Chapter 6
"Excellent," said Ron at the Gryffindor table the next morning, a mouthful of eggs crowding his words. He held his timetable in front of him, grinning gleefully. "One or two classes a day, and most of them after lunch. Three classes in all. This year's going to be bloody fantastic."
"And unfulfilling," Hermione countered, each syllable teetering as though insulted. She had sharpened her glare on the edge of her parchment. From their O.W.L. discussion on the train yesterday, Harry knew Hermione was to take the maximum of seven N.E.W.T. classes. Harry himself had five. "How are you to become a well-rounded human being without a broad education? Besides," she added, brown eyes mere slits as Ron mocked her with a gabbing hand puppet. Lavender Brown giggled from a few seats down, and surprised pleasure dusted his grin. "You'll need all those breaks for studying."
"With my class schedule?" Ron waved the parchment in the air and settled it beside his plate. He then proceeded to shovel fluffy eggs and toast into the wide, seemingly endless burrow of his mouth. Pastel yellow chunks slipped from the notice of his bulging cheeks.
Hermione's mouth pulled in disgust. "I guess there are other ways to become well-rounded," she allowed as a browned U of crust skittered toward her half-empty goblet. With careful, measured touches of her knife she inched it towards Ron's plate.
Ron snapped up the offering and rolled his eyes toward the enchanted ceiling, which depicted clear skies untainted by clouds or rain. "'Oo worry too much, 'Er-my-knee." He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bobbed. "Sixth year is going to be a breeze."
"So you say." Hermione primly pulled a red Muggle folder from her bag and slipped her schedule neatly inside. "But this is when we should be preparing ourselves for our N.E.W.T. exams."
Ron dropped his fork. "That's ages away!"
"You should listen to Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall interjected as Hermione opened her mouth for another rebuttal. Straight lines and sharp angles, the Transfiguration professor cut an imposing figure as she stood behind Ron, stern face all the more impressive as morning's light pressed shadows into her figure. Ron had jumped badly with a muddled 'bloody hell' at her sudden appearance. "Your N.E.W.T. years are no laughing matter, nor are they, are you so delicately put it, a breeze. Here you are, Mr. Potter." She handed Harry a fresh timetable, upon which was a note in a familiar, looping hand:
The Headmaster cordially invites you to trade Chocolate Frog cards this Wednesday evening at eight.
"I expect everything's in order?" Though she said this with the utmost normality, Harry suspected she was not talking about his schedule. He glanced at his classes, and again at the note.
"Yes," he said. "Thank you, Professor."
She nodded, her crooked witch's hat starched into stillness, but frowned as she peered over her glasses to Ron's schedule, which as now splotched with butter grease and the occasional dried patch of pumpkin juice. "You're one class short for my liking, Mr. Weasley," she said.
"It's to my liking," Ron muttered, viciously slathering grape jam on a golden slice of toast.
"It is to my standard that all Gryffindors are enrolled in at least four courses," Professor McGonagall said without sympathy. She continued to hand timetables out to the Gryffindors around her as she spoke. "It doesn't necessarily have to be a N.E.W.T. course. I know Professor Binns offers a few historical electives, and you can join an O.W.L. elective you haven't previously studied, such as Ancient Runes or Muggle Studies. There's also the option of retaking an O.W.L. course—"
"I'll stay with my year, thanks." Redness crept dangerously slow up the curve of Ron's ears.
Professor McGonagall was unyielding. "How about Care of Magical Creatures?" she ventured. "You scored reasonably well enough to proceed to N.E.W.T. level, and I daresay Professor Hagrid would be delighted to have you."
At the mention of their biggest friend, guilt slithered down to weigh in Harry's stomach. Harry found he could not look away from his schedule, which did not feature a single one of Hagrid's classes. Hermione began shifting scrambled eggs from one side of her plate to the other, her face concealed by the curtain of her hair, and Harry knew she felt the same.
Ron rubbed at his neck, ears fading from their agitated state. "Yeah, all right," he said, expression long.
"Splendid." Professor McGonagall tapped his timetable, and Care of Magical Creatures wrote itself in before Double Charms on Tuesday and after Transfiguration on Friday. "I believe Professor Hagrid is still using the same book for his N.E.W.T. students, so there's no need to indulge in that rubbish Flourish and Blotts calls an Owl Service. And Mr. Potter?"
An unpleasant crick jolted down Harry's spin as he craned his neck upward. "Yes, Ma'am?" he inquired. Without his rootless attention, oats slipped from his spoon.
"I'd like this year's line-up, whenever you are ready," she said. Green eyes gleamed excitedly behind the stern lines of her face. "I've grown accustomed to having the Cup in my office."
"'This year's line-up,'" Ron quoted slowly as Professor McGonagall stalked to the lower end of the Gryffindor table, voice raised against the rough tide of the third years. Ron's head then swiveled to face Harry, who had been squishing the oats of his cereal into a nebulous blob, mouth agape as though Harry had struck him. "Don't tell me you're Quidditch Captain."
"Uh, yeah." Harry peered at his uniform, vaguely surprised he'd forgotten to fix the shining pin to his lapel this morning. "I guess I am. Surprise."
Ron punched his arm. "What a thing to keep from your friends!" he crowed, and guilt thrilled momentarily to Harry's stomach, originating from the contact point of Ron's knuckles; his captaincy wasn't the only thing Harry was keeping from them, however innocent and accidental it had been. "You're my captain now—supposing you'll let me back on the team, heh heh . . ."
Hermione's eyes crinkled happily. "You have the same status as the prefects, now! You can use the bathrooms and the lounges—"
"Not that it's stopped you before," Ron added. A gangly wrist peeked out from the cuff of his black robes as he reached across the table to swipe Harry's schedule. He nodded at its contents, as though confirming what he'd already expected. "Let's see . . . got your Charms and Transfiguration, Herbology, Potions—ouch, good luck there, mate, and—oh, bullocks. Defense with the Slytherins this morning. It's like they want us to kill each other."
"You have your own schedule, you know," Harry said amusedly, breaking his toast to pieces. Butter slicked his fingertips with grease, and he popped a morsel into his mouth.
"What's this tosh on the bottom here?" Ron asked as though he hadn't heard Harry. "Dumbledore's past senile—now he wants to trade chocolate frog cards with students? Completely barking."
Harry snatched his schedule from Ron's long fingers. "That's the password, you moron," he said, and Ron's sudden epiphany—round eyes, open mouth, and expression slackened—was always worth seeing. As Ron uttered a quiet, 'Oh, yeah,' Harry shoved his schedule unceremoniously into his pocket. Dry and heavy, the parchment crinkled loudly under his robes, stretching the seams of fabric as though desiring to return to the light. "Dumbledore wants to meet with me on Wednesday."
"You, too?" Neville exclaimed from further down the table. As the fifth year Gryffindors gathered their bags he scooted closer to Hermione, worrying his timetable with thick fingers. He lowered his voice. "You don't think it's because of last year?"
Harry and Ron stared at him blankly, but Hermione was quick to pick up the beat. "Of course not," she said. "If that were the case, he'd want to see the rest of us. But Ron and I haven't notes, and I doubt Ginny and Luna do, either. He probably wants to talk to you about something completely unrelated."
Oh. Neville thought he was in trouble because of what they had done at the Department of Mysteries. That he would be punished for fighting Death Eaters, protecting himself and his friends. Although Neville's thinking was irrational—they would have been punished for that disaster last year, if at all—it made sense; Harry doubted Neville had ever a meeting with the Headmaster in his life. The idea that most students never even saw the Headmaster's office was a novel one to Harry, who'd made a visit at least once a year since his second.
Then again, most students didn't get into as much trouble as Harry did.
Harry then wondered if their combined meeting had something to do with the prophecy. Neville had once been a possible subject, after all. Perhaps, after having a summer's reflection, Dumbledore decided Neville had the right to know as well?
Harry shook himself, allowing the sunlight to lean its heavy warmth on his back like an exuberant friend. Forced reassurance attempted to draw a smile on his face. "I'm sure it's nothing," he said, standing to pat Neville's slumped shoulder.
Wouldn't Neville be happier not knowing?
The four stepped out of the Great Hall together, traversing the castle's vast halls as speculation wove its curious arms over their shoulders, connecting them through the unknown that was their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Who was this man? Would he be informative, as Lupin and 'Moody' had been? Or would he be completely useless, another idiot like Lockhart (He wasn't an idiot, Harry James; merely misguided) dooming them all to another year of boredom and slapdash plans to teach themselves?
Ivory staircases twisted beneath them. Portraits wished them a happy morning, watercolor hands of merry youths waving as they passed. Sunlight washed creaking suits of armor and faded squares of stone, breathing warmth into entities that would otherwise remain cold. Harry half-expected Peeves to pop up from beyond a corner and pelt them with breakfast scones, but then he remembered his discovery at the Welcome Feast last night. A chill he couldn't explain dampened his hands. It was perfectly possible, as Hermione had suggested, that the ghosts had simply decided not to come to the Welcome Feast this year. Perhaps they had trouble with Peeves, and it took the entire night and community of specters to contain him. Perhaps there was another Deathday Party, celebrations prolonged by a grandiloquent showcase of the Headless Hunt. Or, perhaps he was overreacting, overthinking something completely trivial.
The castle seemed unnaturally quiet. Harry scrubbed his palms down the length of his thigh, and the smooth velvet of his robes absorbed some of his unease. He would have to remember to ask Dumbledore about it when they met.
At last, they arrived, and the ghosts were forgotten in lieu of his curiosity. For the most part, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom remained unchanged: stone humming beneath their feet, bathed in morning from arched windows unbothered by curtains; ceiling vaulted high into wooden rafters, opening the space as though an indoor clearing; and above their heads remained the dragon's bones, hanging from chains bolted to extended wings. The desks, however, formed a wide circle, molding the room into something a little more radical and dynamic than the usual forward-facing rows. Each desk corner touched another, facing an empty space of stone floor, upon which runes had been branded.
If Hermione hadn't a hold of Harry's sleeve he would have chosen the desk nearest the door. As it was, he now sat with his back to the window. To his left, Hermione carefully lined up her class materials: tidied parchment, unstoppered inkwell and quill parallel to its side, their textbooks—The Dark Arts: Unmasked and, strangely enough, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts—hugged the corner. To his right, Ron didn't bother. Harry set his bag on the floor, where it slouched against the table leg. Like the Gryffindors, each sixth year Slytherin appeared to have passed their Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L., including, to Harry's greatest astonishment, Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom lumbered in minutes before Draco Malfoy. For the past five years, Harry had been under the impression they didn't know their way around the castle without him.
While the Gryffindors gradually occupied the window desks, backs to the sapphire morning shining upon dry grounds of emerald, the Slytherins rounded the other side. Neville squeaked uncomfortably from Hermione's left; the circular design of the desks didn't allow for their usual segregation, and Goyle had dropped heavily into the seat next to him. He gave no acknowledgement of the forgetful boy's existence other than a scrunch of his fat nose.
At the front of the classroom the chalkboard and teacher's desk lingered, almost shunned by the new position of the desks. Thierry Dupont stood at his desk with his back to the class, examining a large poster of fire that took another shape whenever Harry glanced away. Similar diagrams depicting various subjects replaced last year's Ministry propaganda: magical creatures, dark wizards in history, and, shockingly enough, the Dark Mark. When the noise level peaked, Dupont turned to face them.
"I am Professor Dupont." Much like his expression, his words were chipped from marble: each fragment as smooth and an unyielding as the base from which it came. If he hadn't introduced himself, stressing vowels of his surname towards the floor and ignoring the consonant at the end, Harry wouldn't have known the man was French at all; his accent was clean, clearly upper-class, but very English. Conversation wobbled out of existence. "As name games will be tedious for the both of us, we will abstain from such common practice. I'm certain you all know each other. I will learn your names in due time."
Navy robes billowed as Professor Dupont clasped his hands behind his back, pale eyes narrowed to inspect the class. They lingered on Harry, flicking with calculation from his face to his fringe—which did nothing to conceal his scar these days—and away. Harry strongly repressed the urge to scowl.
Professor Dupont became suddenly animated, a wiry arm swiftly pointing over Neville and Goyle's heads toward the back of the class. "Notice the empty seat closest the door," he commanded, and the students obeyed, attention landing upon the desk between Daphne Greengrass and Parvarti Patil, which sat no one. "Yes, between the two young ladies. That seat is for me. As this is your first class, I will allow that to slide, but from now on—ah, you've read my mind. Bravo."
The Gryffindors had all shifted one chair down—Hermione fussing as she gathered all her carefully prepared materials—and like a hissing crack in the earth the desk at the very top opened between Neville and Goyle. Neville had immediately lost his wide-eyed look of badly concealed panic.
"Welcome to the N.E.W.T. level class of Defense Against the Dark Arts, ladies and gentlemen," Dupont continued, having returned to his realistic impersonation of a statue. "The Headmaster informed me of your situation last year. Am I correct in the assumption that you were unable to cover offensive and defensive spells, as Hogwarts' curriculum dictates?"
Silence scoured the shadows from each corner of the room.
Dupont lowered his head, strands of fine merlot hair streaking a wry smile. "I see," he said. "Many of you took pains to study O.W.L. material on your own, in spite of explicit instructions otherwise. Well done. This means I will not have to waste time."
Nearly the entirety of Gryffindor exchanged glances—a medley of excitement, confusion, and wariness—and many of them connected with Harry.
"Class sessions will continue as followed. Mondays are strictly theory. Each Wednesday you will join your year mates in Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw in the Great Hall for a practical lesson, which will take up the entirety of your morning. On Fridays we meet back in this classroom for a review of both parts." Dupont stepped away from the chalkboard to stand directly behind the empty desk. Next to Neville and Goyle, both boys of height and girth, the professor seemed quite small. Pale fingers curled around the chair's back, and he peered over the end of his aristocratic nose. "This year we will cover matters of the darkest art, and perhaps the most heinous crimes against humanity, including sacrifice, blood magic, and Inferi. We will continue to investigate higher offensive and defensive spells, but you will also learn to do them nonverbally. I expect you to practice spells assigned each Monday so they can be reviewed swiftly in the next class, and we can move onto bigger and better things. If all goes well, later in the year we can experiment with a bit of cursebreaking—seventh year N.E.W.T. material. Questions?"
Slytherins and Gryffindors alike turned to Hermione, notorious for prolonging class to satiate her thirst for knowledge. None seemed conscious of the action, Harry thought amusedly. Hermione noticed as well, gave a quizzical look, but remained silent.
"Excellent." Dupont clapped his hands together, a dry, short sound. "Today is Monday, so you won't be needing your wands. Take notes if you like, but you won't be tested on today's lecture."
"Remind you of someone?" Ron muttered to Harry. It had been a hallmark of Umbridge's teaching style to put away their wands. A pout lingered on Neville's downcast features—he seemed expressly put out he would not be using his new stick of cherry and unicorn hair.
With unexpected agility Professor Dupont fixed his left arm to the empty table and vaulted over the desk, planting his feet solidly to the floor. Polished shoes walked along the charred floor without smearing runes, and his robes mimicked an early night sky as he stepped into a slanted arch of light, stars shimmering delicately into morning. Without further ado the professor launched into a basic retelling of the First Wizarding War, beginning with the unknown shadow figure of the early nineteen-seventies that had phased into existence later on through the collective fear of British witches and wizards. He painted tale of power and inaction, of mistakes and death. Much of what Dupont illustrated Harry had already known, but the professor's insightful comments forced Harry to look at the situation from both sides. As a prophecy had forced Harry's hand in the long game, he couldn't afford to understand the other side when he was meant to end its founder.
Still, learning recent History of Magic was strange in a Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Dupont was a fair teacher, Harry admitted, but this review seemed entirely irrelevant. Given the divot burrowing between her eyebrows, Hermione felt the same.
She raised her hand.
Professor Dupont paused, thin eyebrows peaked in polite acknowledgement. "Yes, Miss . . . ?"
"Granger," Hermione said primly, gently lowering her quill. The parchment previously trapped between he elbows glistened with cramped writing. "I apologize for the interruption, but what does this have to do with learning to defend ourselves against what's out there?"
Many students straightened from sleepy mounds, faces doughy with drowsiness molding into something resembling interest.
"I'm glad you asked, Miss Granger." Dupont gave a small, closed mouthed smile, pale eyes bright for the first time. He had been waiting for this question. "Why do we recap You-Know-Who's quick rise to power, when we should be learning to stun and expel? Why should we understand motive and means of dark wizards, when we should be protesting their harsh demands? Why indeed study the criminals—yes, criminals," he repeated when Zabini's dark brow broke its steady line, "that continue to terrorize your homeland to this day?"
Dupont paused, and a sudden hush draped over the classroom, isolating it from the rest of the castle.
"No takers? That's okay; you're only sixteen," Dupont said. "We study this history—your country's recent history—because it is still relevant today. Every single one of you is a product of this First War, and you're the generation that will, hopefully, end the second before it truly starts. We study these dark wizards because these are the people you will defend yourselves against every time you leave the safety of this castle."
A short burst of derision broke the isolated seal, and footsteps could be heard passing the door.
Dupont blinked his piercing eyes, turning towards the rude noise. "You disagree, Mister . . . ?"
"Malfoy." The blonde scion leaned back in his chair, thin arms crossed over a green and silver tie. "Draco Malfoy. L'habit ne fait pas le moine, menteur sale."
Harry could have never guessed Malfoy knew another language. He exchanged bewildered glances with Ron and Hermione, and noticed none from Slytherin shared their surprise.
"La barbe d'un garçon ne fait pas un homme, vavasseur morveux. Are you trying to discredit me, Mr. Malfoy?" Serenity smoothed the cool stone of the professor's voice.
Pink flushed the paleness from Malfoy's neck. "Not at all," he said, quite ingenuously.
"Then if you insist on challenging those around you, please do so in the common tongue, so misunderstandings are at a bare minimum."
Malfoy wasn't fool enough to fall for that trick. "Why should I listen to you? You're a foreigner, and you're illegitimate. A Muggle's son."
Disgust fluffed the cheeks of Pansy Parkinson, and Crabbe and Goyle leaned their bulk to the side of their desks as though Dupont were contagious. Theodore Nott's upper lip spasmed, as though something rotten had passed underneath his long nose.
"Illegitimate." Each syllable was pronounced slowly, softly, as though tasting a new word and finding it lacking. Something Harry couldn't identify pull briefly at Dupont's full mouth. "What a word," he said. "Archaic, meaningful only in aristocratic circles of old, meant to embarrass those interpreted to be lesser, or greater. To discredit findings, to keep wealth in the appropriate hands—long story short, a word meant to control others through shame." Dupont smiled. "How lucky we are, then, to live in the twentieth century."
Harry then realized: Dupont had been amused by Malfoy.
"If you truly desire my disgrace, I recommend a logical systematic breakdown of my theories," Dupont said, almost lightly, but there was something hard about the slender curve of his jaw that told a different story. "Much more embarrassing, I think, than an accusation that has long since lost importance in France. Please tell me, Mr. Malfoy, how my supposed parentage invalidates the odd twenty intellectual articles I've published since my fifth year at Beauxbatons? If I were so filthy, how did I graduate at the top of my class? This is public knowledge, by the way, easily accessible through international archives—just an owl away, if you ever get the urge to further question my credentials through lack of proficient genealogy."
Malfoy didn't respond, but scorn tore his pointed face into ugly factions. For some reason or another, Malfoy was disregarding a professor's authority. Despite Malfoy's jeering toward Harry in the halls of Hogwarts, he'd never been much of a troublemaker during class. A professor's word had always been absolute. If anything, Harry was the troublemaker.
Dupont's mouth cracked into motion, breaking from his marble stature. "Everyone, would you please rise from your chairs—no, don't come and join me, boys," he added graciously as Seamus and Dean made to climb over into the runic circle, "we do not gang up on other students. This is not a revolution, so please remain standing behind your desks."
When Malfoy refused to rise, Dupont sighed. "This is also not a silent protest, Mr. Malfoy. If you would—?"
The blonde rolled his eyes, but pushed to a stand.
"Thank you." Dupont nodded, and turned to face the rest of the class. "Let's tie what we've reviewed earlier into discussion. Based off the Death Eater belief system, who do you think are the primary targets of their rogue regime?"
Malfoy smirked. "Mudbloods."
Gasps fluttered forth through unwitting lips. Angered mutters dropped from Ron's mouth to scatter on the stone floor, washed away by the wide-eyed silence of Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass imitated one another, mouths slightly agape as they stared at their classmate. Approval wafted from Crabbe as did his powerfully horrible cologne. It was one thing to throw around slurs in the halls, but to do so in class, with a professor present . . .
Dupont's continued composure grew eerie. "Mr. Malfoy, join me, if you would."
Surprise flickered in Malfoy's determined hostility, but a smirk smothered it into submission as he slid off the edge of his desk and sauntered into the circle. They stood side-by-side, now. Compared to a sitting Malfoy, the professor had seemed sturdy, if diminutive. Now, however, Harry realized there wasn't much difference between their figures at all.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Dupont said. "Mr. Malfoy has just volunteered to play the Dark Lord."
Malfoy blinked, and his arrogance dissolved as a cloud in the wind. "What."
"Muggleborns, did you say, Mr. Malfoy?"
Blonde brows narrowed. "No, I said—"
"As we live in present times, we will discard the use of such archaic terms. We do not live in the Dark Ages, Mr. Malfoy." Professor Dupont spoke loudly, cutting Malfoy's protest to ribbons. "If I ever catch you—any of you—using such barbaric language again, même in français, and especially in the company of those you've been taught to systematically debase since birth, consequences will be very dire indeed." Icy eyes picked at Malfoy's failing poise. "Now," he said, "Take out your wand."
Malfoy scoffed. "You can't tell me what to do."
"All right, Mr. Malfoy, it appears you thrive off the misfortune of others; let's see how well you handle yours. That will be five points from Slytherin for your blatant disrespect—"
"You can't—"
"—refuse me again and I'll make it ten. Again after that, it will be a detention. You seemed to have forgotten, Mr. Malfoy, that I am in charge here. I am your professor. I'm much older, much smarter, and much more experienced than any other in this room, and you'll find that I can, and will, tell you what to do." Dupont's voice of stone became the sword upon which it had been sharpened. "Wand out, Mr. Malfoy. I will not be asking again."
Malfoy stared. He drew it wand, but it remained lax between his fingers.
"All Muggleborns take a seat. You have just been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort."
Only Hermione and Dean sat down, and it was of Harry's opinion that Professor Dupont was too damned calm.
"All right, who's next?" Dupont asked. When none answered, frustration escaped the stone of his larynx and he slashed at the air with an impatient hand. "After Muggleborns, Mr. Malfoy, who does the Dark Lord go after next?"
Malfoy's pale fingers coiled tightly around his wand. "Half-bloods," he said.
"Half-bloods, take a seat. You've just been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort."
Although more students sat as Dupont bade, the majority of the class remained standing. Tracey Davis sat after a breath of hesitation, her face sunken and pale. Harry did as well. People stared.
The professor surveyed the classroom with a wry eye. "This class is a poor sample of the British wizarding population—in hindsight, I should have assigned blood status beforehand, but that's the truth of spontaneity: unexpected results." Dupont gave a brittle smile. "In reality, half-bloods alone engender roughly sixty percent of wizarding Britain, and purebloods, only twenty-five. Now, what does that say about these 'ideals' when our Lord Malfoy-mort has just killed off seventy-five percent of the population?"
Some of the class reared back as though physically slapped. Harry was almost certain Dupont's question wasn't meant to be answered, but Hermione sat at the edge of her seat now, hand straight in the air, face pointed with scholarly intent.
It caught Dupont's attention immediately. "Miss Granger?"
"It seems to me 'Lord Malfoy-mort's plans weren't very well thought out," she said.
Malfoy's snarl crept to his eyes at this, but Dupont's shone brilliantly, alive within the stoic contours of his face. "Stole the words from my mouth, Miss Granger," he said. "Please, elaborate why this is."
"Y-yes, professor." Shock wrenched Hermione's eyelids wide, but after a small stutter she gained confidence: "To kill off so many would create problems in the economy."
Professor Dupont clapped once to punctuate the end of her statement. "Exactly. Ten points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger." He gave her a clinical, yet appraising look, and turned to the rest of the class. "For those of you still confused, listen closely. At the beginning of mankind—and ladies, please do not take offense, for I mean the word as only a rough generalization—it was every man for himself. He clothed himself, he killed and cooked his own game, he fixed up his own shelter. Essentially, man was nothing more than a self-sufficient animal. However, as men grouped together to form this thing we call 'civilization,' man began to lose this self-sufficiency in favor of a more comfortable living. Tasks necessary for survival were delegated, and over time became specialized into important social roles. Sounds fantastic, does it not? Men no longer had to fight tooth and nail in the wilderness, with just enough to get by! Now they were able to rely on each other under the mutual understanding of our instinctive desire to live. It's an incredible invention, civilization, and men thrive on its comfort."
Dupont opened his mouth, then paused, most likely noticing how Goyle had become rather cross-eyed. He inhaled sharply, and said, "Perhaps I'm getting a little carried away, but really, it all makes perfect sense. Because we live such comfortable lives now, we can never return to the self-sufficiency of our ancestors; in civilization, we need other people to survive. Simple as that. And thus, with Lord Malfoy-mort killing off the majority of the population by using two—only two—classifications, there are no longer butchers, or bakers, or cauldron makers. Essentially all that's left are unskilled idealists. I highly doubt a pureblood has ever tilled a farm or milked a cow. Quite a few of you are probably unable to prepare a meal." Humor lightened his colorless eyes. "Oh, dear. How is this 'higher society' supposed to thrive, when it's most likely to literally starve to death?"
"House Elves," Lavendar Brown said simply. She didn't seem to notice Hermione's glare.
"I've never met a House Elf capable to killing and skinning a cow," Dupont said, just as easily. "And if you'd known the use You-Know-Who had for them, you'd find they'd rarely have the time nor the energy to feed and clothe the entire population."
Lavendar's brow furrowed in irritation, and she crossed her arms.
"But, remember, there are still those that threaten Lord Malfoy-mort's perfect society," Dupont continued. "So who's next to die, according to Death Eater mentality?"
Harry couldn't hear his watch over the silence that had swept the classroom into a void.
"Well?" Dupont's one-worded question was directed to Malfoy. "Next, Mr. Malfoy, next!"
"Blood-traitors," Malfoy finally said, and though his previous ire and the lecture remained, vindictive pleasure teased at Malfoy's features, glinting viciously in his slate eyes.
Next to Harry, Ron made to sit, but Dupont had yet to condemn them. He folded his arms, one holding up the other as he rubbed his chin in thought.
"Define 'blood-traitor,'" Dupont said at last. When none rose to the challenge the professor huffed impatiently, dropping his arms to his sides. "Really, now, there's no such thing as a rhetorical command, and yet, you're all determined to make it so. Very well. Your unwillingness to participate only makes it easier for me to pick on you. You there—yes, you. The Gryffindor with the long black hair. Give me your name and a definition of 'blood-traitor,' if you could be so kind."
"I'm Parvati Patil." Parvati swallowed, tan face shades paler. "And a blood-traitor is . . . a pureblood who—who makes friends with everyone. Not just other purebloods." She said this haltingly, as though her thoughts and mouth refused to agree on one course of action, and picked at her long braid with nervous fingers.
Dupont's blank expression could almost be described as exasperated. "Essentially correct," he conceded, much more slowly than his usual dictation, "but a little more . . . optimistic than what I was looking for. This is the Dark Lord, not your average soap on the WWN. Subtract empathy, and you get—"
"A pureblood who doesn't see the problem associating and procreating with non-purebloods."
Pleasant surprise flitted briefly across Dupont's lips. "That was almost perfect, Mister . . ."
"Nott." Dark eyes beaded the Slytherin's gaunt face, giving nothing away.
The professor nodded, opening his posture to the room, stepping through drifting dust motes and into a band of light previously marking the floor. "You've been given two definitions. Although they're the same at the surface, fundamentally they take a different meaning. Notice how Mr. Nott, a pureblood, used the word 'problem' to describe inter-status relationships, how the tone of his voice indicated deeper feelings of disgust. How he went one step further into 'procreation.' This, ladies and gentlemen, is the attitude that attracts the Dark Lord. Can anyone tell me what this attitude is?"
Harry frowned, his mind stretching for an answer that couldn't be found in the hush of the classroom. None of his classmates seemed to have found it, either, casting for a proper word that remained out of reach above their heads.
"Discontent," Dupont said, once it was clear none could answer. "A bitter dissatisfaction with life. With it comes the desire for a scapegoat—for no one will concede to blaming themselves—and people who are perceived to be outsiders take the fall. You-Know-Who uses this to his advantage . . ." here, Dupont paused, and his barely perceivable excitement reeled back into impassive marble, ". . . but that's a discussion for another day. In the end, the result is the same: these so-called 'blood-traitors' are eliminated for the sake of the 'good old days.' And as Lord Malfoy-mort's reign continues, the definition of 'blood-traitor' loosens to fit his will. Let's see . . ." Colorless eyes flitted from one face to another. "Miss Patil. Since you allowed a Muggleborn refuge in the first wave, you've been murdered by Lord Malfoy-mort. And you . . ."
"Seamus Finnegan," Seamus said, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other as Parvati shakily lowered to her seat.
"Mr. Finnegan, your family has known ties to quite a few mixed families, and have been murdered for your sympathies in prevention of rebellion. Please sit."
Dupont continued in this manner for another minute, choosing students at random to sit for their hypothesized blood-traitor status—for refusing to take a side, for refusing to become a cauldron maker to help the failing economy, for refusing to give up ownership of one's wand. Once he'd finished—Malfoy attempting to pull a mask over his discomfort and failing—only six students remained standing at their desks: Zabini, Greengrass, Parkinson, Crabbe, Goyle, and Ron. The redhead gave a cursory glance at his company and then down at Harry, bewilderment opening his expression enough for nerves to tick at the corners; as a Weasley, Ron most likely expected to be the first to sit. His family had always proudly displayed their beliefs.
"Welcome, you six, to Lord Malfoy-mort's chosen Utopia," said Professor Dupont. "You'll need to hunt and cook yourselves, and mend your own clothing once it tears, but at least you're finally amongst your own kind. Feels good, doesn't it? You're finally apart of that cleansed world you've desired for centuries."
Ron's hue sickened into a pasty sheen. Greengrass' lips tugged downwards before resting in neutrality.
Dupont tilted his head. "But Malfoy-mort now has a base for his society to grow. And grow it shall. So you," Dupont swiftly swung his arm across his body, pointing at Parkinson before looking her way, "Yes, you with the short dark hair, it's time to do your biological duty as a female. You're now affianced to that young man over there." Movements sharp and clean, Dupont pointed at Crabbe. The Slytherin then smiled, tiny teeth jagged and crowded together, pushing full cheeks up and sideways to greatly resemble a rotting pumpkin as it sagged into itself. The effect was instantly chilling.
Pansy Parkinson reeled in horror. Harry didn't blame her. "I'm not marrying him!"
"You don't have enough choice to be picky about this." The professor's tone was ruthless. "Sit down then, blood-traitor who refuses to sustain the pure-blood population. Lord Malfoy-mort just killed you, too."
Parkinson's small eyes dilated in shock, and she slumped to her seat with an unhappy noise, gaze averted from Malfoy.
"You, Mister . . ."
"Goyle." The name was almost grunted.
"Yes. You and the young man next to you misplaced a very rare potion ingredient, and Lord Malfoy-mort was most displeased. Please sit. You there . . ."
"Blaise Zabini."
"Yes, Mr. Zabini. Lord Malfoy-mort killed you because he suspected you were a spy. In fact, he suspects you're all spies, and has killed every single one of you except for that young man there, his most loyal follower."
Ron recoiled, long fingers white as he clenched the back of his chair. "I would never—!" he started, revulsion picking at his lower lip, but Dupont interrupted him with a tilt of his head.
"So you're an actual spy then," the professor said. "Color me impressed; you've survived this massacre by a stroke of luck, but Lord Malfoy-mort always ties loose ends. Please sit, Mister . . ."
"Weasley." Ron swallowed, and did as Dupont bade.
That timeless silence swept over the room once more, but it was now charged with a tension that didn't exist before. Strain pulled faces tight, and most of Slytherin sat rigidly in their seats, as though rooted to their chairs in expectation of something greater, and as the tension pulsed in waves around them, Professor Dupont stood tall and calm as though anchored in the eye of the storm of his own doing. His still face may as well have been carved into the masthead.
He then turned his head to look at Malfoy. "Had enough?"
Something mean dug into the crevasses of Malfoy's face, tearing his mouth into opposing directions and slashing his pupils to slits. Harry half expected Malfoy to mention his father. Or hex the professor.
After a moment, face ever unchanging, Dupont broke his stare and turned to the rest of the class; a dismissal. "Please take a seat, Mr. Malfoy. We've finished with this exercise."
Malfoy's lip curled, but he returned as Dupont suggested, saying nothing.
Dupont clasped his arms at his lower back. "Now, who all agrees with this assessment of You-Know-Who? That he values blood purity above all else?"
Everyone raised their hands, Harry included.
"Even after all that?" Dupont raised a merlot eyebrow, disbelief stringing up the edge of his lip. "Well, I just learned he's got you all properly brainwashed. You're all wrong."
Silence dried the room of its previous emotion, leaving anticipation too peer out from under the desks.
"The Dark Lord doesn't care for anyone but himself and what can make him more powerful," Dupont continued. "You've a rich daddy in the government? Good for you. The Dark Lord likes your daddy for his influence and money. But if Daddy gets fired, or takes a wrong turn, or makes a slip of the tongue, your entire family will be on the cover of the next Daily Prophet, underneath the Dark Mark."
Harry held his breath. He wasn't the only one; the collective action of the students robbed the room of life. Birds twittered obliviously behind him.
Dupont inhaled sharply. "It doesn't matter if you're Muggleborn or half-blood or pureblood; you will die if you don't defend yourself. I don't know how else to get you to take these matters seriously. You will not survive on the arrogant illusion that a fluke at birth will protect you. That is nothing more than an abstract thought, a ridiculous ideal founded upon arrogance alone. There is no evidence whatsoever that supports the claim that having pure blood makes you a better wizard, a more powerful wizard, a more clever wizard. Because when you're standing on the other end of an enemy's wand, you're nothing more than in his way."
Morning's light trimmed his figure in gold. Unmoving he stood in the middle of the runic circle, a navy pillar of ideals, a statue guarding the integrity of Hogwarts. More than anything he resembled a Roman adventurer immortalized in stone, albeit smaller.
The image was ruined when Dupont looked down at his watch. "Ah, we've run out of time," he said, and the exhaled relief of students filled the classroom to its brim. "Your first assignment: read chapters one and two of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and craft a quick summary of its most important points for Friday. I would also like you to meditate on why You-Know-Who's supporters tend to be of a certain stock, if he doesn't care for blood purity. Think about what's been said and done in this class. You may also argue against this, but make sure to give compelling evidence if you choose to do so. Unfortunately, I don't have any spells for you to practice today, but if you feel you're rusty, it may help to look over O.W.L. skills for Wednesday. Thank you for a very enlightening discussion. Dismissed."
Noise rushed into the room as though a dam had been opened. Conversation sprouted as unsightly weeds in spring, watered with the rustle of materials being shunted into bags, the low-toned scritch of manipulated chairs. Harry himself had slung his pack over his shoulder when the professor spoke again:
"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, please stay a moment."
Most of the class had gone, the hallway beyond the door loud with the clatter of students finished with their first class. Though the circle of desks remained, their chairs had arranged themselves in varying stages of neatness, either pushed in or angled away from the middle of the room. Ron and Hermione hesitated by the door. Harry shrugged at them and moved to the teacher's desk beside Malfoy, who sneered at the side of his face.
Dupont rested his clean-shaven chin upon closed fists. "Mr. Potter," he said. "I've been told you hosted a Defense Against the Dark Arts group last year. Dumbledore's Army, was it?"
Malfoy snorted, and it was badly stifled.
"Uh." Harry's eyes wandered uncomfortably away. Professor Dupont seemed in the middle of unpacking, black leather trunks open beside the half-empty bookcase filled with texts of curious titles and aged scrolls. No papers or trinkets personalized the table as of yet. "Yeah, but—"
"I was wondering if you were interested in continuing."
Harry's attention snapped immediately back to Dupont, embarrassment forgotten. "What?" he said, quite flabbergasted.
Dupont gave his brittle, closed-mouthed smile, but it was tendered by the brightness in his eyes. "To be honest, I wasn't all that certain myself when the Headmaster suggested reinstating a student-run club—"
"Dumbledore!" Harry couldn't help but exclaim. Malfoy edged a few inches further from Harry, brushing lines from his robes with his hands.
"I guess suggested is too strong a word for what he did," Dupont mused. "He merely mentioned it, but his tone told me it was something I should consider, and consider it I have."
"Have you?" The words fell from Harry's mouth; he was hardly aware of what he was saying. He felt like a parrot, only able to produce fragments of what he'd heard. Surely Malfoy would find a way to mock Harry's brief period of stupidity later.
Dupont folded pale hands upon the bare desk. "Well, again, I wasn't all that comfortable allowing a student to coach such important skills—what if you had taught the wrong technique? What if it hadn't been a club at all, but a common leisure time? But then I did a little research. Your O.W.L. score for Defense is very impressive. Very impressive indeed. You're in the top fifth percentile since they started O.W.L. testing, and the best since someone named Tom Riddle from 1942."
Harry fell hard from this flattery. At Voldemort's true name, annoyance calcified in his jaw, and he was unable to form words.
Dupont's eyes widened fractionally, and it made him appear years younger. "Ah." His voice was very soft. "So you do know secrets. I did wonder . . ."
This professor knew the truth about Voldemort? Was this why they touched upon the majorly taboo subject of blood purity in class? Harry wouldn't be surprised if the man received a few Howlers tomorrow morning.
Harry shook his head. "So you want me to start the D.A. up again?"
"That's entirely up to you, Mr. Potter, but it's an idea I'll readily subscribe to." Dupont's expression recovered from its brief tangent. "Although, I was hoping this could expand to include all Houses and all years. And, perhaps, I could assist you."
Harry blinked. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"
Wryness tugged at the fine muscles under Dupont's nose. "I daresay they'll listen to you better than I. You are the Chosen One, after all."
A scowl broke free of its earlier restraints. Dupont smiled at him.
"Think about it, if you would," Dupont said, sitting back in his chair. "I believe it would be a big help in preparing your peers, and yourself." With a nod, the professor dismissed him.
Harry turned toward the door, outside of which his friends waited for him, conversing in heated whispers. He found, at the moment, he hardly cared for the topic. He hadn't known he received the same score on his test as Voldemort, and Harry felt less than proud at this fact. He almost wished Dupont had kept that information to himself. Ignorance was bliss, after all.
And yet, excitement streaked nervously within him; this, at least, proved he had a chance.
As Harry exited the classroom, Dupont's voice followed him out: "Mr. Malfoy, I won't apologize if the exercise at the end of class made you uncomfortable, as that is how it is designed to work. However, it would not have been necessary had you not displayed the most disgusting of this generation's thoughtless habits in a very public setting . . ."
"What'd he say?" Ron asked, leading them further out into the hall. Dupont's calm voice faded into the hum of the castle as Harry and his friends joined the dwindling mass of students roaming the halls with direct purpose.
"He wants me to keep the D.A. going," Harry said.
Ron grinned. "I like this Dupont bloke," he stated, ducking into a less-travelled passageway that led straight to Gryffindor Tower. Cool air swept dust and chill at their ankles as the heavy tapestry unfolded itself after them, concealing the Map's secret in a sheet of velvet and shadows. "Lumos . . . I'm serious. This professor isn't going to take anyone's shit—you saw the way he handled Malfoy." Wandlight painted Ron's face pale blue, and dreams blurred his expression into watercolor. "Oh, I'm going to keep that memory right next to Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret . . ."
"I didn't think that was funny at all." Hermione's voice was small, but her words ricocheted off narrow stone walls, hardly muffled by silky cobwebs draping them like tapestries.
Ron misunderstood: "What, the ferret? But that was the best part of fourth year!"
Harry ignored him. "You've got to admit that Malfoy was out of line."
"He was," Hermione allowed, "but Professor Dupont was mean."
"Mean?" Ron repeated. "I don't know about mean—blunt, maybe, and I think it was just what Malfoy needed, the Death Eater spawn. Speaking of, when do you think that little shit learned French?"
"His name is French," Hermione dismissed with a roll of her eyes. "He's probably got family over there—"
"No wonder I've never liked him," Ron muttered.
"—But that's not the point! I think Dupont was very inappropriate today. He deliberately voiced his opinion on a highly controversial matter in a class filled with students whose beliefs were the exact opposite. He basically told them that if they didn't like it, they could leave."
"So?"
"He's a teacher! He can't pick sides!"
"Lupin believes all that stuff," Harry said. And so do we. He didn't see the problem.
"Harry," Hermione said, patience softening her words from their increasingly shrill and worked up pace. Harry hadn't seen her this worked up since she first discovered that Hogwarts had House Elves. "Lupin wouldn't have forced a student to play-act Lord Voldemort in class, and theoretically kill his classmates."
"Sounds like something Lockhart would do," Ron mused, drawing aside the last tapestry. Light spilled in from the seventh floor hallway, chasing creeping dust to the corners of crooked cobblestone.
"Or Crouch," Harry said darkly. Emotion long since buried seeped from his unconscious at the mention of the name and tugged unpleasantly at his features. Ron and Hermione looked at one another. The conversation cowered into nonexistence until they reached the Fat Lady.
Lunch passed without incident, but Harry's appetite had been curiously small. Hermione bullied both Harry and Ron into starting their assignment for Dupont, but as it was due Friday, the boys charmed paper airplanes at one another, snickering into their palms whenever one wandered into another section of the library. By the time break had ended, Hermione had finished her assignment, and both Harry and Ron's parchments remained blank. Ron walked the both of them to the ground floor, whereupon Hermione had taken to quizzing Harry on the Draught of Living Death, something they both had to have memorized before the start of Potions this year. Harry himself had exhausted quickly at this review, but Hermione looked so stressed he hadn't the heart to refuse.
"Well, I'm off to the Quidditch Pitch," Ron said, blue eyes bright upon the end of the lobby. Sunlight projected slanted arches on stone, pointing toward the double entrance doors, which had been cracked open a smidge, allowing a sliver of the day's glory to peek inside. It was a beautiful day, and Harry envied Ron's open schedule. He, too, would rather laze about on a broomstick than spend the last of daylight's hours brewing potions.
Hermione stuck her nose in the air. "You could be finishing your homework."
"Hermione, it's sunny, and warm, and Seamus has a flagon of something the Irish wizards like to call Dragonfire." Ron laughed at the disapproval marring her sun-bronzed face. "Relax. I'll only be slightly buzzed for rounds tonight. Slightly."
As Ron lumbered off, black robes slipping off his shoulders, he waved a freckled hand behind him, a few fingers of the other hand loosening the knot of his tie. They watched him push an entrance door wider, breathe deeply air unhindered by the weight of dust and centuries' magic, and jog down the stairs until he disappeared into the rolling emerald of the school grounds. When he was gone, Hermione shook her head, straightened her shoulders, and took the first step down. It was strange going to Potions without Ron.
Descending into the dungeons had always been a study in reluctance for Harry. While the darkness of the lower castle levels swallowed him bit by bit, dampness settled heavily on his shoulders, and he would carry its gloom until he returned to the ground floor for dry air, open ceilings, and natural light. Underneath each faded circle of torchlight the castle walls were gray and scorched, moss weaseling through mortar. Darkness otherwise bathed their surroundings in obscurity. Harry himself had never explored more of the dungeons than necessary, and was thus uncertain of its depth. The Map, certainly, would show him should he ever have the desire, but for the most part, Harry remained uninterested.
The halls twisted and moaned as though Harry and Hermione walked upon the broken limbs of a captive, and before Harry could give into his doubts and join his dorm mates on the pitch they arrived at the classroom. After a brief spell of hesitation, Harry followed Hermione inside.
Only a handful of students had progressed onto N.E.W.T. level Potions: five Slytherins, a few Ravenclaws, and a single Hufflepuff. Harry and Hermione were the only Gryffindors. Ernie Macmillan waved at them with a cheerful grimace. As Ernie hadn't expressed his usual instinct to talk, no doubt nervous for today's class, Harry led Hermione to the far right corner of the room. Their table, washed with stains of potions past, was shadowed by a tall glass armoire that lined the side wall with murky bubbling concoctions and quite a few critter parts in jars, spruced up with the occasional stray dried herb. In hindsight, it was the most disgusting seat in the class—validated by the strange look Hermione shot him—but it was ideal to keep both the door and the Potions Master—a tall, thin man currently occupying the shadows nearest his office door, arms crossed as he muttered irately to himself—in sight. It was also the table furthest away from Draco Malfoy.
Nevertheless, Malfoy made himself known, slate eyes trailing after Harry the moment he walked through the door. Once Harry dropped his bag to the table, Malfoy raised his voice: "I guess those Remedial Potions really paid off, eh, Potter?"
An ugly noise escaped Nott's throat. The Ravenclaws, previously engaged in a philosophical debate over whether the phoenix came before the fire, halted mid-argument and turned to stare. Ernie raised his eyebrows.
Anger pulsed in Harry's fists, which had closed of their own accord atop his shining text. Hermione's well-placed hand on his forearm stopped him from standing.
"They must have." Harry's return wasn't as calm as he'd hoped, but it was a valiant effort. "Since you're here with me."
Smugness slipped from Malfoy's cheeks, which soured as though he'd been sprayed with stinksap. "You better watch that mouth of yours, Potter," he said darkly.
"I don't think you'll find any soap in here," Harry said, and grunted as he took a jab from Hermione's elbow.
Malfoy's brow furrowed. "Soap? What does soap—"
"Quiet."
Snape strode from his office, and shadows cringed away from torchlight as he settled stiffly at his desk, glowering at the closed door as though it had commented on the size of his nose. With that single, two syllable word the Potions professor had generated silence, which suffocated will of students into instant order. It's possible, having missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position once again, Snape would be nastier than ever. Harry immediately sobered, shoulders tense.
"Congratulations," Snape said, and the word crept up damp stone walls like moss. It wasn't a compliment. "All of you, somehow, have made it to my N.E.W.T. level course. Shall I offer you the same cosseting platitudes as my colleagues, and warn you of the difficulty, the outlandish amount of study to stay ahead? Why should I, when it's still a possibility you'll drop this class within the first two weeks?" Snape released a cold, unsettling smile. "Survival in this class relies on both hard work and talent, and for those who are found . . . wanting," here, Snape's glittering gaze lingered on Harry, who grit his teeth in irritation, "I will not hesitate to kick out."
There was no doubt, as Snape's pale face reflected an intense loathing at Harry, the professor was remembering their last Occlumency lesson. This hatred wasn't one-sided. Rather, it lightly scorched Harry's attempt at control, and he took a quiet breath, letting it douse the kindling that was annoyance with forced calm. Snape had said and implied much worse in the past.
"The potions you will brew this year are dangerous," Snape continued. "Any attempt at sabotage, as has been a popular occasion in years past," (he glanced at Harry again, dark eyes shifting briefly to Hermione, and away) "will not be tolerated. Not only will you lose points and your place in this class, but you will also face suspension from this school. You have been warned."
Snape flicked his wand arm up, and ingredients crawled upon the chalky surface of the blackboard as though written by a dozen invisible hands.
"Due to the Headmaster's disturbingly copious sense for . . . fair play," Snape said sourly, sallow cheeks pinched into gaunt displeasure, "I am to provide you with a list of ingredients whenever I test your diminutive memory. However, I refuse to hold your hand further; students who have come unprepared, please let the door hit you on the way out."
No one moved. Something gurgled within the purple sludge contained in a glass jar on Snape's desk. It looked suspiciously like an eye.
Snape's lip curled. "Pity," he said, and with another flick of his wand the supply cabinet sprang open. Neatly labeled boxes—states ranging from grubby to absolutely disgusting—piled upon the shelves, and the faint scent of dried flowers and decay turned Harry's stomach.
"You have one hour." Snape shifted back into the shadows' reaching grasp, robes and hair blending into slightly charred mortar and stone as his eyes glimmered from beyond a sallow, impassive mask. Slowly, he folded his arms over his chest. "Begin," he whispered, and like startled bats the students jumped up from their perch, racing as one to the cabinet.
When Harry studied the Potion's instructions over the summer, he remembered thinking how ridiculously finicky it was: precise measurements with hardly any margin for error, exact waiting periods between new additions and stirring, and the smallest range for heat he'd ever seen in a potion, including their (or, rather, Hermione's) successful attempt to brew Polyjuice during their second year. More than once, Harry had called Snape a series of unflattering names; this potion was, in all senses of the word, a recipe for disaster.
In the end, he had memorized it to the best of his ability. Feigning ignorance of his most hated professor's glare, Harry carefully sliced his Valerian root into one-quarter inch bits while conjured fire heated the underside of his pewter cauldron. Water simmered just under his perception.
Half an hour into the class most students had finished the first part of the potion, which, according to Harry's memory (and a confirming whisper from his best friend) should be a smooth lilac after stirring in powdered asphodel root. The next step required a fourteen minute wait while the ingredients settled. Harry sat back in his seat, swiping a few droplets from his hairline with the back of his hand, a tempus charm cast above his simmering cauldron. His potion was a few shades darker than Hermione's, and he couldn't fight the recurring worry that his Valerian root may have been cut a smidgen too small. It was still purple, to his relief. Still, he couldn't help but cast a few looks—mingled with nerves and defiance—toward Snape, expecting pointed gibes toward either his potion, his father, or himself.
But it seemed Snape was determined to forget Harry's existence today. The professor hadn't looked Harry's way since they'd started their assignment, instead prowling silently from table to table, hunching over nervous students with an expression that boded dire consequences for those who dared breathe wrong.
"You forgot the second round of moondew, Mr. Macmillan," Snape said icily as he phased from within the folds of silence.
Ernie Macmillan's potion, although the lightest of them all, occasionally belched black smoke. Ernie swallowed, gripping his wooden spoon tightly. "Yes, sir," the Hufflepuff said, reaching for a glass dropper filled with a pearly sheen.
Slender hands, stained and cracked as the classroom walls, plucked the dropper from Ernie's grasp, making to close around the boy's wrist. Ernie's arm swung sideways to avoid the surly professor's touch, nearly upturning his belching potion and knocking a small round pot to the floor. It cracked along the lines of its indigenous design. Powder of the asphodel root, white and thick, spilled from cracks in the broken clay and dusted the stone with the sickly scent of incense. Someone chuckled—a short, merry sound that would always be inappropriate within the presence of Severus Snape—and it was quickly stifled.
Snape's lips thinned precariously. "Keep counting your lucky stars, Macmillan, and be thankful you didn't spill anything more harmful than that."
Eyes wide beneath gingery fringe, Ernie swallowed.
"Five points from Hufflepuff, for your blundering," Snape continued, and Ernie's shoulders slumped. He glanced idly to the floor. "Clean up this mess."
"Yes, sir!"
As Ernie stumbled to the supply cabinet, Harry met Hermione's eyes; had Harry been in Ernie's place, he would have lost Gryffindor fifty points and put into at least a week's detention. Snape, Harry thought as his tempus charm quietly beeped just seconds behind Hermione's, was certainly much worse than Dupont could ever be.
Besides, if Hermione was concerned with teachers taking sides, she was complaining about the wrong teacher.
"Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy," Snape crooned. Though quiet, the praise punctured the hush that had fallen upon them as they attempted, with great difficulty, to split twelve Sopophorous beans with silver knives. White beans like horribly shriveled eyes streaked across the classroom, zipping over heads, thumping into table legs, and, occasionally, plunking into the potion of a very unfortunate student. Hermione had managed to harvest its juice somewhat, but hardly any liquid had oozed from its wrinkled insides. Harry hadn't yet managed, and in his last attempt his blade slipped off the bean's tough skin and into the table; the bean proceeded to pounce at Harry's face, knocking his glasses to the tip of his nose.
The laughter from earlier bubbled up once more, and before Harry could determine its source Hermione joined in.
"Shut up, Hermione," Harry muttered, straightening his glasses.
"Sorry," Hermione said, but mirth brushed fondly at her lips.
When his next bean dramatically flung itself off the table, frustration forced Harry's hand, and a closed fist squished a bean into submission. Unexpectedly, cool liquid trickled from underneath his fist, pooling into a small river of watery puss. Harry lifted his hand, astonished. He couldn't believe so much juice had come from such a dried little bean. Hastily he scraped the juice into a measuring cup.
Hermione leaned sideways to peer concernedly at his work station. "Ooh—careful not to drink that, Harry," she warned. "You could lose your memory."
Did she think he was stupid?
"Well, shit," Harry said, staring at the damp tabletop. "There goes dinner plans."
Hermione glared at him, but he was too busy inspecting the flat of his blade to care. The beans worked like spiders, Harry thought morbidly; when they could see danger coming, they scurried around to escape their fate. But they were easily squashed. He pressed a white bean flat with his blade, imagining it to be Aragog, and liquid flowed easily.
"How did you do that?" Hermione exclaimed, as astonished as Harry had first felt.
"You squish it," Harry said, "not cut it. Like this." He bent to display what he'd learned, but Hermione's shrill denial stopped him.
"No, Harry—the instructions clearly indicated you were to split the beans in half."
Harry shrugged, and continued to squash the rest of his beans, naming each one after Aragog's pleasant children. It was a shame, Harry though when he'd finished, that he hadn't enough beans to include them all. Yellowy juice like a thin whisked egg sloshed gently in his cup. When he poured its contents into his cauldron, the sludge brightened to a pale periwinkle. He grinned, oblivious to Snape's glittering stare.
At last, after a tiring series of clockwise stirring, they were to stopper a sample of their finished potion, label it, and place it on Snape's desk along with their summer assignments. Clearing their stations was a simple matter.
"Potter." Harry looked up from the sink, which overflowed with crusted cauldrons. Snape's expression was unreadable. "Bring me your book."
That was an odd request, even from Snape. After a brief exchange of mutual confusion with Hermione, Harry hefted his new potions text from his bag and navigated the maze of desks to the front of the class. Snape snatched the text from Harry's hand, inspecting the cover. He then thumbed quickly through the glossy pages, and with each page Snape's eyes burned with fury, baring his yellowed teeth. Whatever Snape was looking for, he didn't find it.
"Is there something wrong with my book, Professor?" Harry asked stiltedly.
Snape threw the book at Harry's chest with a growl. "Where did you get that?"
"Mrs. Weasley bought it for me at Flourish and Blotts." Again, remaining calm was akin to pulling teeth.
"Accepting charity, Potter? Has your celebrity life grown so tiring you can't be bothered to shop for yourself?"
"No," Harry said hotly, smoothing slightly crumpled pages into form. "Sirius died, and Dumbledore left me on Privet Drive all summer. Now, can I leave, sir?"
Snape's dark eyes tunneled into Harry's own, and after a moment, Harry looked away.
A pale hand reached over the desk, palm up. "Leave the book with me, Potter," Snape said at last. "You'll get it back when I'm through with it."
"When you're through with it—there's nothing wrong with it!" Harry protested loudly. Hermione bounced nervously on her toes beside him, her bag over her shoulder, his in hand.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape said silkily, "and are you sure? No Princes helping you along the way? You do know that using the work of another is cheating, don't you?"
Harry stared. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about."
"A statement you should tattoo on your forehead, next to that scar," Snape said with immense disdain. "The book. Now, Potter."
Harry seethed, anger's flame licking the walls of his lungs. He felt he could breathe fire. After a long glare at Snape's stained hands—his life-line was hideously short, Harry thought savagely—Harry shoved the text at the professor, and turned on his heel. He allowed Hermione to leave ahead of him so he could slam the door on his way out.
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Updated: October 2016
Thanks to BrilliantLady for suggestions to strengthen Dupont's argument. And for the word 'blunt.' A lifesaver, that one :)