Chapter 14: Privilege
"Let's begin everyone's favorite subject with an introduction by everyone's favorite celebrity lecturer: me! ….. Gilderoy Lockhart: Order of Merlin, Third Class. Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and…. five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. But I won't talk about that! – I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher gave a grin so dazzling, Neville could swear he saw a kind of starlight twinkle in each molar. Next to him at the desk in the front row, Ron looked in danger of damaging his retinas from how much he was rolling his eyes.
No such skepticism was evident in Hermione's expression, however, further down the same row; she was practically swooning, along with half the female students in their year. The very sight of Hermione Granger being smitten with anything that wasn't made of parchment or had a spine of a more literary variety was clearly leaving Ron appalled.
The dismay only grew worse when Lockhart announced – despite it being the very first class of term – that there was to be a pop quiz. "But we haven't learned anything yet!" Neville turned to his best mate, as papers were passed down the line.
It only took scanning a few lines before Ron's dismay boiled into disgust. "These questions….. they're all about him, the bloody poof!" he hissed just under the edge of his breath to Neville.
Hermione heard them anyway, by now able to pick out her best friends' voices with better hearing than a bat. "Of course they are! Honestly, Ronald, did you do the reading?" And she held up a copy of what appeared to be the blonde prancing peacock's autobiography.
"That was on the reading list?!" Ron's blue eyes nearly popped, and he threw up his hands.
Lockhart didn't appear to notice the clear, gendered polarization in the ranks of his students: fawning excitement from the girls, horror and abject confusion from the young men. "You have thirty minutes. Start….. now!"
Sighing, Neville figured that he would just have to guess the answers from a book he hadn't read, and already knew he never would. Thank Merlin it appeared this wasn't going to be graded. How could it be?
Apparently, where Lockhart was concerned, however, it could, for the man spent the next twenty minutes following conclusion of the quiz to grade each and every one, taking up a majority of the lecture time. "Tut, tut!" he tssked, setting down a ream of parchments with a disappointed, almost hurt, expression. "Hardly any of you knew that my favorite color is lilac!"
Ron's head turned on a slow swivel to ogle at Neville. "Lilac…? I knew it! I knew the man is a bloody poof, to have a favorite color like that!"
"…. But Miss Hermione Granger knew that my greatest secret ambition is to rid the world of evil…. and market my own range of hair-care potions…. Good girl!" The cocky bastard actually winked at her, causing Hermione to blush.
Ron looked fit to be tied. "Wanna get expelled?" he asked Neville casually. "Because it would be much more worth catching that for murdering a teacher than crashing my dad's car…."
"Keep your hair on and your mouth shut!" Neville hissed back. "The class is nearly over…."
"…. Yeah, with the rest of the year to go," Ron grumbled. He was startled when Lockhart suddenly rapped on a concealed object with his wand. The object was clearly, prominently perched.
"Now: be warned! For I am about to show you the most dangerous creature known to wizardkind…. Though you need not fear of being in peril whilst I am here, I must ask you not to scream…. It might PROVOKE THEM!"
In sharply raising his voice to a shout while pulling back the cloth, Neville had to wonder whether Lockhart had been perversely trying to provoke a scream while revealing what appeared to be a cage of little blue, spritely things. Though no one did scream, he was impressed by how Seamus Finnegan actually laughed.
"Cornish Pixies?"
"Freshly-caught Cornish Pixies! Laugh if you will, Mr. Finnegan, but Cornish Pixies can be devastating little blighters….. Let's see what you make of them!"
With that, the professor actually opened the cage and released the little devils out into the classroom, which quickly dissolved into chaos. Most students took the more natural human instinct of trying to swat at the things by hand rather than using their wands. Quickly overwhelmed, many others simply gave up and made a hasty exodus from the class a few minutes early.
"Come on, round them up! Round them up! They're only pixies!" Lockhart laughed with amusement, bizarrely enjoying this. He's mad, was the only conclusion Neville could draw in between attempts to rescue his schoolbooks from being ripped to shreds.
Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that no one was going to restore order and the pixies had the run of the place, terrorizing those few students who remained.
There was a sudden CLANG from above, and Neville glanced up just in time to see poor little Harry Potter coming to rest in a dangling position. The Pixies had managed to somehow lift the petite boy by his robes and his ears and leave him to hang from the ceiling.
"Help! Get me down!" Harry cried, though by this time, there were very few students still left in the classroom. Those still fighting or who were still trapped pretty much included Neville, Ron and Hermione, along with maybe one or two Hufflepuffs like Susan Bones.
Watching what, at best, may have been his attempt at a hands-on learning lesson rapidly fall apart, Lockhart finally clued in enough to realize he was the teacher and that the situation probably behooved him to try and act like one. He waved his wand, the million-watt smile still plastered on his face, though now ever-so-slightly more strained. "Pesky Pixie Pestronomi!"
It had absolutely no effect. One of the pixies seized the wand and threw it out the open window, while several more managed to make off with a very expensive portrait of…. who else?... Gilderoy Lockhart.
Hermione yelped as one of the pixies tried quite intently to burrow into her bushy brown hair. "Get off me!"
"No – stop! Hold still!" Still not entirely able to trust himself with his own wand, his confidence in the tool lacking even after an entire year, Neville resorted to more traditional weaponry instead. He managed to swing a book and knock the pixie loose without inadvertently walloping poor Hermione in the head. The brilliant witch leapt to her feet, frustrated.
"Immobulus!"
There was a purple flash and every single blue pixie suddenly froze in mid-air, many of them floating about in a kind of daze.
Still hanging from the chandelier, poor Harry seemed accustomed enough to bullying by now that he appeared resigned to it. Even so, he asked: "Why does it always have to be me? Why, oh why, oh why…..?"
Neville and his friends were still trying to recover from their initial Defense Against the Dark Arts class a couple of days later, out on the grounds down by the Black Lake. Sitting under a favored tree just on the edge of one courtyard, Hermione had her nose buried in that git Lockhart's autobiography. Though she was as shaken as the boys were by what she referred to as the man's "bold, revolutionary teaching methods," her admiration for their new teacher had in no way been diminished. Cognitive dissonance was apparently a formidable phenomenon, even among the most brilliant.
On this unseasonably warm fall afternoon, Hermione had initially tried to get her reading in by using her book bag to prop herself up. By now, however, the bag had shifted, causing her to unconsciously slouch until she was leaning against Ron's legs behind her as a sort of replacement. Neville noted, but didn't comment on, how Ron appeared quite flustered over the comfortableness with which Hermione was resting against him. The young Weasley's body appeared locked up with tension, yet he did not move.
Across the way, Neville's attention was caught by the Gryffindor Quidditch team, in their proud red robes, striding out into the courtyard just beyond, clearly making for the Quidditch pitch. Almost at exactly the same moment, green robes appeared as the Slytherin squad emerged into the same courtyard, coming from the opposite direction.
Following Neville's gaze, Ron's orbs narrowed with interest. "That's new… Wood doesn't look happy."
"Wood?"
"Oliver Wood. Sixth year. He's been teammates with three of my brothers, and he and Charlie are still best mates."
By now, the two teams had converged, facing off in what appeared to be a progressively heated argument. Voices started to rise enough that they tore Hermione out of her love affair with Lockhart's attention-whoring tome to wonder what was going on. Ron finally shifted out from under her, even as his feet tingled in agonized protest after having fallen asleep.
"Come on – I smell trouble…." The trio prowled over, even though none of them had anything to do with Quidditch (outside of Ron's rabid fan following).
"Where do you think you're going, Flint? I booked the pitch for Gryffindor today."
"Easy, Wood – I've got a note!" Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch Captain, forked over a slip of parchment, which Oliver Wood now read aloud:
"I, Professor Severus Snape, do hereby grant Slytherin permission to practice today, owing to the need to train their new Seeker…." Wood pursed his lips in clear interest. "You've got a new Seeker. Who?"
The Slytherins smirked as they parted, to reveal a lad with oily blonde hair.
Neville looked like he wanted to laugh, or scoff. He hadn't decided yet.
"Seriously?" Ron sneered.
"That's right…. and that's not all that's new this year!" With a smug grin, Malfoy now flaunted the broom gripped in his fist, the handle sleek and shiny. Ron couldn't help but stare.
"Those… those are Nimbus 2001s! They're the latest model! The bloody hell how did you get an entire team the latest broom model? It's an unfair advantage!" The rabid Quidditch fan in Ron was practically mourning. His shock only made Malfoy smirk all the more.
"See, Weasley, unlike some, my father can afford the best."
Hermione scoffed. "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent!"
Trust the brightest witch of their year to guess at the heart of the matter, and from the way the Slytherin team seemed to shift and give each other strange looks, Neville suspected that Hermione had hit the nail on the head. Jeremy Burnett, the seventh-year Gryffindor Seeker, even dared to smile at Hermione and give her a thumbs-up.
As for Malfoy, his own expression flickered just a bit before righting itself into a superior, collected mask and he stalked closer.
"No one asked your opinion…. You filthy little Mudblood!"
Hermione's own expression flickered, flinched, as though the man-cunt had slapped her.
Ron certainly reacted as though Malfoy had committed a physical assault, for he dove heatedly into his robes. "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy! – Eat slugs!"
There was a flash of green light and a BANG, followed by Ron lurching several yards backwards. The Slytherin team blinked and then promptly collapsed into guffaws. Sharing a horrified glance, Neville and Hermione dashed forward to where Ron was struggling to pick himself up off the grass.
"You OK, Ron?" Hermione squeaked. The shine in her eyes was all that contrasted with the stricken look on her face, as if she was secretly touched and pleased that Ron would so gallantly defend her honor.
Pushing himself up into an all-fours position, Ron did not answer, and Hermione started wringing her hands, getting her uniform skirt hopelessly creased. "Say something!"
But the only thing that came out of Ron's mouth was a fat, slimy slug. Roars of laughter wafted to the trio's backs from Malfoy and his teammates, the pack cackling like hyenas.
Neville fought to put down a chuckle and tried to keep the timbre of it nervous. "You just get a right laugh out of raising my blood pressure, don't you? I thought we agreed that you were the better one at hexing and dueling!"
Ron tried to respond, but more slugs came out than words.
Neville and Hermione helped Ron to his feet. There was still a light in Hermione's eyes, as though she was silently praising Ron for at least trying. "Let's take him to Hagrid's – he'll know what to do!" The group shuffled out of the courtyard, Ron flanked on either side and held up by his arms so that he and his friends resembled an entry in a three-legged race.
The analogy gave Neville enough ingenuity that, when they passed close to Malfoy, he stuck his outmost leg wide and tripped the bastard. Down he went, broomstick and all. In terms of avenging wronged friends, it was the best Neville could do, short of magic.
Hagrid readily provided them with a bucket when Neville, Hermione and an urping Ron appeared at his cabin. "Nothing to do but wait till it stops, I'm afraid," the half-giant sighed. "Hexes like that need room to wear off on their own."
Ron thanked him for the advice by way of another wet heave of slug into the bucket. Hagrid winced with sympathy. "Better out than in. Who was he trying to hex anyway, because it for Merlin damn sure wasn't himself!"
Neville cringed. "I think Ron's wand may have backfired when he went for Malfoy. The tosser called Hermione a…." he sent her a helpless look. "….well, I don't know exactly what it means."
Hermione crossed to the window, her arms folded and her face now just as tight with something that was possibly pain, mixed with righteous anger.
"He called me a Mudblood." She let it out in a heavy sigh.
Hagrid actually gasped. "He did not…..!"
"What's a Mudblood?" Neville asked, genuinely wanting to know.
"It's a slur that means dirty blood! Mudblood is a foul name for someone who is Muggle-born. Someone with non-magical parents! Someone like me!" Hermione by now appeared near tears, curling even more into herself. "It is entirely unbecoming slang that has no place in civilized conversation…"
"You see, Neville, there are some folks – like the Malfoy family – who think they are somehow better than everyone else because they have what is called 'pure-blood.'" The gamekeeper's voice dripped with disdain.
"But that's horrible!" Neville's face twisted with revulsion. "And I'm pureblood!"
"Me too. It's disgusting!" These were the first words Ron had managed for much of the last hour, and he barely got them out before he was throwing up again.
"And it's codswallop to boot! Dirty blood…. Why, there's a majority of wizarding folk today who are at least half-blood or less. More to the point that there isn't a spell that our Hermione can't do!" And Hagrid beckoned her to him, lifting her hands in his trash-can sized ones. "Don't you think on it, Hermione…. Don't you think on it for one minute…. OK?"
Hermione smiled weakly, then turned and drifted over to Ron, who was still upchucking nothing but slugs. Smiling tenderly, she cupped his cheek in her palm.
"My hero…." she murmured, and she gave him a wet kiss on the cheek, causing Ron's entire face to flare up.
It may have been just a coincidence, but moments after Hermione's small display of affection, the parade of slugs coming out of Ron's mouth ceased.