Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother
Fifth Year Part 2
DISCLAIMER: The world of Harry Potter, its characters, plot, and background, is the creation of JK Rowling and is the property of JK Rowling, Wizarding World, and Warner Brothers. I don't own them, although I do lay claim to my original characters.
This story has no relation whatsoever to the How I Met Your Mother television program.
This story is written for my amusement and ego gratification, not for profit. If you want the original unadulterated with my embroideries and embellishments, read the books or watch the movies. If you are enjoying this story, please write and post a positive review.
I still dislike Dramione pairings: that's why I'm writing this story.
Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother* Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother* Harry Potter: How I Met Your Mother
The following morning I had the pleasure of learning Mother Weasley's reaction to her youngest son borrowing the family automobile. Mater Weasley sent son Ronald a Howler expressing her outrage at her son's misdeeds, telling him that if he put another toe out of line, she'd bring him straight home. I rather doubted that young Ronald had it in him to keep to the rules and briefly wondered just how long he would last at Hogwarts this coming year.
My doubts didn't stop me from borrowing the camera of a young Gryffindor to record Ronald's distress at being read the riot act by his Mam. After clicking the shutter, I returned the camera to its owner, patted him on the shoulder, then told him that he was a likely lad and would do well at Hogwarts. I did ask for and received a print from young Creevy later that term in exchange for three rolls of film: I occasionally show it when anyone asks me about my ties to the Golden Trio.
As the new year got underway I made an unsettling discovery: I learned that Gilderoy Lockhart was an awful Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Oh, he dressed immaculately. He impressed the ladies, but to my alarm, I realized that I wasn't learning anything useful to protect myself against the Dark Arts. But aside from the fun of watching Cornish Pixies run amok in the dungeon after they escaped from the classroom, I concluded that Lockhart was a bloody incompetent. This was worrysome: I'd hoped that Lockhart would prove at least marginally competent and that I'd be able to pass my DADA OWL exam. It was increasingly apparent that he wasn't and I'd have to find some other way to pass it. Even with good books, swotting could only take you so far.
My concern was enough to cause me consult Professor Snape during office hours. I knocked quietly on his door, my heart pounding, half-hoping that he wouldn't respond. His eyes rose from the parchments he'd been grading as he saw that he had company. Our head of house gestured and the door opened wider. "Abandon all hope ye who enter here" I thought.
"Woodbine," he said.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"What brings you by here?" he asked.
"This year's Defense Against the Dark Arts class," I said.
"You're not finding it too challenging, are you?" he said.
"No, sir," I replied. "Quite the contrary. It looks ridiculously easy, at least if I choose to memorize all the details from Lockhart's books."
Our head of house smiled crookedly. "So what is your concern, then?" he asked.
"I'm facing my OWLs in June and I'm afraid that Mr. Lockhart's instruction will prove…less than entirely useful," I said.
Professor Snape awarded me with an almost-smile.
"So what do you wish me to do about it?" he said.
"I know it sounds naïve," I said, "but couldn't the headmaster sack him and get somebody else?"
"The headmaster has engaged Gilderoy Lockhart for the entire year," said Professor Snape. "He will be teaching classes and administering exams."
"Surely not the OWL exams?" I interjected.
"Don't interrupt, Mr. Woodbine," said Professor Snape. "No, he will not be administering those."
My heart sank as I realized that I might be facing the prospect of OWL exams unprepared.
"Then what should I—we—do?" I said.
Professor Snape looked at me like he would at someone who'd displayed a particular lack of intelligence. I was bracing for my dismissal with the problem left unsolved when I had a flash of memory, then inspiration. Hogwarts had had a problem staffing the DADA professorship since before I was born. Perhaps I should tap the voices of experience, said a voice in my head.
"What did students do in previous years, sir?" I asked.
Professor Snape looked at me like he would at a dullard who'd unexpectedly displayed a moment of intelligence.
"Students in previous years used older textbooks, consulted older students who'd passed their OWLs, and formed study groups to prepare for their exams," he said. I made a note to myself to use his ideas.
His comment about older textbooks made me uneasy. He'd taken over a class from an ailing teacher several years prior and told us that the Dark Arts were still changing and evolving. Would I do well on my exams using an old textbook or should I seek something newer?
"Would there be a problem using newer textbooks?" I asked.
"Most of the newer texts published in Britain have not been approved by the Ministry or properly vetted by the teacher's association," he said.
Foreign textbooks might be a possibility, I thought. I needed more time to think things through.
"Could you recommend any, Sir?" I asked.
"Not off-hand," he said, "but you might consider studying texts used by some of the foreign schools to teach their students." I hadn't thought of that but it sounded like good advice.
Professor Snape gave me a look, then said "Mr. Woodbine, my time is limited. Are we done here?" I had loads more questions to ask him but I realized that he'd given me enough information to start my own book search.
"I think so, sir," I said, then rose from my chair. "Thank you."
I walked back to my dorm room feeling dissatisfied. In my adolescent opinion, Professor Snape hadn't really answered my questions. We'd be stuck with Lockhart for the remainder of the year and our OWL exams would be as difficult as those in previous years. Professor Snape had suggested that we consult older students and form study groups, and he hadn't said anything either pro or con regarding DADA textbooks used by other magical schools. Or had he? If he hadn't endorsed the idea, he hadn't disparaged it, either. If I should obtain a foreign textbook to study, what criteria should I use for its selection?
Something in English, I decided.
A few days later I learned that our Quidditch team got a leg up from the year before. Draco Malfoy became the new team Seeker and co-incidentally his father gifted the entire team with Nimbus 2001 brooms. If the Malfoy brat was as good as he claimed he was, Slytherin had a good chance at winning the Quidditch Cup this year. I was delighted by this new development: training and teamwork are the most important factors in facilitating a winning season, but good equipment helps—a lot.
At the same time our new seeker called Hermione Granger a Mudblood. It wasn't the first time I'd heard the term: Purebloods had been calling Muggle-born witches and wizards Mudbloods before I came to Hogwarts. Most of the time, though, they'd had enough good manners or fear of the consequences to use the term in private, not in public. But Malfoy had used the term in public, and I found that I'd taken offense.
If you'd asked me back then just why I found myself more offended than before, I wouldn't have been able to give you a clear answer. One reason I already knew about was that some bigoted Purebloods used the term not only for Muggleborn wizards and witches, but also for mixed-bloods like me whose families had Muggle ancestors, regardless of how long our forebears had been in the Wizarding world. I might not have not have pureblooded wizarding ancestors stretching all the way back to the Roman Invasion and before, but my family's magic stretched back that far, even with the odd Muggle grandparent or two. That someone like Hermione, who lacked wizarding parents, or whose wizarding ancestry might be obscured by hundreds of years, might also have claim to wizarding parentage and the same rights as Purebloods had yet to occur to me. Looking back, though, I realize that my thoughts were drifting in that direction.
In the last week in October, my parents owled me a response from Aunt Muriel. I opened it in the privacy of my bedroom, then started reading it. Aunt Muriel had traced our Woodbine genealogy back to the late 1600's and had not only confirmed the Granger connections to the Harrows but hinted that there might have been other Granger connections to my Woodbine forebears before and afterwards. I wondered which ones were Wizards, Witches and Squibs. I knew that we Woodbines weren't descended from any Squibs, at least not for the last four centuries, but the Grangers? Possibly. Little Hermione's parents were certainly Muggles and I suspect that she or her parents would have told my parents if their parents had been wizards or witches.
Still, the thought of little Hermione, Muggleborn extraordinaire, being a blood relative was amusing. I started laughing. I was still chuckling about it when I was preparing for bed that evening.
"What's so funny, Tristan?" said Aiden. I decided to save the surprise until later.
A few days later it was Halloween. I not only decided that I'd join the Feast in the Great Hall, but I'd also visit Sir Nicholas' Deathday party afterwards. I left the Great Hall with the mob of students, rounded the corner, and saw Potter, Weasley and Granger staring at something hanging from one of the sconces. The stone floor was wet and I assumed that something was off with the plumbing again. I remember briefly wondering why Dumbledore couldn't bring himself to go through the roster of students to learn which ones had parents who were plumbers, then someone pointed to the stone walls. There was writing on them. Not only writing, but writing in blood: "The Chamber of Secrets has been opened! Let the enemies of the Heir beware!"
