider just why McGonagall had said that. "But I have to say, I'm grateful about her influence on me. I never would have tried to argue my case otherwise. I can see now that it was pointless from the beginning—!"
"Mr Potter!" said McGonagall, her nostrils widening. "She is your teacher and therefore has a right to assign you detention—!"
"Not with this she doesn't—!"
"Yes she does!"
"A week?" Harry asked indignantly. "For telling her to mind her own business? Not even Snape was that cruel!"
"That's Professor Snape, Potter! And Ten Points will be taken from Gryffindor for your insubordination! And I won't hear another word on the subject." She placed a hand on her desk and breathed deeply. "It's almost curfew now, go back to your dormitory."
"Goodbye Professor." Without waiting for McGonagall's answer, Harry spun on his heels and left.
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The injustice it of it all was what was getting to Harry. He would have thought that McGonagall —who was fairness incarnate (albeit strict) and followed rules to the Tee—would argue his case against Umbridge. And Harry did not doubt that he had a case. But it appeared as though McGonagall was even more of a stickler for Teacher's Rights.
But what could Harry do but go back to his common room? It was almost curfew. He couldn't wander around.
When he came upon The Fat Lady's portrait he took the time to draw a couple of deep breaths.
"Mimbulus mimbletonia."
The portrait swung open and admitted Harry into the room. A few fourth years were finishing up homework on the far side and Ron, Hermione, the twins, and Ginny were sitting by the fireplace apparently in deep conversation. Seeing Harry they stopped talking and straightened up. Before he could think to accuse them of keeping secrets and talking about him behind his back Fred patted the cushion next to him and Harry went to sit down.
"What's going on?" he asked. To his surprise, nobody looked guilty.
"Hermione's just told us, Harry," Fred explained with the air of one talking about the weather, "about what Elizabeth did to you."
"What!" Harry glared at Hermione. How dare she tell anyone? "Hermio—"
"And we have to say," Fred continued, as if Harry hadn't said anything, "that we think it's all a load of nonsense. And Hermione does too, now that we've explained all the angles."
That brought Harry up. "Wha–I mean . . . you do?" He blinked. "Why?"
The twins looked incredibly pleased with themselves.
"Only that we told her someone like Elizabeth – a bonafide troublemaker – could never do something like that without a good reason," said George.
"I know this," said Harry impatiently. "And Hermione already knew this. What's your point?"
Ginny leaned forward, speaking for the first time. "Our point is that we know Elizabeth Harry. You don't see her how we see her. You're too close to her, and you were probably more hurt by what she did than you let on." Harry hoped no one could see the flush on his face. "But we—" she gestured to herself and the others "—are outsiders and to us it doesn't look like she did something completely treacherous. We talked about it, and we all admit that she is up to something, but not something cruel. We all agreed that it's more likely she's doing this to protect you."
Harry felt like snorting. "Protect me? She has a funny way of showing it! I can still feel the pain from the cut."
This wasn't entirely true but he held up his hand anyway in order to show them. He did not expect to have to jump back at Hermione's loud scream.
"Oh Harry!" she said, her eyes filling with horror.
"What!" Harry looked at Ron. His eyes had widened to comical proportions. Everyone else mirrored the same expressions. "It's not that bad, it's almost closed now—"
"No Harry, we don't mean that!" Hermione grabbed his hand. "This!" She was referring to the cuts on the back. Umbridge's 'I must not tell lies', which were still bleeding, but not a lot now. "What's all this about?"
Harry yanked back his hand and stuffed it into his robes. "My detention," he mumbled, ignoring Hermione and Ginny's shocked gasps. "She made me use a blood quill."
Hermione clenched her fists. "Ooooooh! She makes me so mad! I just wish we could do something about her!" She jerked her gaze to Harry's. "You have to tell Professor McGonagall, Harry, she'll help—!"
Harry snorted. "That's what you think. I've just been to McGonagall to complain about another week of detentions I received from Umbridge—"
"Again?" was everyone's response.
"Harry, you know you shouldn't talk about . . . well, you know."
"I. Didn't. Hermione! She was going on about my having changed locations. And she knows about Elizabeth. But only that she's my guardian, nothing else," he added when they all opened their mouths. "So I told her to mind her own business about something which I did legally and also nothing to do with detention."
"You said that?" said Ron in awe.
"Yeah." Harry fought the urge to puff up with pride. Ron's approval meant everything to him at that moment.
"Never mind that now," said Hermione briskly. "You were saying, about McGonagall?"
"Right. Well, I explained to her what I just told you and she said Umbridge has a right to give me detention because she's my teacher."
Hermione drew back, a puzzled look across her brow. "Well that's not at all right!" she suddenly spat. "Oh, this is just like the Wizarding World, isn't it? So archaic. Nothing at all like the Muggles. There aren't as many student rights here! But I never expected Professor McGonagall . . . Harry!" she said all of a sudden, flapping a hand excitedly in his direction. "'Together we are united'! Why don't we all go back to her office and show her your hand."
"No way," Harry said automatically, horrified by the idea. "This is my personal war with Umbridge, I don't want the other teachers to know."
"Actually Harry," said Ron looking thoughtful, "I reckon it might a good idea."
"What?" said Harry, bemused.
"Yeah, think about it," said George, whom Harry expected would be one of the last people to agree. "If we tell McGonagall Umbridge has been using a blood quill on you, she'll be sacked. Or at the very least put on probation."
"But don't you see?" Harry argued, standing up in order to pace. How could they be so blind? "She's in Fudge's employ. The Ministry has all the power now. Fudge'll find a loophole and then we're still stuck with her. Besides, I wouldn't put it passed them to claim I'm lying about it to seek attention and to discredit the Ministry."
Everyone visibly slumped. Hermione looked the most disappointed. "Still," she said. "I think you should tell McGonagall so that she knows about it. You might even be able to get out of the extra week of detentions."
"I doubt it," Harry said darkly.
"I think you ought to give McGonagall a bit more credit than that."
"Hermione, she wouldn't even lift a finger to help me when I asked her to," Harry reminded her, angry that she just couldn't seem to grasp the concept. Why did she have to be so pushy?
"Fine," Hermione said, crossing her arms. "Then you should go to the Headmaster. Tell him at least."
"No!" Harry said immediately. "It's not like he tells me anything."
"Harry, you make it sound like . . .! You told us yourself that you spent a couple of days with him over the summer holidays when he was taking you to meet Elizabeth for the first time."
"So?"
"'So', you should know him a little bit by now, surely. And, need I remind you, he was the one who told you about Elizabeth."
"Only 'cause she didn't give him any choice. She wrote me a letter, didn't she?"
Hermione sighed. "I give up arguing—" Harry bit his tongue to keep from going 'Finally!' "—if you don't want to tell, that's your decision I suppose. But at least let me make some Essence of Murtlap for you after your detention tomorrow. To help with the pain."
"Okay," Harry agreed, not knowing what Essence of Murtlap was, but spending four years with Hermione had taught him to trust the knowledge that was stored in her incredibly large brain, and seemed to work on permanent automatic pilot, even when she was asleep. Besides, it was his last detention until next week.
Hermione nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, on to other things which are no less important . . ."
Everyone blinked at the sudden shift in topics, but managed to give Hermione their undivided attention nonetheless.
"I finally acquired that pass to the Restricted section—with a lot of grovelling to Professor Sprout mind you. I still have dirt under my nails! Plus, going through Madam Pince was such a chore! I had to give her my entire list of books and she had to go toddle off and get them. Because of course I, a prefect, am not allowed in there!"
Everyone blinked again. It was not like Hermione to degrade authority figures like this, while using a heavy does of sarcasm. She was probably stressed out from all the homework.
"But I still have to return them all tomorrow!" she continued, pausing to breathe rather hard. Then she shook her head as if dismissing a vile thought. "Anyway, that's why we have to read them all tonight. And carefully! We don't want to miss something crucial."
"Just one question . . ." Ron began, his face contorting with horror as Hermione unearthed several thick, fraying texts from a bag she had hidden under the table, and which she now lifted (rather painfully it seemed) onto the desktop.
"Yes?" she breathed, looking up from unloading the books.
"U-um," Ron stumbled, still staring. Then he seemed to snap out of it. "Just wanted to know how you managed to discover the titles of the books, and what's in them for that matter, if you've never been to the Restricted section?"
That seemed to Harry a perfectly reasonable question and he, Fred, and George, along with Ron, turned to look at her expectantly. They failed to notice Ginny shaking her head in disgust.
"I used the catalogues, Ron," Hermione explained, not looking up from doling out a book to everyone. "You know, those little rectangular cards that are filed in alphabetical order according to section, name of author, and, in some cases, date?"
Ron's ears went so red he was in danger of becoming an exploding tomato. Harry, Fred, and George tried to look as though they hadn't been paying attention to what Ron had asked, and so would be exhumed from feeling stupid along with him. It did not work.
"You mean to tell us," Hermione said, now starting incredulously at the four of them, "that all these days you've spent in the library before and after classes, you've just been randomly picking up a book and hoping to find a mention of Brillogsapor Clanniria?"
Fred twirled his quill. George scratched the back of his head. Harry adjusted his glasses. None of them were looking at her, not even Ron, who appeared to have dazed out and now sat staring at the table, his cheeks still burning.
And to make matters worse, they could hear Ginny snickering off to the side. Hermione closed her eyes as if in pain. A peculiar grimace twisted her mouth. "Alright!" she said suddenly. Her voice sounded curiously wobbly. "Alright. Alright." Ginny continued to snicker. "I trust it won't happen again?"
All muttered "No."
"Good!" Hermione's voice now took on a strange high-pitched tone. "Very good! . . ." There was a pause . . . then she burst out laughing, tagging Ginny along with her. "Oh we're so sorry!" she said, in between gasps. "But, but . . ."
"It's just unbelievably funny that you spent all these years at Hogwarts not knowing how to properly use the library," Ginny concluded, clutching her stomach. "I mean, how've you done your assignments? And it's even funnier when we look at Fred and George, as they've been here the longest!"
At this Hermione howled even more loudly. "Oh stop it Ginny! I can't breathe anymore!"
Fred and George managed to display affront, confusion, and amusement all at once.
Harry had to suppose that it was rather funny when he looked at it from Hermione and Ginny's point of view. He had memories of himself wondering the shelves throughout the last years, knowing which section harboured what, but completely oblivious as to which book he might find his longed-for information in. There had been many a time when Harry and Ron both just simply could not find anything to do with the assignment topic at hand and had resorted to copying from Hermione's work when she wasn't looking or just plain using the information in their assigned text books. Which hadn't nearly been enough to satisfy most Professors. But then that could have all just been laziness, he reflected.
And all that trouble just because they hadn't known the library had an extensive catalogue detailing everything. Harry suspected he wasn't the only one feeling foolish right about now. It just went to show that he hadn't spent much time in the library.
"I mean," Hermione continued, now breathing somewhat normally, "I thought you knew. With all the research we'd done for all our, um, adventures throughout the years? It just seemed sort of obvious to me that you should know. I mean, everyone does!"
"Well we probably did know," said Ron, trying to save face. "It's just, you sort of forget when you don't go in there a lot, don't you? Although, I'd wondered what those big cabinets in the corner by Pince's desk were for . . ."
Hermione made a strange noise in the back of her throat that went something like "Mmglrck."
"Fred and I thought that was where Pince had stashed all her secret magazines," George added seriously, but then wriggled his eyebrows as if to make some sort of point.
Hermione looked aghast. "Why would you possibly think that?"
Fred shrugged. "We were kids at the time. First year. It was fun to imagine that sort of thing."
"The fact is, we just never unimagined it. Besides, she's an old bat," George threw in calmly. "Has nothing better to do, does she?"
"I-I don't think . . ." Hermione trailed off, apparently too dazed to finish.
Harry and Ron bit their lips to keep from laughing at her.
"I mean," Fred continued, still staring thoughtfully at nothing, "she's got to spend everyday in the library, got to catch up to time. It's got to be boring. I wonder if she ever goes in that little room off to the side—?"
"Can we just get off this pointless topic, please?" Hermione burst out, clutching her temple. "We have work to do and a lot of it. Now get cracking people!"
Not even fifteen minutes of boring reading had passed when George whispered "Eureka, my faithful friends, I think I've found Vault 305."
Hermione suddenly leaned forward so far in her seat that Fred had to shift back to avoid getting sat on. "That's fantastic George! What exactly have you found?"
"Just a mention," George said proudly as Ron groaned. "That's it?" he asked, but no one was really paying attention, as they were all staring at George.
There was no hint of tomfoolery about him now as he read out aloud from the text. "It says here . . . oh I missed that the first time round . . . um . . . blah blah . . . then add two shots water, a pinch ground Aconite, two drops Artropa Belladonna, and pinch of Brillog Clann. Use drink to drifteth in sleep of high meditate. The useth of too much Aconite brings death upon threshold of thee. And there's a funny little poem underneath that.
Death's door did plunge,
into the sponge
Of reason that thee held.
When the sponge,
hath taketh the plunge.
We all will go to hell.
The hell I speak
will last a week
depending on the mind.
But if the mind
Can be sublime
Deaths door will comfort find."
George finished with a look of supreme discomfort and confusion.
Hermione, however, looked thoughtful. "It seems to say that you'll be damned either way if you drink that sedative. If you put in too much Aconite you, the 'sponge' will either be in incredible pain for a week, fighting it out only if you have a high strength of will. Or, at the end of the week, you'll die. 'Deaths door will comfort find.' But that doesn't matter," she said dismissively, "as where not making that potion.
"But what George found is useful nonetheless. It says a 'pinch' of Brillog Clann – which is the old name for it, I assume. But a 'pinch' indicates that it's a solid substance, most likely a powder, that we'll have to grind—"
"But what about if we don't need to use the powdered origin for our potion?" Ginny interjected, managing to surprise Hermione. "What if Brillogsapor Clanniria is a plant that, for the use in our potion, we have to squeeze the juice out of the stems? Or, we might have to use its leaves and ground those? Or even its roots! They can be the most potent in some plants according to Professor Snape."
Hermione slumped back in her chair, looking defeated. "You're right, Ginny. I can't believe I missed that. This means we haven't really gotten anywhere."
"It doesn't say anywhere in the Animagus book on how to harvest the plant after you get it?" Harry asked.
Hermione shook her head. "No. It's done for safety reasons. We'll just have to find a mention in some other book. It will be something like this, for example: Brillogsapor Clanniria is most potent in the use of the Animagus Potion, where the drinker will have to grind the stem sixty-four times within twelve minutes under the light of a quarter-moon before it's ready for use, etcetera. Most potent ingredients are difficult to prepare if you want to do it correctly," she said apologetically to the looks on their faces.
Ron shivered. "I just hope it's nothing like that."
"So do we," said Fred and George darkly.
No one else said anything.
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The next day seemed as leaden as the day before it. The weather was still sodden, reflecting the moods of the six friends, who hadn't gotten very far in their pursuit of the ingredient since last night. Hermione had already taken the books back as ordained by Professor Sprout, and was now on the hunt to get some more, but this time she was using Professor Flitwick's permission. "I'm his best student," Hermione had argued when Harry pointed out that the teachers' likely talked to each other about students in their staffroom, which meant Flitwick probably knew about Hermione and Sprout, and so, would not give her the go-ahead. "He knows I'm responsible." Then she had spun around so hard (her arms and bag filled with books) that she was in danger from overbalancing. She had thrown Harry a glare over her shoulder before hurrying down the corridor. "Barmy," had been Ron's response to that.
On the bright side Quidditch tryouts were on that afternoon, and Ron would be harking for Keeper. There wasn't anything more that Harry wished he could go to, but he still had his last detention for Umbridge for the week. On Monday he would start again, he thought sourly. And he still hadn't told Angelina, who would no doubt explode. Harry was just hoping he wouldn't get replaced as seeker.
The great hall was, once again, Hagridless, but Harry wasn't as worried about his oversized friend as he would have been if Elizabeth hadn't been with him. He still didn't know what to think when his thoughts turned to her, but the fact that she and Hagrid were together on their dangerous mission comforted him.
When it was almost time to head to class Hermione plonked down in the seat next to Harry's, looking sour. "You were right, he wouldn't sign my permission slip. Said it would show favouritism. Even though I tried explaining that I hadn't found what I was looking for."
"I guess this calls for Operation Invisibility Cloak?" Fred whispered half-seriously half-jokingly, leaning forward.
Hermione nodded promptly. "Yes. And Ginny and I will be the ones going. Tonight. When everyone else is asleep. You lot don't know how to find yourselves out of a paper bag, let alone find the correct books," she finished nastily.
Ron sputtered. "I'm sure if you give us the titles—"
"Some books in the Restricted Section think it funny to disguise themselves as other books," Hermione informed while scooping a bunch of crisp bacon onto her plate, followed by an egg. "While others attach themselves to you without letting go. Still others scream, cry, and/or vomit their pages on the unfortunate reader when they get to an interesting part, than rearrange themselves in whichever order to confuse. You need to know how to tame them."
"And you know?" Ron asked sceptically.
"How do you suppose the books you read last night didn't attack you?" was all Hermione divulged, leaving a gaping Ron to stare incredulously at her bushy head.
Harry, Ginny, Fred, and George exchanged glances. Fred then performed an action with his hand that had the rest snorting into their Pumpkin Juice.
The rest of the day passed without incident, unless Harry counted tripping over his shoelace, but that was only because Peeves had untied it in his invisible state so that Harry couldn't see. He had flown off, cackling madly, when Harry found himself with a face full of thousand-year-old Hogwarts stone.
The detention with Umbridge did not go as bad as the night before, thankfully, which wasn't to say it still wasn't a horrible experience. Just having to look at Umbridge's face was enough to induce horror in the sanest of people, let alone having to contend with a blood quill on top of that. He did, however, have a good view of the Quidditch Pitch, but that proved fruitless also because Harry was too far away to see the faces of the people trying out, so he couldn't tell who had won.
When Umbridge said to Harry at the end of detention, "Hand, Mr Potter," he fought extremely hard not to punch her in her ugly smirking face. But he thrust his hand at her anyway, shuddering when her plump, jewelled fingers grasped it. Almost at once the scar on his forehead flared and a peculiar sensation resonated in his stomach. He yanked back his hand and leaped from his seat.
"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said softly.
Harry did not answer, not knowing if she meant the cuts on his hand or if she knew about the pain in his scar.
"Yes, well I think you've learned your lesson. For this at least. Monday you will be writing 'I must not talk back to authority figures'. Good night, Mr Potter."
Harry got out of there as fast as he could, telling himself that it wasn't what it seemed.
When he, at last, stepped passed the Fat Lady's portrait he was greeted with a roar of deafening sound. Ron came rushing over to him, slopping Butterbeer down his front from the Goblet he was clutching. "Harry, I did it, I'm in, I'm Keeper!"
"That's great, Ron," he said. He could see Fred and George engaging a group of first years, who all bore unmistakable signs of nosebleeds.
"Hermione's asleep," Ron told him, gesturing to one of the sofa's with his thumb. "She was all excited before."
Then he left to a hail by Lee Jordan. Just then, in the corner of his eye, he could see Angelina striding towards his direction. They had a brief, filling conversation about Ron's tryouts before Harry remembered he had yet to tell her about his extra week of detentions.
"Listen, Angelina," said Harry, interrupting her speech on the practise session they were to have at two o'clock tomorrow, "I won't be able to make our practices next week. Umbridge has given me another week of detention."
Angelina stared at him
"But I'll be there tomorrow," he added hastily.
Angelina shook her head slowly. "You better be there tomorrow, Potter. That's all I'm saying. You better."
Harry nodded vigorously. Angelina went to find another Butterbeer, still shaking her head. Harry had a feeling he had so overwhelmed her that her ability to interact had been temporarily disbanded from all conscious thought.
Harry moved to sit next to Hermione, who woke with a jerk as he put down his bag.
"Oh Harry, it's you . . . good about Ron, isn't it?" she said blearily, rubbing her eyes. "I was just finishing up on homework. I couldn't do it before," she stopped, looking around, then continued in a whisper, "Ginny and I haven't been able to sneak out of the Portrait hole yet. I didn't think the celebrations would continue this long. It's already passed one thirty and I'm dead tired, and Ginny's already gone to sleep. We'll just have to go tomorrow night."
It was then that Harry noticed she was sitting on his Invisibility Cloak. "That's fine, Hermione."
Hermione looked at him, her eyes darting between his own. "Is something wrong, Harry?" In that one instant Harry was extremely glad his best friend was so observant, and he told her about the pain in his scar that appeared when Umbridge had touched him and his suspicions that she might be possessed by Voldemort, like Quirrell.
Hermione dismissed it at once. "He's got his own body now, hasn't he? I don't imagine he can possess someone anymore like he could Quirrell. Although, he could have her under the Imperious Curse, I suppose . . ."
Hermione did not sound very certain on that last one, and Harry was very relieved about this and thanked her by grinning. Hermione grinned back, obviously pleased for him. "I'm glad I could take on some of your burden, Harry. And don't forget what Dumbledore said last year. Your scar can also hurt when the Dark Lord's feeling particularly strong emotions. It could have just been a coincidence that your scar pained as Umbridge touched your hand."
"She's evil," Harry insisted.
"Yes," Hermione agreed. She opened her mouth to add something else, but Harry beat her to it. "I'm not going to go to Dumbledore with this, Hermione."
"I wasn't going to suggest that!" she protested. But Harry could tell she was lying by how red her cheeks had become.
"Well in any case," Harry said, ignoring Hermione's even pinker face, "I'm going to write to Sirius and tell him."
Hearing that, Hermione tried to make him back out, claiming he couldn't put something like that in a letter, but Harry was adamant.
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The next morning dawned minty and fresh and dewy, which was perfectly agreeable weather to write in, thought Harry as he sat in a particularly squishy armchair composing his letter to Sirius. It was hard at first, but eventually he finished. He had added clever little lines like "We have a new teacher, she's nearly as nice as your Mum," which were sure to make Sirius laugh.
Sealing the letter, Harry made his way to the Owlery. He passed both Nearly Headless Nick, who warned him to take the left exist to the Owlery as Peeves was causing a commotion on the right, and Mrs Norris, whom Harry had a nasty feeling was going off to report on him to Filch. So he walked faster in order to avoid a confrontation.
He made it in record time. Patted Hedwig, gave her the letter, and watched her fly off, before power-walking out of the Owlery. He had not even made it twenty meters outside when he bumped into something squishy. His face flamed in horror and embarrassment when he realised the squishy something was Cho. The last two times Harry had spoken to her he had been covered in Mimbulus mimbletonia then Ron had inadvertently embarrassed him with his whole Tornadoes pledge.
"Cho! I didn't see you!" He noticed with horror how strange-pitched his voice sounded.
"It's alright," she said rather breathlessly. "It's as much my fault as yours."
This time Harry made a visible effort to lower his voice. "What are doing up here?" he asked, noting with terror how stupidly deep it was.
"Going to post a letter and parcel," she said matter-of-factly.
Harry could not believe how brainless he felt in that moment. "Yeah," he laughed, "stupid question." He laughed again.
"It's my Mum's birthday, only remembered this morning. So how have you been?"
She wanted to know Harry had been? She cared about him enough to ask? He felt a rush of pleasure swell up in his chest and opened his mouth to answer, but was distracted by a harsh breathing noise. He looked passed Cho, who turned around as well.
Filch the caretaker, along with a bounding Mrs Norris, wheezed up a set of stairs exclaiming "Aha!" when he caught sight of them. His face had purpled with the exertion it must have taken him to run this fast in order to catch Harry (for he had no doubt Filch had been tipped off by Mrs Norris), and his jowls quivered much like a rooster's. He pointed a crooked finger. "I've just had a tip-off that you're intending to place a massive order for Dungbombs!"
"What?" Harry exclaimed, completely bewildered. "That's not true. Whoever tipped you off must have been lying!" He crossed his arms. "Who told you I was ordering Dungbombs?"
"I have my sources," Filch said mysteriously. "Now hand over whatever it is your going to send."
Harry had never felt so much satisfaction as he did in that moment. "I can't, it's gone."
Filch's face showed surprise, as if he couldn't work out how Harry could have already sent a letter when he wasn't in the Owlery. "Gone?" he repeated, his face contorting furiously.
Harry sighed and explained in a dry tone, feeling grateful at the time spent with Elizabeth that enabled him to do so, "I was at the Owlery a few minutes ago where I posted the letter, ergo, it's gone. As is not here. As in clutched in my owl's talons probably flying over Hogsemede."
Cho made a quiet noise in her throat that sounded a lot like laughter. Upon realising this Harry felt his chest balloon. Cho thought him funny. Cho thought him witty.
Filch, however, had now taken on a fish-out-of-water appearance. "How do I know you haven't got it in your pockets?" he asked finally, eyeing Harry's robes.
As much as Harry hated to say it, it was the only way to get Filch off his back, "I suppose you can check them."
The fact that he had answered so fast and so willingly must have thrown Filch off a bit because he straightened up. "You there, girl!" he barked suddenly, pointing at Cho and eyeing the packages in her hands. "Did you see him come from the Owlery?" Evidentially, he wanted to touch Harry as much as Harry wanted to touch him.
"Yes," said Cho coolly. "We accidentally bumped into each other here."
Filche's face purpled even more over that admission. He looked in danger of choking on his own jowls. "Very well. If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb . . ."
He stomped off back down the stairs. Mrs Norris eyed them mistrustfully for a few seconds before she followed her master's path.
Harry turned to Cho. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. He's horrible anyway. . . I guess I better . . ." she lifted her packages in the direction of the Owlery.
Harry blinked. "Oh, right. Have fun owling your mail." He froze in horror, suddenly praying that a stray owl would come flying over and peck out his eyeballs. That would give Cho something else to think about right? Perhaps she would even walk him to the infirmary?
Cho, however, laughed. "You're funny," she said, and Harry did not think she meant in a weird way. He only just managed to stop his chest puffing up. "I'll see you."
"Yeah," and with a smile and a wave he watched Cho walk off, her long black hair shining in the morning light.
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A/N: Oooh! Things are starting to change, slightly. Exciting things to come next chapter.