I'm so sorry this is so late, but there will be more information at the end. I hope you enjoy the next chapter!
Disclaimer/ I don't own anything
Chapter 6
The next day did not go as well as I'd hoped. Things started to go downhill from breakfast in the Great Hall. The four long house tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today, a dull, cloudy grey). Hermione and I had ventured out earlier than the boys, and she had her copy of Voyages with Vampires propped open against a milk jug while I chatted with Neville. When Harry and Ron sat down at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, there was a slight stiffness in the way she said "Morning," which told us she was still disapproving of the way they had arrived. Admittedly, I wasn't particularly happy either, but I decided to let it go. Neville, on the other hand, greeted them cheerfully.
"Mail's due any minute – I think Gran's sending a few things I forgot."
The boys had only just started their porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville's head and, a second later, something large and grey fell into Hermione's jug, spraying us all with milk and feathers. Meanwhile, a plain barn owl dropped something into my hands. I recognised McGonagall's writing and slipped the note away to read later.
"Errol!" said Ron, pulling the bedraggled owl out by the feet. Errol slumped, unconscious, onto the table, his legs in the air and a damp red envelope in his beak.
"Oh, no -" Ron gasped.
"It's all right, he's still alive," said Hermione, prodding Errol gently with the tip of her finger.
"It's not that – it's that."
Ron was pointing at the red envelope. It looked quite ordinary to me, but Ron and Neville were both looking at it as though they expected it to explode.
"What's the matter?" said Harry.
"She's – she's sent me a Howler," said Ron faintly.
She?
"You'd better open it, Ron," said Neville in a timid whisper. "It'll be worse if you don't. My gran sent me one once, and I ignored it and" – he gulped -"it was horrible."
I looked from their petrified faces to the red envelope.
"What's a Howler?" I asked.
But Ron's whole attention was fixed on the letter, which had begun to smoke at the corners.
"Open it," Neville urged. "It'll all be over in a few minutes–"
Ron stretched out a shaking hand, eased the envelope from Errol's beak, and slit it open. Neville stuffed his fingers in his ears. A split second later, I knew why. I thought for a moment it had exploded; a roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.
"-STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY'D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TILL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE–"
Mrs Weasleys yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on the table and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swivelling around to see who had received the Howler, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.
"-LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN'T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND HARRY COULD BOTH HAVE DIED–"
Upon hearing his name, Harry seemed to try very hard to look as though he couldn't hear the voice that was making my eardrums throb.
"-ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED – YOUR FATHER'S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME."
A ringing silence fell. The red envelope, which had dropped from Ron's hand, burst into flames and curled into ashes. Harry and Ron sat stunned, as though a tidal wave had just passed over them. A few people laughed and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.
Hermione closed Voyages with Vampires and looked down at the top of Ron's head.
"Well, I don't know what you expected, Ron, but you–"
"Don't tell me I deserved it," snapped Ron.
Harry pushed his porridge away, and I glanced at him. I could see his inner turmoil. Mr Weasley was facing an inquiry at work. After all Mr and Mrs Weasley had done for us over the summer…
But we had no time to dwell on the Howler; Professor McGonagall was moving along the Gryffindor table, handing out course schedules. I took mine and saw I had been put with the Gryffindors and that we had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and I left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept. At least the Howler had done one good thing: Hermione seemed to think the boys had now been punished enough and was being perfectly friendly again.
As we neared the greenhouses, we saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. We had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart. Professor Sprout's arms were full of bandages, and I saw the Whomping Willow in the distance, several of its branches now in slings. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harry flinch a bit.
"Oh, hello there!" Lockhart called, beaming around at the assembled students. "Just been showing Professor Sprout the right way to doctor a Whomping Willow! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have met several of these exotic plants on my travels…"
"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, who was looking distinctly disgruntled, not at all her usual cheerful self.
There was a murmur of interest. We had only ever worked in greenhouse one before – greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. I caught a whiff of damp earth and fertiliser mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. Harry and I were about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out.
"Harry! Isobel! I've been wanting a word – you don't mind if they're a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?"
Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, "That's the ticket," and closed the greenhouse door in her face.
"Harry," said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. "Harry, Harry, Harry."
I shifted uncomfortably, wondering why I had been pulled out of class if Lockhart was just going to talk to Harry.
"When I heard – well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself."
I scrunched my eyebrows. Judging from the look on Harry's face, he had no idea what Lockhart was talking about either. I was about to say so when Lockhart went on, "Don't know when I've been more shocked—flying a car to Hogwarts! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry."
It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn't talking.
"Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?" said Lockhart. "Gave you the bug. You got onto the front page of the paper with me, and you couldn't wait to do it again."
"Oh, no, Professor, see–"
"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Lockhart, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Lockhart reached out and grasped his shoulder. "I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste – and I blame myself for giving you that because it was bound to go to your head – but see here, young man, you can't start flying cars to try and get yourself noticed. Just calm down, all right? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! It's all right for him; he's an internationally famous wizard already! But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they? All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" He glanced at the lightning scar on Harry's forehead, and I resisted the urge to smack his hand off of Harry's shoulder. "I know, I know – it's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award five times in a row, as I have – but it's a start, Harry, it's a start."
He gave Harry a hearty wink then turned his gaze on me.
"Now, Isobel, Isobel, Isobel," he started, and I gritted my teeth. "I understand that having your twin brother in the spotlight may be stressful, and you might be tempted to want to take the glory for yourself. But at the rate you're going, you don't need to try so hard. Although you're the not the Boy Who Lived – or girl, really, you're famous enough for surviving the presence of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Sometimes that's all it takes to win the hearts of the people. Now, having said that, make sure your brother doesn't get too caught up in the fame. It can really get to one's head if you don't handle it well."
He flashed a magnificent smile before striding off.
"Did he seriously just lecture US about not letting fame get to our heads?" I ask incredulously as I stare after his brilliant, flowing teal robes. Harry just stands there; stunned, for a few seconds. Then, he shakes himself out of it.
"Come on; we should get to class," he sighs. He opens the door to the greenhouse, and we slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the centre of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-coloured ear muffs were lying on the bench. When Harry and I had taken our place between Ron and Hermione, she said, "We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"
To nobody's surprise, Hermione's hand was first into the air.
"Mandrake, or Mandragora, is a powerful restorative," said Hermione, sounding as usual as though she had swallowed the textbook. "It is used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state."
"Excellent. Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes. It is also, however, dangerous. Who can tell me why?"
Hermione's hand narrowly missed Harry's glasses as it shot up again. He just shook his head at her, and I flashed him a small grin. I made a mental note to read the textbooks in the next few days or so. They had been locked away at the Dursleys, and then I hadn't thought about reading them at the Weasley's. It would make classes much easier if I read them.
"The cry of the Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," Hermione said promptly.
"Precisely. Take another ten points," said Professor Sprout. "Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young."
She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward for a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish-green in colour, were growing there in rows. They looked quite unremarkable to me, and I didn't have the slightest idea what Hermione meant by the "cry" of the Mandrake.
"Everyone take a pair of earmuffs," said Professor Sprout.
There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair that wasn't pink and fluffy.
"When I tell you to put them on, make sure your ears are completely covered," said Professor Sprout. "When it is safe to remove them, I will give you the thumbs-up. Right – earmuffs on."
I snapped my earmuffs over my ears. They shut out sound completely. Professor Sprout put the pink, fluffy pair over her own ears, rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.
I let out a gasp of surprise that no one could hear.
Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs.
Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible. Professor Sprout dusted off her hands, gave them all the thumbs-up, and removed her own earmuffs.
"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. "However, they will knock you out for several hours, and as I'm sure none of you want to miss your first day back, make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it is time to pack up.
"Four to a tray – there is a large supply of pots here – compost in the sacks over there – and be careful of the Venemous Tentacula, it's teething."
She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.
Harry, Ron, Hermione and I were joined at our tray by a curly-haired Hufflepuff boy I very vaguely remembered.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley," he said brightly, shaking Harry by the hand and then me. "Know who you are, of course, the famous Harry Potter… And you're Isobel Potter and Hermione Granger – always top in everything" (Hermione beamed as she had her hand shaken too) "- and Ron Weasley. Wasn't that your flying car?"
Ron didn't smile. The Howler was obviously still on his mind.
"That Lockhart's something, isn't he?" said Justin happily as we began filling their plant pots with dragon dung compost. "Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I'd have died of fear if I'd been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and – zap – just fantastic.
"My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart's books I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family…"
After that, we didn't have much chance to talk, but when we did, I made sure to speak with Justin. Our earmuffs were back on, and we needed to concentrate on the Mandrakes. Professor Sprout had made it look extremely easy, but it wasn't. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth but didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their sharp little fists, and gnashed their teeth.
By the end of the class, everyone was sweaty, aching, and covered in earth. We all traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors and I hurried off to Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall's classes were always hard work, but today was especially difficult. Or would've been if I hadn't also had extra Transfiguration help last year. However, Harry was struggling. It was like everything we'd learned last year seemed to have leaked out of his head during the summer. We were supposed to be turning a beetle into a button, but all he managed to do was give his beetle a lot of exercise as it scuttled over the desktop avoiding his wand.
Ron was having far worse problems. He had patched up his wand with some borrowed Spellotape, but it seemed to be damaged beyond repair. It kept crackling and sparking at odd moments, and every time Ron tried to transfigure his beetle, it engulfed him in thick grey smoke that smelled of rotten eggs. Unable to see what he was doing; Ron accidentally squashed his beetle with his elbow and had to ask for a new one. Professor McGonagall wasn't pleased.
Hermione and I managed to transfigure a handful of buttons between ourselves, which McGonagall did seem pleased about. I could tell Harry and Ron were relieved to hear the lunch bell, however. Everyone filed out of the classroom except the four of us, and Ron was whacking his wand furiously on the desk.
"Stupid – useless – thing–"
"Write home for another one," Harry suggested as the wand let off a volley of bangs like a firecracker.
"Oh, yeah, and get another Howler back," said Ron, stuffing the now hissing wand into his bag. "It's your own fault your wand got snapped -'"
We went down to lunch, where Ron's mood was obviously not improved by Hermione showing them the handful of perfect coat buttons we had produced in Transfiguration.
"What've we got this afternoon?" said Harry, hastily changing the subject.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once.
"Why," demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"
Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously. I scrunched my nose a little upon seeing it, to which Hermione sniffed once before ignoring me.
We finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Harry, Ron and I stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harry suddenly cut off. Looking up, I saw a very small, mousy-haired boy staring at Harry and I as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry and I looked at him, he went bright red.
"All right, Harry? Isobel? I'm – I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think – would it be all right if – can I have a picture?" he said, raising the camera hopefully.
"A picture?" Harry repeated blankly.
"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin Creevey eagerly, edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how Harry you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman; he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of the two of you" – he looked imploringly at Harry and me – "maybe your friend could take it, and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.
"Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harry and Isobel Potter're giving out signed photos!"
"No, we're not," said Harry angrily. "Shut up, Malfoy."
"You're just jealous," piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe's neck.
"Jealous?" said Malfoy, who didn't need to shout anymore: half the courtyard was listening in. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.
"Eat slugs, Malfoy," said Ron angrily. Crabbe stopped laughing and started rubbing his knuckles in a menacing way.
"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Malfoy. "You don't want to start any trouble, or your Mommy'll have to come and take you away from school." He put on a shrill, piercing voice. "If you put another toe out of line –"
A knot of Slytherin fifth-years nearby laughed loudly at this.
"Weasley would like a signed photo, Potter," smirked Malfoy. "It'd be worth more than his family's whole house–"
Ron whipped out his Spellotaped wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, "Look out!"
"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giving out signed photos?"
I started to speak, but was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around Harry and I's shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry, Isobel!"
Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, I saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.
"Come on then, Mr Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A triple portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll all sign it for you."
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signalling the start of afternoon classes.
"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry and I still clasped to his side.
"A word to the wise, Potters," said Lockhart paternally as we entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey – if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourselves up so much…"
Deaf to Harry and I's stammers, Lockhart swept us down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.
"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your careers isn't sensible – looks a tad bigheaded, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but" – he gave a little chortle – "I don't think you're quite there yet."
We had reached Lockhart's classroom, and he let Harry and I go at last. We yanked our robes straight and headed for seats at the very back of the class, where we busied ourselves with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of us so that we could avoid looking at the real thing.
The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Harry and me.
"You could've fried an egg on your faces," said Ron. "You'd better hope Creevey doesn't meet Ginny, or they'll be starting a Harry Potter fan club."
"Shut up," snapped Harry. I stifled a chuckle although I knew the last thing he needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase "Harry Potter fan club."
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly, and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.
"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defence League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
He waited for us to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.
"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books – well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about – just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in–"
When he had handed out the test papers, he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes – start – now!"
I looked down at my paper and read:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?
What kind of questions were these? I hadn't thought Lockhart could get any more up himself, but somehow, he managed. Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.
"Tut, tut – hardly any of you remembered that my favourite colour is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully – I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples – though I wouldn't say no to a large bottle of Ogdeds Old Firewhisky!"
He gave us another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Harry and I just exchanged disgusted looks. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned her name.
"… but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions – good girl! In fact" – he flipped her paper over – "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"
Hermione raised a trembling hand.
"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so – to business–"
He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.
"Now – be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."
In spite of myself, I leaned around my pile of books for a better look at the cage. Lockhart placed a hand on the cover. Dean and Seamus had stopped laughing now. Neville was cowering in his front-row seat.
"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might provoke them."
As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.
"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."
Seamus apparently couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.
"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.
"Well, they're not – they're not very – dangerous, are they?" Seamus choked.
"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"
The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them.
"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!" And he opened the cage.
It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the wastebasket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks, and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.
"Come on now – round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later as the chandelier gave way.
The bell rang, and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Harry, Ron, Hermione and I who were almost at the door, and said, "Well, I'll ask you four to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past us and shut the door quickly behind him.
"Can you believe him?" roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.
"He just wants to give us some hands-on experience," said Hermione, immobilising two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage.
"Hands-on?" said Harry, who was trying to grab a pixie dancing out of reach with its tongue out. "Hermione, he didn't have a clue what he was doing–"
"Rubbish," said Hermione. "You've read his books – look at all those amazing things he's done–"
"He says he's done," Ron muttered, and I had to agree with him.
After we had finally managed to get out of the door, we moved into the courtyard to enjoy a few hours of downtime before dinner and having to do homework. I managed to get a chance to read McGonagall's letter while the boys were talking, and Hermione was reading. I figured they were too distracted to notice, so I discreetly pulled it out.
Isobel,
I hope your holidays weren't too bad. I know you and Harry spent some time with the Weasleys (although your method of getting there was unseemly) so I hope that made them more enjoyable. Professor Dumbledore and I would like to talk with you if it's alright with you. If so, come to Professor Dumbledore's office – Sherbet Lemon - after dinner tonight, will you?
Professor McGonagall
I read it once more before folding it back into my robes with a smile. After that, the four of us chatted for a bit until it was dinner time. I greedily ate my Shepherd's Pie before telling the other three I was going to the Library and probably wouldn't be back until late. I had told them last year I had an arrangement with Madame Pince which Hermione thankfully hadn't questioned me about, for which I was grateful. As I approached the stone gargoyles, I said the password, and they sprung apart for me. I wasn't sure if McGonagall or Dumbledore were there yet, but I figured they wouldn't mind.
I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I tried the handle, and it was open, so I decided to slip in. As always, I was taken back by the vast amount of odd objects and instruments throughout the room. Something draws me to the perch Dumbledore's phoenix – Fawkes – occupied. With brilliant bright feathers and a golden beak, he was extremely magnificent. Hesitantly, I reached out, wondering if Fawkes would nip my hand off for trying to touch him. He didn't, however, so I took that as an invitation. I slowly reached forward and rested my hand on his crimson plumage, stroking him with a smile. A soft trill left his throat, and I felt the effects of the song soothing my body and mind. I hadn't even realised I was tense.
"He likes you."
I startle slightly, pulling my hand away from Fawkes and turning around to see a softly smiling Dumbledore.
"Consider yourself honoured," he continues. "Fawkes doesn't let just anyone pet him."
I glance at the phoenix and smile. Dumbledore gestures for me to sit opposite him at his desk.
"Minerva will be here shortly," he informs me.
I nod, helping myself to the lemon drops he offers me. I hadn't liked them at first, but I discovered they were now one of my favourite candies. About a minute later, McGonagall enters the room and takes the seat next to Dumbledore with a rare smile.
"Good evening Isobel," she greets me.
"Evening Professor," I can't help but smile back.
"How have you been?" she asks with a touch of worry.
"The Weasley's are amazing!" I grin. "They've treated Harry and me like their own, and they've more than looked after us. The Burrow is awesome!"
"I'm glad," Dumbledore smiles, but it drops a moment later. "However, I think Minerva was asking about before the Weasley's…collected you."
My smile drops.
"It was alright," I answer honestly. "They weren't friendly, by any means. But they weren't particularly hostile either. Well, until…"
"Until what?" Dumbledore probes.
"Until a house-elf popped into Harry and I's room," I sigh.
"A house-elf?" McGonagall repeats in surprise.
I nod.
"He said his name was Dobby," I say, deciding that I should tell them what he warned us about. "He said he was there to warn us. He didn't want us to come back to Hogwarts," I pause to gauge their reactions.
Both of their eyebrows raise but Dumbledore motions for me to continue.
"He said if we came, we would be in mortal danger. He said that there was a plot he had known about for months, to make terrible things happen here. Harry and I asked him what it was and who was planning it, but he couldn't tell us. He kept hitting himself. And then he tried to convince us to say we wouldn't come back, but of course, we didn't, so he ran out of the room, and made a cake fall onto a visitor who was over. That's why we got the note about under-age magic, but it was really Dobby. After that, Vernon locked us in our room and barred our windows, so we had no way of getting out or sending a message."
When I finish, McGonagall and Dumbledore exchange a worried glance.
"Did this house-elf give you any hints about this plot for Hogwarts?" Dumbledore asks gently.
I shake my head.
"We asked if it had something to do with Voldemort. He said no, but he seemed like he was trying to give us a hint. Vernon interrupted before we could figure anything else out though."
The two professors have a silent conversation I had long since grown accustomed to. A few minutes pass before either of them speaks again.
"Well, it seems as if we might have yet another cautious year ahead of us," Dumbledore announces. "Thank you for telling us this Isobel."
"Now, onto another matter," McGonagall says.
"Ah, yes. I know this is a bit of an unusual request, but do you wear the locket you got for Christmas?" Dumbledore asks.
I frown before nodding, my hand reaching up to clasp it.
"Would you mind if I had a look at it?" he asks.
Any other person I probably would have said no to, but I trusted Dumbledore. I unclasped the necklace and placed it in his outstretched hand. He grasped it and turned it over in his hands before muttering a few words and waving his hand over it. When he handed it back to me, I could feel the lingering of his magic on it. I clasp it back around my neck while asking what he did.
"I put a few spells on it that will allow you to contact myself or Minerva if something like that happens again. It will send a simple message to us with your location so we can find you. All you have to do is clasp your locket and think, very clearly, of either of our names. I'm sorry I didn't do this before but rest assured, it is there if you ever need help again."
I stare up at him in amazement, then give both him and McGonagall a grateful smile.
"Thank you," I say honestly, feeling quite touched.
"It's nothing," McGonagall waves me off. "It will make both of us sleep easier to know that you can contact us should something go wrong."
A few moments of silence pass before Dumbledore speaks up.
"Onto another matter. Are you happy with the timetable you've been given? If not, we can change it."
"No, it's fine, thank you. I'm happy to stay with the Gryffindors."
"Wonderful. That just leaves the matter of your lessons with us," Dumbledore says. "We both feel they have been beneficial to you, but I believe there is still much for you to learn, considering the things we discovered at the end of the term."
I nod, casting my mind back to our last meeting where we had learned I could feel the magic of Hogwarts, and they had told me about the Deathly Hallows.
"I don't think they need to be as frequent as last year, but I do want to stress the importance of them."
"That's okay, I understand. And I'm willing. When will our first lesson be?" I ask.
"Excellent. What do you think, Minerva? When are you free?"
"I believe Thursday afternoon works for me."
They look at me for confirmation, and I nod.
"Very well. I think that concludes our meeting," Dumbledore announces with a twinkling smile.
I get up, and so do they, and give them a wide smile.
"Thank you," I say. "I'm looking forward to Thursday."
They both give me bright smiles as I bid goodbye and slip through the door back to Gryffindor Tower. Luckily no one questions why I was out or where I was, and I quickly reach my dormitory where I change into my pyjamas and fall into bed.
Hey guys! I'm sorry for not updating sooner! I've been so caught up in my other story that I haven't had a chance to get a new chapter finished. I promise now, though that this story has my priority. I'm hoping to get my next chapter out within the week. Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review!