Chapter 7 - Discrepancies
The Great Hall was buzzing with whispers as Hermione sat down at the Ravenclaw table for dinner. Their content was mostly along the lines of what she'd heard outside the Library - that the school healer was dead - along with rumors and speculations as to what had happened. Among other things, she'd heard that it had been a rare and lingering disease she'd contracted while doing aid work in Borneo, that Peeves had finally managed to scare someone to death, that she'd sacrificed her own life in a grand ritual to permanently rid the world of Influenza, and that Professor Snape and a Beater for the Kenmare Kestrels (whatever that meant) were both secretly in love with her and she'd been killed by a stray spell as they dueled for her hand.
Hermione wasn't sure how to behave - no one she'd ever known had died, and she hadn't even met the school healer. She was certain she ought to feel sad, and felt a bit guilty that she didn't feel sadder, but trying to make herself feel sad didn't seem appropriate either. Hermione did point out to several people she overheard that all these rumors seemed implausible at best and disrespectful at worst, but received only dirty looks for her efforts. Maybe no one else knew how to behave either, and the gossip was just their way of filling in the gaps? Eventually, Professor Dumbledore stood, and everyone quickly quieted, waiting expectantly.
"As you have by now undoubtedly heard, earlier this afternoon Madam Pomfrey was found dead in the Hospital Wing." Only a few quiet murmurs followed, as indeed this was hardly a surprise. "Her death appears to have been a tragic accident...one of the lionfish spines in her supplies had somehow been contaminated with salamander blood, and the act of grinding it to powder - in a rare and unfortunate reaction - produced an invisible, odorless, and poisonous vapor, to which she succumbed. Though it may be slight comfort, Professor Snape assures me that the effects of the vapor, though deadly, would have been quite painless." At the Head Table, the Potions Professor, whose class Hermione didn't have until Thursday but who had been pointed out to her, nodded gravely. The expressions of the rest of the staff were a study in discomfort, ranging from Professor Trelawney, who was trying to appear unsurprised while wiping away genuine tears, to Professor Quirrell, who seemed genuinely terrified, to Professor McGonagall, who appeared to be grinding her teeth.
"Fortunately," continued Dumbledore, "the Hospital Wing was otherwise unoccupied at the time, and the vapor quickly dissipated, so there were no other casualties. Nurse Wainscott will be taking on the duties of Hogwarts Healer and Matron for the time being, a position I am sure she will grow into." A dark-haired young woman at the Head Table looked exquisitely uncomfortable at the uncertain and scattered applause that followed this announcement.
"A memorial service will be held Thursday evening after dinner, and any evening classes will be cancelled both that day and tonight, to allow everyone an opportunity either to attend or for private reflection as they prefer. In times such as this, we must remember to cherish the good in one another, for even when we journey onward, our love and laughter remains behind, to brighten the world. But for now, please, eat. If not from appetite, then out of respect for Madam Pomfrey's tireless care for our collective health - nourishment of course included." The food appeared, and it was an assortment of appropriately un-elaborate and comforting dishes. While it was possible someone had instructed them specifically, Hermione reminded herself to express her appreciation to the house-elves in the kitchen later, in case it had been their own idea.
Conversation over the meal was subdued. Apparently without the distraction of speculation, most students were content to keep their thoughts to themselves. What few found the heart to speak were mostly upper-years, reminiscing fondly over injuries or maladies they'd had or seen treated by the talented healer.
After dinner, once it became clear that the Library would not be re-opened, Hermione made her way back to her common room with most of the rest of the Ravenclaws.
"Without moving, we hurt. Without touching, we poison. We carry every truth and form every lie. What are we?" intoned the knocker.
Someone else got the answer first - Hermione was distracted by the inclusion of 'poison', which seemed highly inappropriate in light of the evening's tragedy. Maybe the door knocker, as smart as it seemed, didn't keep up with current events?
The Ravenclaw common room quickly segregated according to the students' respective coping mechanisms. Though it was only the first day, the upper-years already had a significant amount of homework, and most took advantage of the cancellation of evening classes to throw themselves into it as a distraction. The bulk of the younger Ravenclaws, Hermione included, instead sought closure in understanding, and began searching the Tower Library for appropriate books that might explain the rare reaction between lionfish spines and salamander blood.
"Here…" said Roger Davies suddenly. "''Salamander blood has rejuvenating and strengthening properties, and thus is often employed in healing potions'..." he quoted from the book he held.
"Well obviously, if Madam Pomfrey had some, it'd be good for healing," quipped Marietta Edgecombe. Roger shot the second-year girl a look.
"I wasn't finished…" He cleared his throat elaborately, then continued reading aloud. "'In its dried form, however, when ground, the salamander's dynamic properties are invoked, encouraging the release of more potent essences from other materials. The prudent potioneer thus makes certain his ingredients are pure before any grinding step, as salamander blood contamination can produce unexpected results.'"
"I s'pose she wasn't prudent enough," mused Kevin. Roger shook his head.
"That's just the thing," the third-year said with a frown, "she was. I never heard of her making a mistake at all, let alone one like this."
"Well," said Hermione, "how does one check for the purity of ingredients, exactly? Just a visual inspection, or something more involved?" No one knew the answer to this question offhand, so they returned to the books, and eventually determined that identifying ingredient mixtures or contamination required careful testing with other substances that produced known reactions.
"So, it's labor-intensive enough that you could do it every time, but in practice you'd need to rely on your supplier?" Hermione paraphrased. "Although...it sounds like that's for identifying contamination, specifically. Couldn't you just use a general cleaning charm on any ingredient before using it and be safe?"
"I suppose," said Cho. "Though I'm not sure they'd work right on everything without vanishing part of whatever it was you wanted to keep as well. But I'd think lionfish spines ought to be cleanable. As well as her mortar and pestle, obviously." Hermione frowned, and considered this.
"Well, I imagine it might get tedious, always cleaning your ingredients beforehand, when they're supposed to be clean anyway. Even responsible people can become lax about things they're supposed to do regularly," she noted, thinking of her parents' regular complaints about people who were haphazard in brushing. Cavities and gum disease could actually become life-threatening in rare cases, so it wasn't a bad parallel. But Roger shook his head angrily.
"I don't think so...you didn't know her, it's just...no." Hermione didn't think much of Roger's objection in terms of logic, but he was clearly upset at the implication that it might actually be Madam Pomfrey's fault. She knew from her own practice that cleaning spells weren't particularly difficult to cast, though she hadn't tried casting any repeatedly...maybe it would get tiring? Or maybe using magic on potion ingredients beforehand might cause some side-effect just as bad as what you were trying to prevent?
"I haven't even had Potions yet, though I read the book, and it doesn't mention anything about cleaning spells," Hermione offered, in a conciliatory tone. "Maybe there's some reason not to use them?"
"That's right...we've never used them during brewing, ever, only to clean up our workspaces afterwards," Roger said. "I have my first third-year Potions tomorrow, I can ask Professor Snape about it." Hermione nodded.
"I'm sure we can find an explanation for what happened, and it needn't reflect poorly on Madam Pomfrey," she said. "I was actually thinking of finding out where her supplies came from and sending an owl to inquire anyway."
These declarations seemed to satisfy everyone that there were no further immediate avenues for discovery, and the group broke up, heading to their respective dorms.
Hermione penned the first draft of a letter, but it was past curfew, so she'd need to wait until the morning to find out where to send the owl anyway. She spent the last couple hours before going to sleep continuing to read one of the - rare, as it turned out - books she'd found in the library that mentioned house elves more than in passing.
She'd considered writing her parents as well, but she wondered what they would think if she mentioned that the school healer had died. Not exactly confidence-inspiring, that. They might even pull her out of the school. But writing and not mentioning Madam Pomfrey would be lying by omission. Better to wait to write at all until she had all the facts and could frame things in the best possible light.
Before falling asleep, she thought about the Weasley Twins. She supposed they'd heard about her reaction in Transfiguration class. Depending on what sort of bullies they were, either that would satisfy them and they'd move on, or it would only encourage them...but the way they'd framed things as a "war" suggested they weren't solely interested in cruelty for its own sake. She'd have to just try re-surrendering tomorrow morning, and hopefully that would put an end to it.
That night, she had troubling dreams that she couldn't quite remember upon waking.
o-o-o
Before breakfast, Hermione found her way to the kitchens once again. The choice of fare last night had been the elves' own notion, and she thanked them for their consideration. A few alluded to some past conflict with Madam Pomfrey - conflicting orders from her on appropriate nutrition, and from students who wanted special treats - but they held only the highest respect for her, as she had been as devoted to her job as they were to theirs. The elves were all quite pleased at being thanked, though, and seemed inclined to lavish Hermione with favors. Her protests and refusals took so long that by the time she escaped the kitchens, she had no time left to search out potion ingredient suppliers.
Hermione reached the Ravenclaw table just as the food was appearing, and sighed. Apparently at least one of the kitchen elves hadn't heard her strident refusals, or perhaps "hadn't heard" - in practice there did appear to be some leeway in the obedience clause of their contracts - because in addition to the other dishes, a plate of pancakes had appeared directly in front of her seat, which unlike the others was festooned liberally with whipped cream and sliced strawberries. The special treatment did not go unnoticed.
"Hey!" said Michael Corner, a bit loudly, "Why've you got dessert for breakfast? Is it your birthday or something?" Hermione shook her head, but before she could explain another interjection cut in.
"She's been down to the kitchen to butter up the help again, I expect," said Morag, who'd noticed Hermione's nearly-late arrival. Hermione gave her an exasperated look.
"I wasn't buttering them up," she protested, "I just wanted to thank them for their consideration with dinner last night." Morag shrugged, but did not look convinced.
"It did seem rather homey and normal," mused Padma. "Nice of them to think of it, I suppose."
"We can find the kitchens after History of Magic today," Terry suggested to Michael, "and thank the elves for Hermione's pancakes...then tomorrow we should get 'em, and we can just keep on thanking them in turn and have dessert-breakfasts forever!" Hermione sighed again, and refrained from pointing out that they could likely simply ask for what they wanted and the house elves would bend over backwards to provide it, with or without thanks. If they were inclined to overindulge every day, at least this way they'd be showing some appreciation for it.
"This is actually a bit much for breakfast, honestly, so you're welcome to share if-" She leaned back hastily as the boys lunged over the table to begin scraping her serving onto their own plates. Hermione replaced it with more sensible selections, though she couldn't help one wistful glance at the sliced strawberries as they vanished with alarming speed into Terry and Michael.
Once she'd finished eating, she got up and began to make her way toward the Gryffindor table, but Roger Davies rose as well and caught up to her first.
"Hey," he said, a trifle awkwardly. "I just wanted to thank you for helping with - you know - finding out what happened, and not just assuming the worst."
"Oh...it's no trouble. I suppose I'd want someone to do the same if something like that happened to me. Did you...know her well?" Hermione asked, not without her own awkwardness.
"Sort of. I had a few spills first-year in Flying, and I got sick last year, so I've spent a lot of time in the hospital wing." He looked even more awkward, though Hermione wasn't sure why. She supposed he might be embarrassed about falling off a broomstick, but that didn't really fit with getting sick.
"Well, I'll let you know when I get any responses...I should be able to send the owls before dinner." He nodded and withdrew. Since it seemed so important to him, Hermione really hoped for Roger's sake that whatever they discovered did excuse Madam Pomfrey from responsibility, though she knew that was not a foregone conclusion. She resumed her path and arrived at the Gryffindor table, nodding at the friendly waves from Ron and Harry. Though her stomach felt unsettled as she neared and second-guessed her plan. Surrendering immediately hadn't worked yesterday, what if it only egged them on? Was there some other way?
"Misters Weasley, could I have a word in private?" she said a bit stiffly, and Ron looked confused until he realized she was speaking to the Twins, at which point he still looked confused. The elder brothers shared a silent look, then shrugged and rose, each extending an arm away from the table.
"After you - Miss Granger," they said, dividing the sentence and mimicking her formal tone with an added subtle hint of mockery. Hermione pursed her lips, but didn't comment, and preceded them to a deserted corner of the Great Hall. Once they arrived, the brothers didn't say anything, instead waiting for Hermione to start. She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady.
"As I'm sure you already know, I discovered yesterday that my Self-Inking Quill had been replaced somehow with a similar one that held Disillusioning Ink instead," she said, quietly.
"Really? - for shame!" they said, alternately. "It's shocking what some miscreants - get away with these days. Although, we've some familiarity with these matters, and we'd be surprised - if any notes that vanished hadn't come back by dinner tonight. Assuming you haven't re-used the parchment, anyway…"
"Oh no," said Hermione. "They're back already...Professor McGonagall was kind enough to see to it." This casual remark was rewarded by an uncertain glance between the Twins. "At the time I decided not to name any likely suspects...though I would like the original quill back...it wasn't entirely inexpensive, and I suspect every time I have to use a spare I'll be thinking about it...if that happens too often, maybe a couple names will come to me," she mused theatrically. Though she tried to keep her face neutral, Hermione clutched her robes at her sides to keep her hands from shaking - she'd never actually tried blackmailing someone before, though she wasn't sure just getting her proper quill back really counted anyway. But the boys looked only a bit concerned, and even managed to appear mildly wounded.
"Please, Miss Granger...a true Pranktitioner of the Unexpected Arts is not a thief. I suspect, if we were to actually engage in such a caper - not that we're admitting complicity in any such thing - the victim might find, upon counting her stash of spare quills - that she had one more 'spare' than she expected." They looked quite pleased with themselves, and Hermione blinked in surprise.
"Ah. Well...I hope this is the end of it? I have no intention of responding in kind, and I'm happy to publicly surrender again if you'd like. Any further incidents of this sort will only result in my own unhappiness and immediate appeals to authority. I really have better things to do with my time, and I'd so hoped that this school wouldn't be like my previous ones..." She'd planned here on using the sort of wistful guilt-inducing tone her mother was ever so good at, but she found that she couldn't help recalling her earlier school days vividly and was forced to swallow a genuine lump in her throat. The Twins shared a glance and their expressions grew more somber.
"Our sincere apologies," they said in unison, bowing with elaborate arm flourishes and continuing their formal tone. "We'd been sure you would be a capable and enthusiastic opponent - and still think you could be. Accordingly, we will call this not surrender but rather negotiated truce - and you may consider our Prank War in abeyance until such time - if ever - that you wish to formally declare a renewal of hostilities - I actually think you mean 'festivities' there, Fred - ah, right you are George, renewal of festivities." Hermione wasn't sure how to react to this unexpected show of respect. In the face of her old memories, it threatened to overwhelm her fragile emotional state in the opposite direction. She took a moment to compose herself and decide how exactly to respond.
"Accepted. For what it's worth, all told it's the...well, the second-most considerate prank I've ever fallen victim to," she admitted, thinking of the Hufflepuff on the train. People were beginning to file out of the Great Hall at this point and after each giving Hermione a nod, the Twins joined the flow, talking as they went.
"That was downright gallant of us, wasn't it George? We could've at least left the original quill in the castle eaves or a loo or something... - No other word for it, Fred, Knights Errant of Pranking, we are - of course we can't afford to get a reputation for consideration - obviously not, we just need to focus on more deserving targets for a bit - so we'll not be as inclined towards mercy…"
Hermione shook her head and joined the throng of students heading to class as well.
o-o-o
Hermione's schedule for Tuesday was identical to Monday's, with the exception of History of Magic in fifth period, so she caught up with Ron and Harry on their way to Charms.
"What was that about, with Fred and George?" Ron asked, as she joined them.
"I'm honestly not sure...they're very peculiar, aren't they? But I was just trying to put their ridiculous 'Prank War' to rest," she said.
"Oh...pity," said Ron, looking disappointed. "After your trick with Scabbers, I was sort of hoping you'd give them a proper run." Hermione grimaced and sighed.
"There's so much to learn here...we really don't have time for that sort of thing, even if I were so inclined, which I'm not. Besides, I still regret that and-" she broke off, her hand going to her mouth in horror. Ron and Harry noticed she'd stopped walking and turned back, looking confused and concerned, respectively.
"What is it?" asked Harry.
"Oh, Ron, I've just realized about Scabbers...I am so sorry…" The Gryffindors shared a baffled look, then turned it upon Hermione. She looked even more uncomfortable, assuming their confusion meant they hadn't found out yet. "He must've been in the hospital wing with Madam Pomfrey, when...the vapor…" she trailed off, her expression stricken. As Ron realized what she meant, his expression became surprised, but not unhappy.
"Blimey...he dodged a bludger there, I hadn't even thought of that!" he admitted. Now it was Hermione's turn to be confused.
"He...dodged...what?" she asked, baffled on more than one level.
"Scabbers was already in our room when we got back from Defence Against the Dark Arts," explained Harry. "Madam Pomfrey must have finished her examination and dropped him off there before…it happened." Hermione nearly collapsed in relief, though it was short-lived as she realized they were nearly late for Charms, and she hurried everyone along.
Charms class was mildly irritating. Lavender Brown had apparently somehow lost her wand already, so Hermione (who'd clearly already mastered the Wand-lighting Charm) had to share her wand with the Gryffindor girl, then listen to her frequent complaints about how it didn't feel right as she tried to coach her through casting the spell.
"Honestly, how could you misplace something so important?" Hermione eventually asked, exasperated.
"I didn't misplace it, I know I had it in Defence yesterday, and I put it in my bag afterward. I didn't go looking for it until now, and my bag hasn't been out of my sight except for while I was sleeping. Besides, you saw Professor Flitwick cast all those spells trying to find it, and he couldn't...it must be one of those weird Hogwarts things that the upper-years say are always happening." Hermione frowned at this, but Hogwarts, a History did have a great many mentions of odd things that had never been properly explained. Still, it was an article of faith for her that everything had an explanation, even if no one had managed to figure one out yet.
"I don't know what I'll do if it doesn't turn up soon," Lavender continued, oblivious to Hermione's skepticism. "I suppose my parents will have to take me back to Ollivander's to find a new one. Which is a pity, as I so liked the original...fir and unicorn hair, ten inches, just a hint of spring…" She sighed elaborately, staring into the distance as if pining over a lost love. When Hermione cleared her throat gently, the flighty Gryffindor came back to herself and grimaced at the wand in her hand as if it were a spoiled sausage.
"Maybe Peeves took it, they say he goes everywhere, even our bedrooms," suggested Hannah from her adjacent desk, her tone scandalized.
"If it's any consolation, he may look like a little man, but he's not really. I've read he's not a proper ghost...he was never actually alive to begin with," Hermione pointed out, trying to reassure Hannah.
"Still...yuck," she said, and Hermione could only shrug and nod.
Charms finally finished, and mercifully Herbology still didn't involve any wandwork, so Hermione was able to reclaim her wand from Lavender. For just a moment, she wanted to stroke it and murmur soothingly to it, but that felt a little too close to the other girl's irritating feelings for her own wand, and she refrained. Still, it couldn't hurt to try and pick up some wand cleaner...she wasn't certain that she was only imagining being able to see Lavender's oily fingerprints on it…
Defence class passed uneventfully, although Professor Quirrell was behaving oddly in a significantly different way than he had yesterday. Instead of jumping at noises and looking around shiftily, he stared off into the distance as if lost in thought, often for minutes at a time, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Of course, when someone cleared their throat to snap him out of it, then he'd jump. At first it was prompting from Hermione, who only wanted to minimize the interruptions to their education, but later it was largely the Slytherins, who delighted in having a legitimate excuse to provoke such a reaction from the Professor.
Transfiguration turned out to be surprisingly uncomfortable, in an unexpected way. The class proceeded as it had yesterday (albeit without the introductory warnings and agreement), with lecture and discussion for the first half, then practice for the second. After Professor McGonagall handed out the matchsticks, Hermione briefly reviewed her now-restored notes and dove straight in. In considerably less than a minute, she had a brilliantly shining needle.
"So, can you tell us now how you're doing that so fast?" asked Su Li. Most of the nearby students immediately turned to listen.
"Just like the book and Professor McGonagall say, compare, contrast then conform. Just...it helps to be as detailed as you can," she began, slowly. But she realized that wouldn't help them much if they didn't understand the details, and she'd promised the Professor not to share her scientific insights with the students until the woman herself had learned enough muggle science to ensure general safety.
"I thought I had been," said Padma. "Here, let me see your notes," she continued, moving to read over Hermione's shoulder. Instinctively, Hermione flipped the small stack of parchment over, hiding the writing. The look of surprise and offence on the girl's face immediately made Hermione feel awful. She was about to hastily explain her promise to the Professor, but she paused to consider the implications. Just giving them the idea would complicate things, if they knew any science at all they'd have to make the same promise...and if they didn't understand science as well as her, they might not take it quite so seriously. Furthermore, if she just told them she'd promised McGonagall not to say without explaining why, it'd seem like she was "conspiring" with a Professor, which from past experience would not go well. And if she just refused and didn't say anything about why she was refusing…
"So that's how it is?" asked Morag, softly. "It's fine tae help with things like wand-licht, but when it comes tae real magic, it's every witch for herself, hmm?" Padma's expression hardened, even as Hermione's grew more unhappy.
"It's not like that," Hermione protested, but had no words to continue with. Padma went back to her seat without another word and Morag nodded. Even worse, all of the nearby Slytherins were giving her looks that Hermione could only call appraising...like they were positively updating their estimations of her deviousness, or worthiness - for the few that might even consider those two concepts separable.
"Diligent practice, I suspect, will serve you much better in the long run than conversation," Professor McGonagall called out primly from the front of the classroom. Everyone turned back to their matchsticks, with only occasional glances at Hermione, who couldn't decide if the Professor had done her a favor or not by cutting the discussion short.
When class was over, she didn't linger to ask the Professor for advice - there was no sense in giving anyone more ammunition, and anyway she still had a new class to get to, today. Besides, just because she hadn't been able to think of a solution in an hour's time didn't mean there wasn't one to be found.
Hermione took a seat in the History of Magic classroom, and felt a familiar tightness in her chest as some Ravenclaws deliberately left empty desks between themselves and her. But she told herself it was for the best anyway, until she worked out how to handle the situation, trying to ignore the whispers she couldn't quite make out.
Though she knew what to expect, having read about Professor Binns in Hogwarts, a History, Hermione jumped a little with most of the other students when the ghost entered the classroom, not through the doorway, but by simply floating straight through the chalkboard at the front. In a low drone, the translucent, wizened figure began to take roll, seemingly oblivious that no one responded to any of the names he read off, none of which sounded familiar at all. Hermione would've attempted to point this out, but he turned his back on the class and launched straight into a droning lecture, scrawling notes onto the chalkboard as he spoke in blurry and illegible ghost-chalk.
The students collectively shrugged and began to take notes or quietly talk amongst themselves, according to their individual predilection. Even Hermione found it difficult to pay attention and take proper notes, as the old ghost's voice seemed to have a hypnotic quality. She brought all of her late-night study-focus tricks to bear, but even she still found her attention wandering to the problem of her Transfiguration insights. Of course her housemates liking her wasn't as important as safety, but she still thought it unfair. And unfair to them as well, as they could be doing just as well as her if they had the right information. Maybe Professor McGonagall would let the other Ravenclaws sit in on their science tutoring?
The students jolted back to attention (or consciousness, depending) when the class bell rang. Professor Binns asked them to write fourteen inches on the establishment of the International Confederation of Wizards by next week and Hermione glanced suspiciously at her notes, unsure of whether she'd actually missed something, or if the ghost was giving them homework entirely unrelated to what he'd been lecturing on.
"Thank Merlin we've only got him once a week," sighed Daphne. "Much more napping would mess up my sleeping schedule."
"And we all know you need all the beauty sleep you can get," sneered Pansy. The bigger Slytherin girl was in fact considerably less pretty than Daphne, but the latter grimaced slightly and didn't offer a comeback.
Hermione absently noted the byplay and added it to her mental tallies of Slytherin behavior, but left the classroom without delay, heading straight for the library. She needed to get the information about suppliers for the Hospital wing and send owls, resume her reading on house elves and continue her efforts to make sense of Madam Pince's organization of the library, catch Professor McGonagall at some point to schedule their extra lessons and ask about including her housemates in them...
o-o-o
As she walked to the Owlery to post her letters, Hermione thought about what she'd read. The information about house elves sounded well-reasoned, but it didn't seem to be supported by any actual historical references. This in itself wasn't necessarily damning - witches and wizards didn't seem to use many footnotes or bibliographies in any of their books - but it did sort of remind her of early Classical philosophers, who tended to judge the truth of explanations largely by how they sounded. Once they found one that sounded "true", they stopped looking, even if there might have been other explanations that actually fit better. Hermione found it hard to imagine an elf coming up with what she'd read as something to do rather than a Wizard coming up with it to try to explain something that already was.
The bit about the clothes, for example. The very few modern wizards who'd chosen to write at all about house elves explained it as an exchange of loyalty and dependence. Clothes were, above a basic level of modesty and personal comfort, an expression of status. Since an elf properly bound to a house was considered simply an extension of the family's wishes, they had no need to display their own status, and given their size it wasn't hard to satisfy modesty with whatever happened to be lying around. Further, a loyal elf would always put her family's comfort above her own, plus spend most of her time in a comfortable home anyway. Clothes were thus obviously an unnecessary distraction, except in the rare case of an elf being dismissed (they did not use the term 'freed', Hermione noted). Though few wizards would apparently take on an elf so disgraced, it was judged a generous mercy that they be allowed to present their best face to prospective employers, which is why being presented proper clothing was the magical trigger for ending an elf's contract.
Hermione found herself dissatisfied with the situation, but at a loss for what to do about it. Particularly since the elves themselves seemed quite opposed to any efforts to change their conditions, or even to discuss them in that context. Maybe if they were just used to how things were, she could think of some way to get them interested, thinking about the possibilities?
Once her letters to potion ingredient suppliers were off on various owls, she went in search of Professor McGonagall's office, and after being forced to backtrack a couple times, she managed to locate it. As she was about to knock, Hermione noticed the schedule of office hours helpfully affixed next to the door, which indicated that the professor was currently teaching sixth-year NEWT Transfiguration. In fact, the only time before curfew that she wasn't teaching classes was Fridays between eight and nine in the evening, or the weekend. Hermione frowned, discouraged, and regretted not trying to catch the professor on her way out of the Great Hall after dinner.
"Miss Granger?" Hermione was not ordinarily a particularly jumpy person, but having just vividly imagined what Professor McGonagall might be teaching sixth-years at this very moment, when she heard the professor's voice behind her, she barely stopped herself from shrieking. The woman's lips twitched, but her eyes showed only concern. "My apologies, I didn't intend to startle you."
"It's not your fault, just the schedule…" she pointed over her shoulder, then wondered why the professor was here if she was supposed to be teaching, and trailed off in confusion.
"As a duty to my students, I do keep to that schedule, though it is not impossible to find me elsewhere, if I have other business," the professor explained. This did seem to make sense, though there was something about the way she'd said it that felt odd to Hermione.
"Oh, I can come again later if you're busy…"
"If you've come to work out when we shall be having our 'lessons', that certainly qualifies as 'other business'," noted Professor McGonagall, arching an eyebrow. Hermione nodded, and followed her into the office, taking a seat.
"I think, given my other duties, it shall have to be weekends, though I suppose if more time is required I could give you a note to allow you to visit my office after curfew." The girl blinked at this, but nodded again.
"I'm not sure how to go about this, Professor...I've helped people of course, but I've never officially tutored anyone before. I did bring some basic books for you to start with…" Hermione extracted three books from her bag, introductory texts on chemistry, biology and physics. Professor McGonagall accepted them, then flipped through the top one, blinking slightly at the small font size and color - but un-animated - photos and illustrations. "You'll need at least some basic maths...are you familiar with algebra and statistics?"
At the professor's blank expression, Hermione began to worry, but some brief back-and-forth established that Arithmancy did cover similar bases, though with some differing terminology.
"Here is my suggestion, then," said the professor. "Each week, I shall read a chapter from each and take notes of any concepts which seem confusing or unfamiliar, then we can meet and you can attempt to clarify matters. After a session or two, it should become clear how much time we will require, and whether more than one meeting per week is indicated."
"That seems sensible, though I wondered if it would be possible to include the other Ravenclaws as well?" The professor frowned.
"I should think not...at least until I have a sufficient grasp of the material to gauge its dangers." She noted Hermione's slightly crestfallen expression with a weighing look of her own. "Why do you ask?"
"I really do like showing other people what I've learned, and they were asking. But you'd said not to, and...some of them think I'm not sharing deliberately, so I can...look better than them." Even as she felt the injustice of it anew, Hermione also felt a bit guilty, saying it out loud. Knowing things other people didn't had always made her proud, so much so that it was hard to resist showing. But she'd never imagined trying to keep other people down...not that she'd ever really had peers, much less significant rivals...there'd really been no one to keep down. On the contrary, she'd often wished she knew people who found everything as interesting as she did.
"Did you not explain to them the prohibition I'd given you?" Hermione shook her head.
"It's...well, I've noticed that classmates sometimes...don't like it if someone is too friendly with the teacher?" The professor pursed her lips.
"I am familiar with the concept, Miss Granger, I was once a young student myself. But you might try giving your fellow Ravenclaws the benefit of the doubt...they are, after all, as eager to learn as you, and thus perhaps more willing than some to take a professor's judgement and instructions at face value?" Hermione nodded. She had to admit, this hadn't occurred to her at all. She wasn't exactly relieved - it did make her feel a bit better, but at the same time worse, because she'd assumed the worst of her housemates, possibly unjustly.
"Now, curfew is nearly upon us, but before you head to your dormitory, I would like you to try to explain your theory about Moira Leigh-Smith, making allowances for the fact that I have yet to even begin to gain what I presume is the proper context." Hermione blinked. It'd have to be very generalized...but it might also be useful...she'd always found learning even easier if she had some goal of understanding she was working towards. The professor waited patiently as the young Ravenclaw tried to choose the words to explain radioactivity without using any concepts more modern than the sixteenth century or so.
"Um. So, muggles have found certain...substances...that are, I guess you could say they're constantly Transfiguring themselves into something else...or no, not really, because they don't want anything, it's just happening, because...er...the way they are inside is unstable...like each tiny bit of the substance is a pile of salt on top of tiny circular pedestal...and when I say tiny bit I mean much tinier than a single grain of salt...and if there's too much salt it spills grains off of the edges? That's actually a pretty good analogy, because, well, these substances, as they change, they cast off little bits of...not themselves, exactly, but other substances, or sometimes just energy...and anyway, those substances can, when they hit certain other substances, or even sometimes the air, cause a glow. But they also can do really bad things to, ah, the smallest parts of a living creature, and worse if the original substances get somehow taken inside first. And until fairly recently those bad parts weren't really common knowledge, so I could see someone maybe trying to do that if they'd only sort of understood it…" Hermione trailed off, and watched the professor hopefully.
Professor McGonagall's eyes flicked down to the books, and for the briefest instant Hermione thought she might've seen trepidation in the woman's face, but if she did it was quickly buried under firm, if perhaps grim, determination.