Heirs of the Founders
Author's miscellany meanderings:
Once more, I thank you all for your time and reviews (positive and negative) and hope you continue enjoying my story.
This chapter fought me, tooth and nail, until I realized I was actually writting a bridge. Once I realized this, things came much easier; a bridge is a good place for some back-story, character development/exploration and foreshadowing. Also, many readers have noted the D/s components in Heirs of the Founders; be forewarned it's not going away but I hope to maintain the current 'T' rating for as long as possible. As this is a Harry Potter fanfiction, I doubt I have the same wiggle room that my other major story has in its genre but I will try to give you advanced notice if it does drift past the 'T' line (I doubt it will be anytime soon). Still that may not be possible, regardless of how clever I hope to be, and may be facing a 'M' future after-all.
Best regards,
Animekitty2
Obligatory blah blah blah:
I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.
Chapter Five
Harry's first full day of school began as the first tendrils of dawn crept through the heavy red velvet bed-curtains that afforded some privacy from his fellow first years. As thick as they might be, the curtains were still inadequate sound barriers; leaving him to suffer through the salvos of snore artillery volleyed by his dorm-mates over the course of the night: he had managed some sleep but could've used more. Harry weighed his options between trying for a bit more shut-eye or starting his day; a moot deliberation, the ceasefire ended in another barrage and made the decision for him, he would get up: he had to use the loo anyways. Drawing back the drapery and tossing off sheets, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. The floor was thankfully only cool under his bare feet but it made him worry about winter; he was, after all, somewhere in the Scottish Highlands and winter would be far colder and harsher than what he was used to. Come to think of it, Harry mused, my Hogwarts' letter never mentioned thermal undies; a bit of an oversight I'd say.
Padding across the dorm, Harry made his way to the washroom. He attended to his morning ablutions and then returned to his bed. A quick glance confirmed that he was still the only one awake. Well, may as well get dressed—let's see, today I think I'll wear the black robe, the black slacks, the red and gold tie, and the pointy hat, Harry amusedly thought. I wonder if the school has a gym or something—it isn't mentioned in 'Hogwarts: A History' from what I remember—if not, I'll have to be content with jogging and simple isometrics; I'll ask Percy Weasley later. Harry donned his uniform, slipped on his loafers and left the room; he was walking down the steps when Hermione appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the girls' dorms. They immediately saw each other and exchanged shy smiles.
"G'morning Hermione, how'd ya sleep?" Harry asked from the landing; he waited for the witch.
"Good morning, Harry," she replied. "I slept okay, I guess—first night; new bed and all, how 'bout you?"
"Okay too, I guess, but it would've been better if my dorm wasn't a saw-mill."
"Bunk mates snore, huh?"
"Mostly Weasley but Neville would give him a run for his money every now and then," Harry replied as the witch joined him on the landing; together they walked down to the Common Room. "I wouldn't have taken you for a morning person, Mione."
"Just habit really, Harry," said the witch as the two children took a seat on an overstuffed couch, "my parents are big on personal fitness—not obsessively so, mind you—and for as long as I remember I've joined them for some part of their morning routine. What about you, do you always rise with the birds?"
"Yeah, pretty much, Aunt Petunia expected me to have breakfast ready by the time Uncle Vernon and l'il Dinky Duddydums waddled to the table," Harry said, he wasn't hiding his disdain. "I guess over the years I've developed a similar habit; it's kinda funny that you mentioned exercise, though—I was wondering if Hogwarts had a gym or something?"
Hermione eyes looked up and right, she replied, "I don't think so, 'Hogwarts: A History' doesn't mention it. Come to think of it, I haven't read anything about witch or wizard fitness. I guess they don't think it's important—what with spells and potions and what not, they must think it's unnecessary. Well that's their own look out I guess—I like how I feel after a good workout; how 'bout you Harry, how long have you been exercising?"
"The beginning of August, while being tutored at Gringotts," Harry began in explanation, "My Goblin tutors took offense over my scrawniness. They set out a rather intensive potion and fitness routine for me because of their old saying, 'a weak body dulls the blade'n'brain' and—after much cursing, struggling and lots of sweat—I began to put on some good weight and muscle; I got taller too. I've learned two things from those workouts: Firstly, like you, I like how I feel after exercise and, secondly, never let a goblin plan your fitness routine."
Hermione giggled a little.
"I'm serious Mione—goblins have no sense of mercy, hate weaknesses of any kind and never accept anything less than one-hundred percent in effort. Heck, my trainer would jog behind me and cast stinging jinxes (goblin stinging jinxes, no less; goblins have higher pain thresholds than humans: I'll leave that to your imagination) if he thought I wasn't running fast enough; mind you, the end result was worth it. They are as demanding with academics and never accept anything less than ninety percent on tests. If I got 89.99% on a quiz, I would rewrite—not the same test; that'd be too easy—a different one."
"Wow," Hermione said with obvious awe, "that was demanding and you did it daily throughout August?"
"Yeah, every weekday for twenty weeks in August," replied Harry.
"Twenty days, you mean," Hermione's sharp ears seized upon his ambiguous time keeping.
Harry froze and suddenly looked very nervous, he recovered quickly, scanned the empty—but for he and Hermione—Common Room and quietly said, "Um . . . I shouldn't have said that; I guess it's pretty safe to assume, Hermione, you won't conveniently forget that or not ask me any questions, right"
With a touch of confusion, Hermione responded, "I have an eidetic memory, Harry; I don't forget anything—which isn't that great of a thing, let me tell you; I remember the bad and good both equally and clearly—but why does a simple tongue slip tie you into knots?"
"Please . . . please, don't repeat what I'm about to tell, Mione; I wish I could give you instant Occlumency."
"Occlumency? Gryff said something about a master Occlumens training me but for my age," Hermione said reflectively, as her mind connected dots.
"Who's Gryff?" Harry asked.
"The Sorting Hat, he told me to call him Gryff the next time we spoke," she replied. "I wasn't really sure what he was talking about then and I haven't thought about it since—it seemed kinda unimportant at the time but for the difficulties he had deciding what house to put me in."
"Why did Occlumency come up during your sorting, Hermione?" he said, sounding very puzzled, "and what difficulties did Gryff the Hat have with you?"
Hermione replied, "At first, he said he couldn't see into my mind . . . no, that isn't quite right, he said my mind was extraordinary and ordered and that he saw a library when he looked—I guess all my books were closed or something—but he couldn't find my 'index cards' so he couldn't see 'me' I guess you might say."
"I think I understand, Mione, I'm glad too," Harry said. "Do you know what Legilimency is?"
She shook her head.
"It's magic that allows a person to look into another's mind, to varying degrees; Occlumency is its counter; it shields your mind from a Legilimens attempt to take a peek," he explained. "Anyway, the goblins suspect Professor Dumbledore is an accomplished and practicing Legilimens and not above taking a furtive look into the minds of others: students included."
"I can't believe that. I mean who'd allow it; I'm sure he'd get in lots of trouble for it too," Hermione seemed to take offense at the very thought that the Headmaster might do that, "It's only a suspicion though, right?"
"Mione, while at Gringotts, one of the many things I learned about goblins was that Goblin suspicion is but a hairbreadth from the truth," Harry told the doubting witch, "I think you should remain guarded around the Headmaster—for your sake as well as mine—the less he knows about me and my private dealings the better."
"Harry, you're talking about Albus Dumbledore, here! He defeated Grindelwald and is said to be the only wizard You-know-who feared. Aside from being Hogwarts' Headmaster he's the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards," Hermione rattled off as if reading the Headmaster's biography, "Why would he trouble himself over the dealings of an underage wizard, or even remotely care for that matter?"
"Because, Hermione," Harry began sounding very resigned, "as much as I'd like to be a normal run-of-the-mill underage wizard, I'm not. I represent an unknown element to the Wizengamot and its many factions; each trying to figure how they might manipulate, recruit or align me. I know what the Goblins want from me, others I do not; until I know that Professor Dumbledore and I have the same goals, I intend to keep my head down and hope he ignores me."
"I think it's too late for that, Harry—he noticed Professor McGonagall's behavior during my sorting and I can't believe that that little scene between you, that slimy Malfoy and Professor Snape—the little bigot's godfather, no less—hasn't made it to the Headmaster's ears already. It's gonna be everywhere before breakfast ends, as it is, Harry; we share a castle with hundreds of teens and preteens—discretion will be anything but a well-developed art for most, I assure you."
"I guess in hindsight that was dumb of me—kinda funny though, the Sorting Hat thought I'd do well in Slytherin: ha, I showed him; I guess I've some damage control to do, huh?" Harry replied—trying to tint his self-disappointment with a modicum of humor.
"Gryff said you'd do well in Slytherin?" Hermione quipped; she almost chuckled. "You were quintessentially Gryffindor last night; still, thank you for standing up for me, Harry, it made me very happy. I hope you don't get in trouble for it though."
"A little late for me to worry about that, now," Harry replied in tacit acquiescence, "I'm just gonna hav'ta weather whatever storm that blows in. My foolishness aside, weren't we talking about exercise, Hermione?"
"We were, I said I don't think Hogwarts has a gym—'Hogwarts: A History' doesn't mention one either—I still want to get some exercise, though; any ideas Harry?"
"For now, I guess we can run a bit and do some simple isometrics; maybe a little resistance training, we only need each other's body to work up a sweat," Harry replied innocently, which wasn't how Hermione heard it; the young witch glowed red. Harry noticed and asked, "Hermione, you sure you don't have a cold or something? You're all flushed again; maybe you've got a fever."
"I . . . I'm fine Harry, honestly; I just kinda mis-imagined what you said . . ." her hands flew to her mouth. Oh my god, oh my god, what am I saying? I just went and made him think about how I heard 'we only need each other's body to work up a sweat', wh . . . what's Harry gonna think? Her panic thoughts raced.
"Mis-imagined, I don't get it; what did I say that got your knickers in a . . ." Harry slammed his lips closed. Just frigging great Harry, he thought with similar panic, I blurt out 'your knickers' to a pretty witch; there's no way she won't notice that but what's the bee in her bonnet, what did I say? Harry thoughtfully reviewed what he had said until it dawned; Harry went as red as Hermione.
"Oh, this is getting stupid," Hermione said in forced recovery, "let's just drop it and figure out an exercise routine; my daddy always told me to be aware and make use of my surroundings; it's something he learned when he was in Hereford: they stressed it like an edict there, he said so more than once."
"Where's Hereford?"
"Near Gloucester I think, I've never been there," Hermione answered. "It's where my mum and dad met. Dad was a dentist at RAF Hereford's, until he retired from service; mum was his assistant before she went back to university and finished her Doctorate of Dental Surgery. They got married a bit after she graduated and went into practice together."
"Ex-military, I guess that explains why your parents are big on physical fitness."
"Yeah, daddy told me that their CO expected even his noncombatant support staff, like mom and dad; executive and other ranks alike, to remain near the same physical level as Regimental Regulars and Specialists." Hermione explained, "My dad once told me that his Regiment's motto was 'Who Dares Wins'; try associating that with dentistry and oral hygiene, he said to me once—it doesn't really fit—but, according to daddy, the Regimental Brigadier was a stickler for things like that."
"I'd say it doesn't fit," Harry replied, fighting against laughter, "I'd find it unnerving to hear a dentist exclaim 'Who Dares Wins' before pulling a tooth."
"That wasn't funny—well, maybe it was—but daddy was serious and mum confirmed it," she said defensively. "Still, talking about my parent's past isn't getting us anywhere—we'll just have to figure things out as we go."
"I guess—I was gonna ask Percy Weasley about a gym or something, on the off-handed chance it was missed in the current edition of 'Hogwarts: A History' but I doubt it," he said, "but I haven't read anything 'bout fitness stuff either. So, Mione, you wanna hang around here for a li'l longer; I'm feeling a little antsy myself and was think'n of exploring the castle a bit before breakfast: by the way, do you know when breakfast is?"
Hermione thought for a moment and replied, "6:30 to 8:30 during the week and it's kinda a brunch thing weekends and holidays from 6:30 till 1:30."
Harry glanced at his watch before saying, "It's almost 6:30 now, Mione, what say we go get someth'n to eat and explore a bit afterwards?"
"Yeah, okay Harry, but I don't think we can wander around Hogwarts today; they give us our class schedules at breakfast this morning," she countered. "We kinda need to be in the Great Hall for that."
"You're right, I guess maybe tomorrow or later this week would be better; besides, we have a whole weekend coming up too," he said. "You can get us back to the Great Hall, right? I'd hate to go hungry because I got lost."
Hermione rolled her eyes and replied, "Of course, weren't you paying attention last night?
"You're the one with the eidis . . . eldritch . . . perfect memory thingy, not me; besides I was looking at other things last night."
"It's eidetic, Harry, and perfect memory is a bit of a misnomer; it's really more about really, really good recall," Hermione corrected him with a touch of know-it-all.
"What's the difference," Harry replied, he didn't really mean it as a question.
"Well you see," Hermione began, "unless there is physiological differentiation from the paradigm whether through injury, disease or genetic malformation a person's brain retains every experience it every experienced . . ."
"Hermione," Harry interrupted.
". . . as has been shown by experiments in which extremely low-voltage electrodes, when applied to the exposed surface of the cerebral cortex in test subjects, has been shown to stimulate memories . . ."
"Hermione!" he firmly interrupted. Does she breath? Harry thought with amused affection.
". . . it is generally assumed by many scholars, in the field of Neurological Science, that it's not our memory but our recall process that causes us to assume, faultily I might add, that we've . . ."
"MIONE!"
With a startled flinch caused by Harry's loud address, the young witch realized she was in full bushy-haired Bookworm-no-it-all lecture mode. She immediately stopped talking, looked at the floor and said with embarrassment and a couple of tears, "I-I'm sorry Harry . . ."
"It's fine Mione, really it is; you just need to pay attention and not carried away with what and how you say something," Harry said gently supportive. "I take it this is one of those things you want to change; I can see how it might push people away."
Hermione nodded weakly but never really took her eyes from the floor.
"If you want, I can help you," he said soothingly, Hermione's distress was profound.
"You will! Thank you Harry," the now happy witch, suddenly hugged him. "I'll do my best too; I won't disappoint you, I promise, I'll be your good little witch." I didn't . . . I didn't! She reproached herself. I didn't just say, 'I'll be your good little witch' did I? What will he think: maybe he didn't notice.
"I hope so, otherwise I may have to spank you," Harry had meant it jokingly but it didn't sound like one, at least to his ears. O. My. God. I. Did. Not. Just. Say. That! The little voice in his head screamed in panic and shame. Maybe she didn't hear it: maybe she'll think she heard me wrong. He felt her squirm a little—he was suddenly very aware that Hermione was a girl and that she was hugging him—he was very thankful when she let go; in a disappointed sort of way. He hazarded a glance at her but their eyes refused to meet.
An awkward eternity passed between them—even if it was for only a couple of seconds—before she stood and said anxiously, "Let's head to the Great Hall and get breakfast, Harry."
"Yeah . . . Yeah, let's go," he agreed and stood as well.
Crossing the floor, Harry and Hermione exited the Common Room through the portrait and into the torch lit corridor. Uncertain, Harry glanced up and down the hall and concluded that his earlier assumption had been correct; he had no idea which way to go. Thankfully, Hermione's sense of direction wasn't so encumbered and, upon stepping from the Gryffindor Common Room, began walking with confidence; Harry followed and soon the smell of breakfast would've lead him to the Great Hall had the bushy-haired witch not been there to guide him. With each step, the scent of food wafted invitingly and after descending another flight of stairs Harry and Hermione reached the Entrance Hall. With their stomachs growling and saliva glands in overdrive, the young witch and wizard stepped into the Great Hall and made their ways to their house table, already laden with heaping salvers of every type of breakfast food imaginable. Two children, with eyes as large as the saucers that set the table, were the first Gryffindors to face the morning feast and fall under the calculating gaze of a staff member; the polar opposite of Hagrid.
"Why don't I see more fat witches and wizards?" Harry asked, more to himself than to the person beside him, "because if I keep eating like this I'm going to rival Dudley's girth by spring."
"I was thinking the same thing, Harry," Hermione said.
"That you're going to rival Dudley?" he said and roguishly grinned.
"No silly," she countered and playfully slapped his shoulder, "about overweight magicals; I don't recall seeing any more than a little chubby, like Neville, and I'd be willing to bet that's baby-fat and will be gone in two or three years tops."
"The reason you don't see many overweight magicals, Miss Granger, is because our magical cores are fairly significant drain on our caloric intake," Hermione and Harry jumped when a slightly squeaky voice suddenly addressed them from behind.
The two startled magelings turned towards the voice and found the diminutive wizard they had seen when they had entered the Great Hall for breakfast. How he got from the head table, so quickly and quietly, to stand behind them unnerved Harry, greatly; he chided himself for failing to heed his surroundings properly.
"Lord Potter, I am both surprised and disappointed with you," the small wizard chastised, "to not be aware of my presence, before I addressed you, shames you and your teachers; had I been an enemy, I'd have greeted you this morning with a well-deserved knife in your back."
"You speak as one of The People but you wear the robes of a Hogwarts professor; I've yet to receive the gift of your name may I be so bold as to ask?" Harry said with more respect than Hermione had yet to hear.
"I am Filius Flitwick, Charms' professor at Hogwarts and head of Ravenclaw House," He replied formally. "I am not of The People but I call The Nation home. I am the descendant of an unlikely love between a goblin and a human and I have many friends and allies who are of The People; they trust me—much like they trust you, Lord Potter—to know and keep many of The Nation's secrets. Again, I challenge you Lord Potter: how is it that I managed to surprise you after being told that you were the pride of your teachers?"
"Blame not nor bring shame upon my teachers; I know better and ignored my surroundings: I thought Hogwarts was safe," Harry replied, each word measured and weighed before speaking.
"Lord Potter," Professor Flitwick continued, "it is a sad but undeniable truth that you are the enemy of he who resides in your scar and his minions that still walk free; no place will ever be truly safe until he and his have crossed the Veil."
"Harry, what does Professor Flitwick mean when he says 'he who resides in your scar'," Hermione's inquisitive mind seizing on the professor's words."
"Something that should not have been spoken in this place and part of things I will tell you when we're somewhere with no unwelcome ears," Harry replied evasively before returning his attention to Professor Flitwick. "I'm surprised by you indiscretion and am thankful that few have yet arrived for breakfast and while I feel that you and I may implicitly trust Miss Granger with my secrets it is mine to decide upon the time and place of discloser."
Professor Flitwick bowed very low and said, "My apologies Lord Potter you are most correct, please forgive me."
"Please do not address me as Lord, especially while I'm at Hogwarts; please address me as you would a student, Professor Flitwick," Harry requested.
"As you wish, Mr. Potter," the petite professor replied, "but I stand by my earlier words and caution you."
"No, professor, apologizes are unnecessary and you were correct in your approach. I appreciate your concern and am thankful for your reminder, I will be more diligent in future."
"Very well then, Mr. Potter; Miss Granger, I will let you enjoy your breakfast without further interruption," Professor Flitwick said with a bow before saying, "one last thing Mr. Potter, The Nation and The People have requested that I continue your tutorage while you are at Hogwarts, we should meet soon and discuss how we wish to proceed."
"Thank you professor, I look forward to it," Harry said before adding, "Sir, do you know a place where my friend and I may exercise?"
"I maintain a dueling hall that is well equipped; I will show it to Miss Granger and you when the opportunity presents itself—this weekend would be the earliest I would think," he answered.
"Thank you professor," said Harry.
"Yes professor, thank you," Hermione echoed as Professor Flitwick turned to go back to the head table.
With the professor's diminutive back receding from the table, Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "Harry, what was that all about?"
"We really need to find somewhere private but suffice to say it's more not to talk about at this time or place, please let it go for now."
"But Harry . . ."
"Not now Mione, I'm serious about this; all I'll say for now is that my arrival at Hogwarts has set many things in motion; planned and unplanned, known and unknown. Like a storm, it may sweep a decayed culture from the face of modern Britain; what grows in its place is anyone's guess and chaos is not the best fertilizer for a just society," Harry replied with both firmness and certainty.
Hermione opened her mouth but once more found that Harry Potter had stripped her of words, I don't understand it, she thought furiously, this is—what—the third time Harry has said something I can't dispute or even comment on, rationally or logically. Let's see, he said he spent every weekday through August at Gringotts, twenty days he said—no, he said twenty weeks, I corrected him; I said twenty days—what if? What if, what? Time is the abstract child of the three dimensions and distance; it can't be orphaned from its parents: am I about to postulate that magic can do the impossible—AAUGH, what am I saying, I'm a frigging witch! Hermione did the mental equivalent of a face-palm. I seriously think I need to rethink what I think is impossible, I think. She was not happy with that bit of convoluted mental gymnastics and decided that maybe she'd just think about breakfast for the time being. With her thoughts on things more mundane—eggs, bacon and toast for the time being—she found herself enjoying her morning repast and the company she was keeping.
Harry was also enjoying the company but—as the old adage 'all good things must come to pass' says—their time of pseudo-privacy ended as more and more Gryffindors joined the table for their morning meal. Harry glanced about the Great Hall surreptitiously as he assessed his place and the people he'd be spending the better part of the next ten months with. He felt eyes on him and looked around, of course he thought, as he found the eyes of Draco Malfoy trying to bore into him from all the way from the Slytherin table; Harry smiled in acknowledgement. He mentally snickered when the boy hurriedly glanced at the head table: another set of eyes were on him but these were more than happy to glare at him. Yep, should have known, professor Snape, Harry thought as he felt an odd tingle behind his forehead, automatically Harry's Occlumency Shields snapped in place leaving only one obvious thought viewable: naughty, naughty Professor Snape, he forced all his concentration to the forefront of his mind, legilimency is generally frowned upon in polite society. His thoughts appeared to reach the professor as the hook-nosed man scowled at the half-day old Gryffindor; with his message apparently delivered, Harry mentally shoved the man from his mind and felt rewarded when Professor Snape's fingers went to his temples in obvious pain.
"Harry," Hermione's quiet voice startled him, "I was wondering where Professor Flitwick came from."
Harry's newly developed sense of humor was first in the race to get words to his tongue, he answered, "Well you see, Mione, when a mommy wizard loves a daddy wizard they plant a cabbage patch and then a stork comes . . ."
". . . Prat," Hermione replied with another playful to slap to her friend's shoulder, "you know what I mean: how could . . ."
". . . let's go ask," Harry said facetiously; Hermione glared at him, "just kidding, but I'm curious too because—even though I preferred math and physics over biology and chemistry—everything I've read suggests he shouldn't exist but there he is, at the head table, eating kippers and sausages. Obviously, somebody is wrong and I'm pretty certain if I tell him he shouldn't exist he won't suddenly pop into nonexistence."
Hermione giggled softly.
"What's so funny?"
"What you just said made me think about something I read in daddy's favorite book," she replied.
"Okay, I'm curious, go on," Harry prompted.
"It's about the nonexistence of God," Hermione sounded a little hesitant.
"I'm not religious; you won't offend me."
Hermione glanced up and to the right, momentarily, before she began, "My daddy's favorite book is from 1979 and called The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the part I'm thinking about is fifty or so pages in and begins with a thing called a Babel fish."
"A what?"
"A Babel fish—you stick it in your ear and it translates for you, in the book that is."
"Obviously but what does it have to do with God or the lack thereof, Hermione?"
"The best way to explain is to use that book's explanation, I think," Hermione replied before continuing. "The part about God goes like this: 'Now it's such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindbogglingly useful could've evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God.'
She took a breath and continued, "'the argument goes something like this: 'I refuse to prove I exist,' says God, 'for proof denies faith and without faith I'm nothing.'
"'But,' says Man, 'the Babel fish is a dead giveaway isn't it? It couldn't have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED.'
Hermione found Harry's smile enchanting and he was listening inventively for her to continue, "'Oh dear,' says God, 'I hadn't thought of that,' and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.'
Having someone raptly listening, other than her parents, bordered on intoxicating for the usually ostracized girl and drove her on, "'Oh, that was easy,' says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.' Oh, I'm sorry Harry; I kinda got carried away there."
His grin alleviated her worries before he said, "It's okay Mione, really; I love listening to your voice."
Did he just say he loves listening to my voice? A very suddenly flustered witch thought as she felt her face warm.
AAUGH, what's going on with me! Harry's thought with racing panic. Why do I keep saying things that can be so easily misunderstood by Hermione? Maybe you want her to misunderstand or perhaps that's understand. A thought from somewhere deep in his mind intruded; it brought to mind memories of an old cartoon in which the character had a comedic angle on one shoulder and a demon on the other and each were offering conflicting advice.
"I'm going to have to read it someday," Harry said; thankfully, he had recovered quickly but the way that Hermione looked at him—pink faced and all—left him feeling squirmy inside.
"I-I could ask my parents to send me my copy of the books," she said with an odd hitch in her voice.
"Blimy mate, what's with the weird vibe you two?" The less than welcome voice of Ron Weasley asked as the lanky redhead took a seat beside Harry but he was far more interested in the mounds of food than any possible answer from Harry or Hermione.
"G'morning Harry; Hermione," Neville greeted as he arrived on Ron's heels, "Is it okay to sit with you?"
"Of course it's okay, Neville, you don't need to ask," Hermione answered warmly, her feelings vacillating between relief and disappointment as her house-mates arrived.
"Good morn'n, Neville; Ron," Harry greeted, his feelings echoing those of the bushy-haired witch beside him. "How'd ya sleep?"
"Lying down," Ron replied, thinking he was funny; he already had a mouthful of food.
Neville ignored the comment and replied, "It took a bit to get to sleep—different bed and all, if you know what I mean—but okay I guess. Might've missed breakfast if it hadn't been for the bird; I guess I should thank you for that Harry."
"Oh my god, I left Hedwig in her cage all night: no wonder she woke you, she's going to be so pissed at me," Harry said, he felt appalled by his thoughtless negligence for his feathered friend. "I'm sorry, I gotta dash to our dorm."
"Relax mate," Ron said, not quite between mouthfuls, "ya musta let her out last night and was too tired ta remember, she was perched on the window sill when I woke—looking proud about it or someth'n like that, strange bird that mate; I've never seen Errol look proud 'bout anything, dopey maybe but never proud. No, it was that other ruddy bird Longbottom's talking 'bout."
"What other bird?" Harry asked.
"Biggest, meanest bleed'n thing I've ever seen," Ron said before shoveling some scrambled eggs into his mouth; unfortunately, he had more to say. "Frigging thing was a feathered nightmare—I tell you—I thought the ruddy thing was gonna peck my eyes out when I tried to take that package from it; it seemed okay with Longbottom after your bird hooted at the bloody thing."
"His name is Neville," Hermione said emphatically, "calling him by just his last name is pretty rude unless you're in Japan."
"Ne'er heard of no Japan," Ron defended himself through a mouthful of toast, "it's not nowhere near the Burrow, is it somewhere 'roun yer place Granger?"
"Japan is another country, Ron . . . oh, just forget I said anything," Hermione said; she realized it was pointless and she was actually surprised that she didn't pursue the redhead's lack of geographical knowledge.
"About the bird?" Harry asked, pulling the conversation back to neutral.
"Like I said; biggest meanest bird I ever seen . . ." Ron began.
". . . It was a Gringotts' preferred client eagle; my gran gets them sometimes," Neville interjected, "they can be pretty picky when it comes to deliveries—I doubt I would've been able to receive the package if your owl had told the eagle it was okay."
"You're barmy, Neville, if you think that monster listened to Harry's owl; it was just a hoot . . ."
". . . I know what I saw and heard—that's a pretty special owl you got there, Harry—and believe me, Gringotts' birds don't release items to anyone who isn't given permission to receive them," Neville said with surety.
"I take it that whatever it was, was for me," Harry concluded.
"Yep," Ron said as he was refilling his plate, "some type of box, it looks like, Neville said it was for you and then he put it in his trunk."
Harry turned his eyes to the Longbottom boy, he saw him quietly say something to Hermione who, in turn, leaned towards Harry's ear.
"Harry, don't be angry," Hermione said quietly, "Neville just told me that the package addressing was to 'The Most August, Lord Harry James of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter; he thought it best to not leave it lying around for others to see."
Hermione's words soothed Harry's temper, he looked and Neville and said quietly, "I'm sorry, Neville, my thoughts raced ahead of my common sense. I appreciate your actions and concerns in respect to my privacy."
"As the Scion of a Noble and Most Ancient House, I understand the necessity of discretion," Neville replied, quietly as well.
"What's with the sudden whispering, you three," Ron said before another link of sausage found its way into the redhead's maw.
"Were we whispering?" Harry asked innocently before adding, "We were commenting about your eating habits or the lack thereof, as the case might be. I'm pretty certain Hogwarts isn't going to starve you and I'd appreciate it if you'd chew your food with your mouth closed, Ron."
"What would a muggle-raised know," Harry, Hermione and Neville were stunned by the redhead's thoughtless and petty words.
"Li'l bro," either Fred or George Weasley began, "manners are not the exclusive property of magical families; I'd suggest you listen to your dorm-mate else mom hears of the way you're eating, it's disgusting not to mention EMBARRASSING."
Somehow, Ron Weasley blanched and indignantly scowled, concurrently, at the twins before glowering at Harry. Neville, Harry and Hermione ignored the youngest Weasley, who at least took the less than subtle hint and began to meter himself.
As the other Gryffindors focused on breakfast, Hermione nibbled at a piece of toast as Harry sipped from the goblet set before him, grimaced and forced himself to swallow.
"Hermione," he quietly began as he suspiciously eyed the orange, semi-viscous liquid in his cup, "what is this stuff?"
"I don't know, it's disgusting though; I'd prefer water," the hazel-eyed witch softly replied before turning to Neville, "Neville what are we drinking?"
"Pumpkin juice, what did you think it was?" Neville replied with a touch of confusion.
"I don't know; it's not like anything I've drank before last night," she said.
"What do you mean, Hermione," said the chubby wizard, "pumpkin juice is pumpkin juice; is muggle pumpkin juice different or someth'n?"
"Um . . . Neville, normal people—I mean normal muggles—don't drink pumpkin juice," Hermione advised.
"Muggles don't drink pumpkin juice," Ron said in an almost indignant tone, "are they barmy or something; don't tell me, muggles drink orange juice or some other equally disgusting thing."
"Actually mate . . ." Harry began.
"Ahem," Professor McGonagall cleared her throat as she approached the group of first year Gryffindors, "If I may interrupt this profound discussion regarding muggle and magical beverage preferences, I have your class schedules for this term."
A number of eyes looked towards her, two sets more expectant and eager than others; she began to hand out sheets of parchment, reserving Harry and Hermione's for last. She approached and leaned between them.
"Good morning, Lord Potter," she quietly said as she handed Harry his timetable.
"Good morning, Professor: thank you," he replied as he took the offered parchment before almost whispering, "but please address me as a student; I don't want special or preferential treatment while at school—I don't really want it anywhere but there isn't much I can do about it."
"As you wish, Mr. Potter," she replied.
"Thank you Professor McGonagall."
"Now then, Miss Granger . . ." she began and then stopped; the older witch looked stunned as she looked at the young witch's schedule before whispering, ". . . I mean Lady Granger."
"I-I'm sorry, Professor; did you just call me L-Lady Granger, why?"
"That's what it says on your timetable, right here, milady," she politely replied and handed Hermione her sheet.
The Lady Matriarch Hermione Jean of the Noble House Granger, year 1, term 1, House: Gryffindor, Hermione read at the top of the page.
"I-I don't understand, Professor McGonagall, Harry?" She asked turning to the green-eyed boy beside her.
"Nor I, Milady . . . Lord Potter, I feel you may have had an unknown hand in this odd development; I shall inquire of the Headmaster, perhaps he can enlighten me," the older witch said discretely.
"Professor McGonagall," Harry whispered, his voice formal and just a touch icy, "this—I hope—is the only time I shall ever need to address you so formally: I, Lord Harry James Potter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of the same name do request that this matter be spoken of to no one other than yourself, the Lady Granger or I until such time as the Lady Granger and I feel such discloser is both wise and prudent."
"Your wills be done, Milord; Milady," Professor McGonagall replied, obviously learned in courtly etiquette.
"What was all the whispering about, Hermione?" Neville asked quietly.
"Scion Longbottom, please refrain from asking difficult questions until I've had the opportunity to investigate some rather startling news," Neville recognized Harry's formal request for what it was: from one noble house to another.
"I will, Harry."
"Thank you Neville, could you please excuse Hermione and myself, we will see you in," Harry said, glancing at his timetable, "Herbology. Hermione please join me."
Harry rose from the house table, extended his hand to Hermione and aided the young witch to her feet. Politely excusing themselves to the rest of their housemates; the two Gryffindors made their way from the Great Hall as discretely as possible, their departure noted by only Professors Snape, Flitwick and McGonagall.
"Harry, what's going on?" Hermione asked, virtually in panic.
"I don't know, but this definitely is not the place to speak of such things," Harry said as calmly as possible.
—}{—
"Chronicler Griphook, you cannot barge in on Vaultlord Goldenfang—it is counter to all formal protocol."
"I'm sorry, Silkenrobe; protocols be damned—this cannot wait—I must see Vaultlord Goldenfang and I will see him even if I must physically move you," Griphook insisted.
"At least let me properly announce you," Vaultlord Goldenfang's assistant Silkenrobe almost plead, racing for the door before Griphook got there; she knocked.
"What is it?" Goldenfang's gruff voice answered from beyond the door.
Silkenrobe hesitantly opened the heavy door and said, "It's Griphook—he's very insistent, Milord, and will not be deterred . . ."
". . . Vaultlord Goldenfang," Griphook said as he pushed past the female goblin.
Goldenfang scowled at the intruder, "Griphook, this had best be paramount to the needs of The People and The Nation or you will be shoveled away as dragon dung!"
"My apologizes Vaultlord, it's regarding Lord Potter-Scion Black, he has done something unprecedented, something to the Granger witch . . ."
"You mean granting his family's protection to that muggleborn, I don't see an issue with who our young Lord offers his protection to; so, what has unbalanced your ledgers?" Goldenfang said, barely holding his temper with the recently promoted goblin.
"He did it wrong, Vaultlord," Griphook quickly answered.
"What do you mean, wrong? The Granger witch is protected or not protected how does this affect us, explain."
"Milord, I was reviewing the Potter file this morning to see where the Granger witch will sit with respect to what amounts to her Vassalage to House Potter and as I was looking, this appeared," Griphook replied as crossed Vaultlord Goldenfang's office and handed the older goblin an ornately decorated golden cylinder.
"This is a Line Scroll, Griphook; a brand new Line Scroll," Goldenfang eyed the tube in his hand with suspicion and trepidation and then he saw the embossed name on it.
To see a shocked look cross a normal goblin's face was very rare to see one on a Vaultlord was unheard of but he quickly marshaled himself and continued. "Why am I holding a Line Scroll for a family who—until yesterday evening—were only a couple of muggles with a newblooded daughter? Gringotts' hasn't made a mistake I hope."
"No Lord, please open the cylinder."
Vaultlord Goldenfang uncapped the cylinder and tipped out the contents. He placed the empty tube on his desk, unrolled the scroll and read:
The NOBLE HOUSE of GRANGER
September the First, Common Era 1991
Providence and fealty and virtue hath combined and appointed unto the most august and venerable body of peerage, loyal to The Crown, The Family Granger's daughter Hermione Jean Granger as Matriarch to The Noble House (Matriarchal) Granger and, until such time—if ever—she or her line betray the reigning sovereign, grants unto her and her heirs the title of Lady with all duties and privileges as assigned in perpetuity and The Seat Granger within The Wizengamot: so mote it be.
Lady Hermione Jean Granger, having secured the favor—through honorable and dignified means—of both the Noble and Most Ancient Family Black (Scion Designate) and the Noble and Most Ancient Family Potter (Lord) is sponsored, presented and ascended to her place by virtue of compact and ceded powers to the Four Families on behalf of The Crown as proscribed by The Statute of Secrecy, Common Era 1226.
The Matriarchal Proxy and Lady Regent Emma Joan Granger (1991-1996)
Lord Regent, Emeritus, Daniel Richard Granger
THE LADY MATRIARCH, HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER (1991, 1996-xxxx)
Vaultlord Goldenfang rerolled the scroll and returned it to the Granger Cylinder and looked at Griphook and asked, "How did this happen?"
"I believe, Vaultlord, that young Lord Harry mistakenly incanted the Rite of Petition instead of the Rite of Protection and as Lord of his ancient and most noble house, Magic accepted it as a valid supplication for the election of a new noble family," Griphook answered. "With Lord Harry also being the Scion Designate to House Black—also a noble and most ancient house—and, since the Black Family head is currently residing in Azkaban; it makes Lord Harry the de facto Lord Black and, as such, he unintentionally seconds the nomination for the Lady Granger in the Potter Motion of Petition. Since both are Noble and Most Ancient families, it only takes the two of them to agree and to elect a new seat to the Wizengamot, so—voila—Hermione Granger is accepted as properly elected and thus appointed by Magic."
"Will it stand, Griphook?"
"Since it was accepted by Magic it can only be revoked if Lady Granger betrays The Crown," Griphook replied. "As a muggle born, I think this is highly unlikely; I suspect her loyalty to The Crown supersedes her loyalty to the Wizengamot or any of its many factions."
With Griphook's well-reasoned argument resisting Vaultlord Goldenfang's attempts to poke holes in it, the elder goblin conceded to his young protégé and began to laugh.
"Silkenrobe, please ask Vaultlord Diamondwill to come to my chambers," Goldenfang at last managed to ask with a smidgen of his previous lack of composer still in his voice.
"As you will, Vaultlord," Silkenrobe replied and turned from Goldenfang's office.
"I think, Chronicler Griphook, we have a new family to court," the Vaultlord posed. "Let us hope they are receptive to The Nation's overtures; oh, how I'd love to be the beetle on the wall when Lady Granger and Family are presented to the current sitting body of the Wizengamot when she takes her seat; by the way, what family was last elected to a seat?"
"The Malfoy family, Milord," Griphook answered; his answer was greeted by another fusillade of chortles from the usually staid Vaultlord.
"Please dispatch our congratulations and welcome to the new Noble House of Granger—priority eagle of course. Griphook, we will keep this between you, me, Silkenrobe and Vaultlord Diamondwill so please contact Lady Ganger care of Lord Potter at Hogwarts and ask her how her Ladyship wishes to proceed—oh, please advise Overlord Ragnok for me as well."
"As you wish Vaultlord."
—}{—
Once again, Harry found it easier to follow Hermione than trust himself to find the Gryffindor dorm but at least he was beginning to recognize some landmarks en route, he noted. A large number of paces and numerous stairs later, the two young magicals reached the Fat Lady's portrait.
"Caput Draconis," Hermione and Harry intoned unintentionally in unison; a quick glance to the other, followed by little smiles, preceded the portrait swinging open for them.
"After you, Lady Granger," Harry said as he formally bowed her in.
"T-This isn't funny and I'm scared; I d-don't understand any of this mast . . . Harry," the young witch paled; thankful, at least she had caught herself before blurting out what had been on her tongue. What am I going to do; what am I going to do, her thoughts roiled in turmoil; too much is happening, my hormones are racing—I think I understand mom better—and now this whole title business: what does it all mean? I only wanted a quiet school year, good grades and a chance to make a friend or two but instead I get precocious urges and 'the Lady' added to my name.
"Hermione . . . Hermione," Harry said, trying to gain her attention before almost shouting, "Mione!"
Drawn from her thoughts, the young witch replied, "H-Harry what d-do you want me to do?"
"The first thing you will do is go inside," Harry said with a smile; an odd tingle coursed through his body as he realized his tone was more command than request and that his pretty witch didn't seem to mind.
"Yes Milord," said Hermione, intending it as jest towards the morning's strange events; it sounded far more demure than she had purported but it brought her a sense of welcome calm to embrace. A subdued witchling stepped over the threshold; followed by a confused wizardling, wondering why he liked it—a lot—that his friend had called him her Lord, instead of 'just' Harry.
The portrait swung closed, Harry and Hermione padded across the Common Room; taking her friend's offered hand, the witch and wizard ascended the stairs.
"Um, Hermione," Harry began; stopping on the landing, "can you even come to my dorm; it's for boys after all."
"Of course I can—you told me you'd read 'Hogwarts: A History'," she replied, sounding surprised that he might've forgotten. "Don't you remember where it was written that: 'for the purpose of protecting the virtue of geong witches, Hogwarts dorm rooms are separated and access to the witch's chambers are warded to thwart illicit venery twixt a geong witch and geong wizard' an odd mixture of modern and archaic English I remember thinking after reading the passage. It then mentions that Hogwarts must cover either the Bride Price or Dowry—depending on the families involved and their societal position—of compromised and/or devalued witches: that part made me quite angry. I mean—honestly Harry—it basically equated a woman to a common commodity and is beyond chauvinistic; it's downright debasing and I found this in the most recent edition too!"
Harry found Hermione's fire; over what she saw as a slight, kindling a different sort of warmth a few inches below his belly. It was so distracting that he barely noticed her brief pause to breath and his chance to speak, he said, "Hermione, I take it that all that means you can enter the boy's dormitory and, yes, I forgot; I read 'Hogwarts: A History' way back at the beginning of August."
"C'mon Harry, that's only a month ago, not way back," she implored.
"Not for you, maybe," he murmured to himself.
"Did you say something?" Hermione asked.
"Just muttering—it's noth'n really—but I just realized that racing back here was pointless," replied Harry, "Neville said he put it in his trunk for safe keeping; I'm not about to rummage through his things without permission: I guess we wait. Let's have a seat in the Common Room, Hermione; I'd rather not plant the seeds of rumor, who knows what might sprout in the fertile minds of our dorm-mates if they found us us alone in what amounts to my bedroom."
Hermione considered his words and then said, "I think you're right, Harry—we've already become the topic of speculation and talk; in the first year girl's dorm at least."
"Gossip already, I should've shown greater wisdom but making a friend—finally—sorta clouded my judgment," Harry said, sounding apologetic. "I was—well not fully, really—prepared for the microscope that I and my actions would likely entail but I've gone and put you under the same scrutiny and likely messed up your chance to be just a student; for that I'm extremely sorry Hermione."
"It's okay, Harry," Hermione soothed, "there's noth'n we can do now but live with it and hope our classmates soon find a new source of gossip and rumor; leaving us alone in the process."
"We can hope," he replied and found his eyes locked to hers.
"Um . . . excuse me you two."
With a start, Hermione and Harry turned to the owner of the voice; Neville Longbottom was standing just inside the dormitory.
"When I saw you and Hermione leave the table so suddenly and quickly, I figured it had something to do with Professor McGonagall and the very quiet conversation you had with her," Neville said and sounded uncomfortable.
Hermione noticed the lad's discomposure and asked, "It's okay Neville, I won't bite so you don't need to be so nervous."
The chubby wizard glanced around the common room—they were alone as far as he could tell—and then said very reticently, "It was not my intent to eavesdrop on your conversation with Professor McGonagall but I overheard some of it all the same."
"What did you overhear, Scion Longbottom?" Harry challenged, his eyes narrowed their focus to just the young wizard; beside him Hermione fidgeted nervously, although her gaze on Neville was nearly a glare.
"Please, I meant no offense Lord Potter; Lady Granger . . ."
"Is that what you overheard 'Lady Granger' I'm telling you right now that if this a joke it's in the worst possible taste and if it's a mistake, I shall immediately see to its resolution," Hermione said very firmly and was taken aback when a bright green glow surrounded her, "what was that?"
"You made a vow your Ladyship," Neville answered, "the green glow signified that it was the truth and proves beyond a shadow of doubt that you are truly a Lady of a noble house because that glow will only accompany a Noble's declaration—magic will not ere in these matters, it can't, your Ladyship."
Hermione mulled through the young man's words before saying, "Correct me if I'm wrong but didn't I hear that you were the son of a noble house?"
"Yes, I am," he answered then continued, "I am Scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom, Milady."
"It sounds like you should outrank me, according to my timetable I'm a lady of just a noble house not a noble and most ancient house like you and—sorry about this, Harry—Lord Potter," Hermione said, trying to distance and dissociate herself from title.
"I'm sorry, Milady, I'm just a scion and can only ascend to the rank of Lord through my emancipation, on or after my seventeenth birthday, providing I'm elected by a majority votes in the Wizengamot or other certain conditions are met," Neville replied and then continued. "Since I'm only a scion and you must be at least partially emancipated—hence the heraldic antecedent of Lady—you and Lord Potter outrank me for the time being, Lady Granger."
"MY NAME IS HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER, MY PARENTS ARE DOCTOR DANIEL RICHARD GRANGER AND DOCTOR EMMA JOAN GRANGER—THEY ARE NOT NOBLE NOR ARE THEY PEERAGE, THEY ARE DENTISTS!"