Frisk and Ginny left Sunday's breakfast together. They'd already visited with the Fat Lady, telling her how sick they both were of Sir Cadogen already, and it'd had only been a week. Now they were on their way down to the hospital wing. Ginny was clutching a hand-made get well card for Harry, and to Frisk's quiet amusement, seemed to already be blushing furiously.
The Hospital wing hadn't changed much from yesterday. Ron and Hermione were already there, Frisk wasn't sure they had actually left. Ginny went straight from embarrassed to completely mortified in the presence of her brother. She handed her card to Harry, who muttered "Thanks," with bemusement, and fled without saying a word.
"Are you okay, Harry?" Frisk asked.
"I'm alright," he told her, sitting up on the bed. "I'll probably head up to the common room soon." Frisk had turned toward the office door when Harry interrupted her. "You were the one that rushed to the ground when I fell, right?"
"She was, Harry," Herminone told him.
Frisk went pink at the cheeks. "I'd like to think everyone would do that."
"But you're the one who did," Harry told her. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Frisk said. There were a few seconds of awkward silence, and Frisk turned back to the office door. She knocked.
After a moment, Madam Pomfrey opened the door. She'd calmed down significantly from the anger she'd shown yesterday. "What's wrong? Did you catch cold from those wet robes you were wearing yesterday? Do you need something to warm a chill?"
"Uh, no. Actually. You told me to come back when I didn't look like I was about to catch cold. I still want to help, so I have," Frisk said, smiling up at the healer.
Pomfrey looked at her first in surprise, then said thoughtfully. "Alright. I've needed to take inventory, so if you're serious, I'll get you some parchment, and a quill, and I'll let you go to work. Firsk nodded to Madam Pomfrey, took the offered the writing utensils, and went to the supply closet that had been pointed out to her. Opening the closet door, she found rolls of linen bandages, a few boxes of pills, but the cupboard was a veritable mess of potion bottles.
There were potions for dreamless sleep, potions for calming nerves, potions for blood replenishing. A vial labeled Skele-Gro. There were a few bottles labeled mandrake root essence, a few potions for pain numbing. In the back, there was a potion in a black bottle labeled "Drought of Living Death". What was that even for?
Frisk would ask later. She began to start her counts, making notes on her parchment as she did so. After the second time her quill blotted the parchment, she fished out a regular pen from her pocket, and started using that instead. There was also a collection of black stones in a box labeled "Bezoars". There were two unopened, and one opened jar of "Bernard's Burn Balm". Frisk dutifully cataloged it all, and went to give it to the healer.
"Oh?" Madam Pomfrey said, as she glanced at the list of supplies Frisk had given to her "Am I that low on Skele-gro? I shall have to order more."
"What's Skele-gro for?" Frisk asked. There was a loud grumble from the bed's occupant, and something that sounded like "Idiot Lockheart". This was followed by laughter from Ron and Hermione.
"If a bone has a simple, clean, break; it is a straightforward charm to mend it," Pomfrey explained, ignoring the others. "But if it is more complicated, it can be easier, rather than try to repair it, to simply remove it outright and regrow it." She paused for a second, "Or if you get your bones removed by a defense against the dark arts teacher that does not know his remedies."
Frisk blinked. There must have been a story there that she didn't know. It seemed like a bad idea to ask Pomfrey. She could ask Harry about it later, or maybe Ginny, she might know. In the meantime... "Is there anything else I can do to help?" she asked.
"Well, as long as you're here to give me an extra pair of hands, you can help me change the linens on the other beds," she said. Frisk followed her to the beds, and helped her first strip them, then replace with fresh sheets. "I could have let the house elves do it, but one never knows when one needs clean sheets."
Frisk was about to ask what house elves were when she was interrupted. "So, I've been thinking. I really don't mind having some extra help, and you said you wanted to learn," Madam Pomfrey told her. "So, you can come back. But, my patients have the strictest confidence. You are not to talk about anything you see here. And if I have truly sensitive patients, I will tell you to come back another time. Understand?"
Frisk did so, and thanked Madam Pomfrey for her time. She then asked, and got a full explanation of what House Elves were. She didn't like the way they were described as servants... but if it was what they wanted? She'd have to think about it. Then it was back to the Gryffindor common room to do the homework that she hadn't touched at all on Saturday.
It wasn't until Frisk sat down in Transfiguration and saw McGonagall that she remembered about Snape's essay. She was distracted most of the way through the lesson, trying to psych herself up to address the professor. When the bell rung, and the rest of the class headed down to lunch, Frisk sat paralyzed. Could she really do this? She could easily imagine how angry Snape would be... but the thought of Lupin being chased out was even worse. "Professor?" Frisk finally squeaked.
"Yes, Ms. Dreemurr?" McGonagall asked, arching an eyebrow in surprise when saw Frisk was still there.
"Professor Snape substituted in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Thursday," Frisk squeaked again.
"Yes, Dreemurr, I'm aware," McGonagall told her.
"And he gave us a homework assignment..." Frisk said, even more quietly.
"Professors, even substitutes, have been known to assign homework now and again," the transfiguration teacher told her dryly.
Frisk's voice was barely audible, and she stared down at the desk she was still sitting at. "It was on werewolves."
That got McGonagall's attention. She turned quickly, and stepped towards the student, bearing down with a sudden serious air. "What was that?" she asked.
"It was on how to recognize and kill werewolves," Frisk said in the same hushed voice, looking back up at McGonagall.
"I see," McGonagall said evenly. "Did you figure something out?"
Frisk shook her head and lowered her eyes. "No, Lupin told me himself. After we practiced with the boggart," Frisk swallowed, as she studied her desk. She was trying to figure out how to express her worry. "But... but... I was reading how werewolves were treated." She lowered her head, speaking at the floor, "It reminded me of how Mom was treated... except even worse. I thought other people would figure out professor Lupin, and he would be in trouble." Frisk nervously looked up at the professor.
McGonagall studied Frisk's anxious face. She didn't say anything at first. "Did... did that make sense, Professor?" Frisk managed to ask.
"It did, Ms. Dreemurr," McGonagall said, finally. "You are a very interesting child, especially for your age."
Frisk flinched. "I had to grow up fast in the orphanage."
"I suppose so, but it has made you into a very kind person. Thank you for the information. I shall make sure it is acted upon. Now, while you're here, I have a question of my own. Why did you race down to help Harry Potter on Saturday?"
"He was falling," Frisk said. "I've fallen like that twice. I remember what it was like, convinced you were going to die when you hit the ground, and not being able to do anything about it. I was lucky. I landed on a bed of golden flowers that broke my fall each time. That wasn't going to happen for him."
"Did you think you were going to catch him?"
"I don't know," said Frisk. "But I had to try something."
"Didn't it cross your mind that there were professors on hand for that kind of emergency?"
In her mind's eye, Frisk saw the monster kid, hanging from the ledge. Both her and Undyne were simply staring at each other, each expecting the other to move... to do something. "I can't wait for other people to act," Frisk said, "If there's even the chance I can help, I have to take it. I don't think I could live with myself if I didn't." Frisk knew it really wasn't hypothetical. If there was a chance to save people... she would try it.
"Which is why you're volunteering with Madame Pomfrey?" McGonagall asked. "Most first year sign up for something like chorus, or gobstones."
Frisk nodded. "I like helping people. I want to learn to be a healer."
"That is very admirable," the professor told her. Professor McGonagall gave Frisk one of her rare approving smiles, and it even touched her eyes. "That was my question. I suggest you go to lunch now."
"Is he okay?" Frisk asked, "Professor Lupin, I mean. Is he feeling better?"
"He is. You will see him today in," she caught herself. "You will see him Thursday."
"Thank you, professor," Frisk said. She stood, grabbed her books, and headed down the great hall to eat.
Frisk, along with the other first year Gryffindors and Slytherins, climbed down toward Snape's dungeon classroom. The door, as usual, was closed, and it opened precisely when the bell rung. The students filed in to their seats. Gryffindors to Snape's right, Slytherins to the left. A single row of open desks sat in the middle, creating a sort of neutral zone between the two houses. When the potions master was convinced everyone was on time, he pulled the door shut with a loud bang.
"Today, we will be working on an awakening potion. Directions, as always, will be on the blackboard. But first, you have an assignment you should be handing..."
There was a polite knock on the door. Snape ignored it at first. "Please get out the essay..." the rapping was longer, and louder, the second time. Snape stared at the door coldly. With a flick of his wand, the door opened again, and in stepped Dumbledore, who surveyed the room curiously. "Headmaster," Snape said. "How can I help you this afternoon?"
"Ah, Professor Snape," Dumbledore said. "I have it on good authority that you assigned an essay when you were substituting for Professor Lupin. It's due today, right?"
Snape looked around the Gryffindor side of the class darkly, suspecting one of them of tattling to the headmaster. His malevolent eyes focused suddenly on Frisk. Frisk looked back at him defiantly.
"Oh, don't look at your students, Professor," Dumbledore chuckled. "Ms. Pince was complaining to everyone who would listen how you were overworking the werewolf books, and had given them such a short turnaround time." Snape looked back at Dumbledore, and Frisk would swear a dark look passed between them. "Since you've told me you want the Defense job, I thought I would grade the essays with you, and see how you did handling the work as a substitute."
"At this time, headmaster, I have a potions class to teach," Snape said. His voice was dry enough that it would have caught fire if near an open flame.
"Completely reasonable, professor," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling. "I shall simply collect the essays now, and we can look at them either over dinner. Or perhaps just after it."
Snape looked like he was about to argue, but Dumbledore had already turned to the Gryffindor side of the potions class. Most of them, including Frisk, already had their essays out, the ones that didn't rapidly ruffled through their bags, handing them over to the headmaster. He then repeated the exercise on the Slytherin side. Once he'd collected all the parchment, Dumbledore nodded to the class, and bowed to Snape, before departing and shutting the dungeon door quietly behind him.
If Frisk had thought Professor Snape was in a bad mood normally, the headmaster's visit had left him practically seething. Once he'd set the class to work, he prowled through the class, pantherlike, ready to pounce on the slighted mistake a Gryffindor made. He only inspected the Slytherin side when one of them had a rare question.
It was when Frisk had just finished stirring her cauldron and was ready to check the next instruction when she realized Snape was standing over her with a positively evil smile. In that instant, she expected him to call her an idiot. He was wearing... a Flowey kind of smile.
"Miss Dreemurr," he hissed. "What have you just finished doing?"
"Stirring my potion seven times clockwise, professor?" Frisk offered. She realized, to her growing dread, that the cauldron in front of her contained a calm, sky blue, potion, and in just about every other cauldron in the room had a potion that was green and bubbling fiercely.
"Read the ninth line out to me," Snape said, flourishing his wand at the blackboard.
"Stir seven times..." and Frisk's stomach dropped, "counter-clockwise."
"As you can see," Snape announced, to a good deal of snickering from the Slytherin side of the class, "This potion is now ruined." He tapped Frisk's cauldron with his wand, and the contents vanished. "Next time, maybe she will trust her professor. For today, a zero."
Dejected, Frisk sat down, she glumly watched as the rest of the class finished their potion, and bottle it for inspection.
"For next time, I expect a roll of parchment on the uses of the awakening potion... and no complaints." He didn't look at Frisk, he didn't have to. Frisk packed up her bag and left with the rest of her classmates.
She was distracted from her thoughts when she was jostled by Gregory Schmidt. "Hey, Frisk. You alright over there?"
"I guess so," Frisk said in a voice that said she was anything but. "I can't believe I made such a stupid mistake."
"Why'd he single you out like that?" Greg asked her.
"I... I complained about the essay he assigned us in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she admitted.
"Why? It wasn't that bad, was it?"
Frisk was quiet. "I... I was asked not to talk about it. I'm sorry," she finally answered.
Gregory shrugged. "Hard to be sympathetic if you complain without a reason," he said.
"There was reason enough for Dumbledore to come in and look at it," Frisk countered.
Gregory shrugged, and without another word between them, they went up to dinner.
The essays were handed back by Percy Weasley the next morning. The paper, turned faced down, sat next to her eggs for a long while, with her not daring to turn it over. When the food was done, she stared at the back of the threatening parchment for several seconds. When she finally turned it over, she first saw the big red zero, in Snape's handwriting, that she expected.
After a moment, though, she realized it'd been lined out with black ink, in handwriting she didn't recognize. That same black pen had awarded her nine out of ten (-1, "for deviating somewhat from the assigned topic"). The black pen had circled certain parts of her essay, the references to the discrimination that werewolves had suffered (You should read "Hairy Snout, Human Heart", the black pen commented), and at the end, underlined twice, were her words, "Above all, it is important to remember, in human form, Werewolves are still completely the person they used to be. As capable of joy, and compassion (and, in red angry capitals, "and anger, and hatred"), as any other human or monster. They are the victims of a terrible tragedy, and should be treated with kindness, not fear." This was followed by a wet splotch on the paper, then in blue ink, in handwriting she recognized as Lupin's, two words: "Thank you".
At the bottom, again in the black ink, were the words: "Ten points to Gryffindor, for compassion, no matter what the personal cost. And ten points to Gryffindor, for quick reaction and willingness to help in an emergency."
Frisk clutched the essay to her chest, then put it carefully away in her bag.
A/N: Hey out there. For those of you leaving reviews, thanks! For those of you leaving guest reviews, consider registering. I'd love to talk to some of you! (If you're a TVTroper, you can drop me a message there too as 'Treguard'.) And as always, thanks for reading.- TZ