Seven Months

Ron isn't the only one who's growing frightened by the odd disappearances. He is taking it particularly badly, however, and Hermione does not know how to help and reassure her boyfriend.

The group of local girls that has vanished most recently, from the meadows where they were picking daisies for Michaelmas, seems to be the last straw for the village, especially since it comes on the heels of a mounting number of peat cutters and hunters, and a few shepherds – all people familiar with the region and unlikely to be caught in common dangers.

Mothers keep their children inside, men arm themselves even to cross the road and reach the pub, pleads for protection are sent to the Covert insistently (but would be taken more seriously if the aviators didn't have other concerns to contend with, the worrisome dragon plague in primis).

Whispers of supernatural perils grow bolder.

Of course, they've been hearing such things from the very start and naturally, their attention had been caught at first, less because of the potential danger than because it might have been a sign of magic, Hermione has to admit.

So far, the majority of those they've talked with has dismissed them as silly superstitions; people rather talked about the treachery of the moors, the danger of the woods... and although the wizards knew there was a slight chance it might be something more, Hermione had found no reason to lend the tales much credence.

Except that there is no satisfactory explanation to be found in the common world, as the most superstitious point out with foreboding glee.

People disappear without a trace, without an apparent reason; there have been sightings of strange light-shows in a couple of places (though unfortunately, the accounts are confusing); the parties who search the areas report feeling as if invisible threads caressed their skin and made them stumble when they ran.

Tales of faerie mischief abound, more and more fanciful with every recounting.

Hermione keeps track of all the clues, as much as she can in a time and place where the exchange of information is unreliable at best; she is attempting to put together a map of the disappearances – Harry's idea: he wishes to search the areas in person, as well as to warn people off if possible – and to come up with a timeline of sorts – Ron's contribution: he thinks having a clearer idea of the whens will help with the whos and hows.

"Could it really be fairies, do you think?" asks Harry, puzzled and pensive.

Fortuna, always eager for tidbits of magical knowledge, sighs ponderously: "It would be famous if it was. Real fairies! I want to meet them!"

"No, you don't," snorts Hermione gently. "Fairies are tiny, petty, impish annoyances."

Fortuna snorts a laugh.

"They might not be. Dragons are different in this world, why not other magical creatures?" argues Harry, but without heat.

"Whatever it is, I wish we could track it down and stop it," mutters Ron with some viciousness in his tone.

Hermione fights to tamp down her jealousy. Her boyfriend is beside himself over the disappearance of that barmaid who was forever flirting with him, and it bothers her; she really doesn't like how she has to focus on how terrible it is that the girl is missing, not a blessing in disguise at all. She's better than this, she really is. Besides, she knows Ron loves her.

"We should investigate," says Ron, fidgeting where he's sat on the ground. "We should do something."

"We certainly have experience with solving mysteries and stopping mystifying creatures from attacking innocents," jokes Harry – which derails the conversation, because Fortuna jumps up with loud requests of hearing the whole tale, and that takes time, and a few of the other dragons are eager for it too, not to mention the cadets who gather round to listen, though of course they think it's just fanciful tales.

And there goes the night.

Of course they'll investigate, thinks Hermione – it's what they do.

She won't ever mention that a part of her finds it inconvenient.

Not that she would ever balk at helping someone in need – that goes without saying – and there is no question about the importance of figuring this mystery out, as soon as possible: people have gone missing, in circumstances that leave little hope for their survival. There is no place for petty or selfish concerns.

Still, she cannot help but wish it wasn't happening, or at least, not right now: she is so very busy (at long last!).

Her School of Learning for Accomplished Dragons is, in her humble opinion, a resounding success.

Sure, most aviators still think her mad and the British public doesn't even know of it yet, but it is early days still, a mere few weeks since she started. They still lack most essentials, she's practically running it from the courtyard of the Covert (not that classrooms would be practical, given the size of her pupils), what little official recognition she has is mostly due to her insistence on formally calling it a school at every opportunity and she's the only lecturer so far... but all in all, it is coming along nicely.

And the dragons love it.

All of those assigned to the Covert have joined and to the shock and bafflement of most aviators, they attend eagerly and dutifully; it is quite a sight, a cluster of dragons crowding together, the bigger, reddish, golden or cream and black forms hunched over the smallish, grey or purple lightweights; looming over her, listening to her in fascination, peppering her with intelligent questions – it fills her with satisfaction.

Aviators curse and grumble, whine and protest, but many a captain is being brought around to her way of thinking on the matter of education by his or her dragon's unbridled enthusiasm.

She's quite proud of herself – and of her pupils even more.

There is so much to do, however!

All sorts of interesting problems keep arising.

Books – her beloved books – are the first hurdle. That they are too small, the witch can easily see and fix; but it is not the biggest problem.

"How am I to turn the pages?" asks Fortuna diffidently the first time Hermione presents a much enlarged tome for her perusal, in a hidden glade where they've flown to use magic discreetly.

The witch is stumped.

"I- I suppose someone could be asked to turn the pages for you, like for a musician," she says uncertainly.

"Sounds boring," mutters Harry. "Who would do it?"

"Well, with magic it would be easy, just enchanting them to turn on their own with a vocal command, but we can't do that!" points out Hermione, rather cross.

She's upset at the small range of available books in general, too: most people are woefully uneducated by her standards. That what few titles are to be found can't be easily used is a serious disappointment.

Writing is out of the question, the claws just don't afford the right coordination. Maybe if they had marker pens – except of course they'd be too small... perhaps brushes? Those can be made of the most opportune size; but the problem of talons remain.

Dictating is the way to go, at least for now.

Luckily, Captain Joulson, the old aviator who more or less supervises the cadets' studies, feels that reading textbooks aloud will do his young charges a world of good: so the children are pressed into service as appointed readers and note-takers for the dragons, to everybody's satisfaction but their own.

The lack of blackboards is a constant source of irritation (it is just not practical to procure big enough sheets of paper all the time) and she debates with herself whether 'inventing' them would be cheating; Ron rolls his eyes and tells her she's being silly, there's nothing wrong with it, but she still frets, at least until she finds out by chance that they do exist, only they're more often called chalkboards, and used almost exclusively for music education and composition.

"Though the Americans use them more widely, I've seen it myself a few years ago," offers the listless Lieutenant Ferguson, recently promoted and even more recently grounded by the dragon he's serving with having fallen ill. "I was still an ensign then, on Victoriatus. We were to escort a Mr. Baron, a mathematician, who was to do some lecturing over there; and I reckon the Admiralty wanted to make a show of force, because sending a Regal Copper was nothing short of an intimidation move. The Americans have no aviation to speak of, you see. I was prodigiously glad of the chance," he tells her, reminiscing with a wan smile. "But anyway, Professor Baron was keen on using chalk to write on those slates of his and though we found it strange, nobody bat an eye at it on the other side of the ocean. It was quite commonplace, I suppose."

Upon Hermione's request, he thoughtfully allows that he might know how to procure big enough slates, properly black or at least dark grey.

A few more grounded officers let themselves be roped in the task. The witch tries to ignore that it is because they're dispirited and desperate for a distraction from their worry about the sickness spreading through the dragons, rather than because they believe her efforts valid.

She has, in her insatiable thirst for knowledge, at some point memorized a recipe for coloured chalk (which makes the servants mutter and look at her askance, including as it does, ground chalk, dyes and porridge – she isn't altogether sure the porridge is necessary, since it was recommended by the Weasley twins, but they were undisputed geniuses after all, so she decides to trust the recipe); with Ron's help she soon has satisfactory tools for giving her lectures.

What to teach, besides the basics of literacy, is also a matter to think over carefully. Most of her own education won't do, after all, since there is to be no mention of magic. Nor does she trust herself with history, for obvious reasons.

She can handle things like English literature (with a bit of care for the timelines), astronomy and mathematics, however, and the last seems to interest the greatest number of dragons, so she focuses on that.

There are some high and lows; at times, she finds herself torn between irritation and hilarity.

None of the dragons are shy when it comes to express their opinion of something, be it delight (often wild and loudly explicit) or dissatisfaction (which can make them terribly mulish, especially the younger ones).

"I do not see why you should be allowed to move terms here and there as you please, and equal it all to zero in such a way," complains one of her star pupils, the Longwing Priscus, who's not even two months old and already on his way to be an excellent astronomer.

His orange eyes are stubbornly displeased with the rules of algebra. "What is the point of it all, besides? Sarah, tell her," he whines to his captain. "Tell her she can't just make the unknowns and coefficients jump all over like that!"

Captain Sarah Winyard, looking terribly alarmed, quickly demurs: "I'm afraid I have no notion of all this, my dear. But she's your teacher: ought you not trust her to teach?"

"But she just shifts things around as it's convenient to her!"

"I do not!" protests Hermione, fighting down an exasperated laugh. "Cross-multiplying is a perfectly allowable tool to solve equations!"

He does not look convinced in the least.

To her delight, however, once a dragon has grasped a concept, they are often willing to share their insight with the other students, making them excellent tutors in a very natural way.

"Here," says the older, placid Cadwaladr, whose silent captain, Derec Jones, has a fondness for Euclide which he shared with her class, in a show of support for the School that Hermione is very grateful for.

The large white dragon moves easily to lay beside the young Longwing and starts scratching lines in the sandy gravel of the courtyard with his incredibly long claws: "You can better understand it all if you consider the ratios as those of similar triangles..."

Hermione glows with pride, but Captain Jones offers her only a restrained smile.

She is uncomfortably aware that she would not be met with half as much willingness if the captains weren't desperate for some distraction for their dragons.

The plague from the South is spreading: it is by now obvious that the 'cold' is nothing as simple as that; dragon surgeons are at a loss. Quarantine policies are starting to be implemented; the Covert is to be kept as isolated as possible. Very few couriers are allowed, all communications with other Coverts are carefully screened; no one is allowed to fly even so far as Edinburgh anymore, Harry and Fortuna are forbidden from leaving the grounds entirely, as are all other dragons.

Nobody complains, of course – the horror stories of dragons dying of this illness are sufficiently frightening to warrant even stricter measures, in the view of many. Still, complete inaction is hard to cope with. Dragons and humans alike are restless, the boredom made worse by subtle, tenacious fear.

Even so, not all aviators are supportive of Hermione's efforts; some are outright hostile.

"Here now, what sort of nonsense have you been filling my dragon's head with?" grumbles one of the older captains, red-faced and spluttering. "He has been muttering at all hours about some mathematical nonsense, of which I am sure I have no notion myself!"

"I would be happy to educate you alongside him," replies Hermione sweetly, and watches as he chokes on his indignation.

But the man is not the only one who shows signs of jealousy – of their dragons' becoming more accomplished than they are, but even more often, of the high consideration the dragons hold her in.

"Dragons ought to be concerned with battles and tactics, not bloody poetry!" they spit.

"I don't need any damn notion of philosophy, I should think, and neither does my dragon!" and "Printing books for dragons! What next? Should they publish their own?" and "What absurdity – you'll tell us we're all to go back to the schoolmasters, just for the sake of holding a conversation with our dragons!"

Some shake their heads at her in disgust: "Ideas all over the place, that woman," they say. "Can't be bothered to raise a proper family, oh no, she's to subvert our dragons instead!"

"Putting herself forward in so shameless a way, it's disgraceful," others mutter behind her back, not caring whether she hears their spiteful grumblings. "What would a civilian know about the real needs of the Aviation?" and "Look at her, making them worry about correct use of language instead of their manoeuvres as is proper, it's a right shame she's listened to!" and "Absurd stuff. Mark my words, it shan't last..."

She clenches her hands in the fabric of her dresses to keep calm, and keeps her head high as she goes about her business, not letting the grumblings discourage her.

It's not like she hasn't coped with this kind of hostility before; at least this time, unlike with S.P.E.W., her friends are a hundred percent supportive.

"What you're doing is great," reassures her Ron, firmly. "It's helping dragons so much, and people too, in the long run: they just can't see it yet. You can't let a few grumblers stop you. It's too important."

"Don't waste your time fretting about those idiots," is Harry's smiling advice. "Focus on how many are willing to help."

And Fortuna sniffs haughtily: "I don't know that any captain worthy of the name should be unhappy with their dragon learning things. I'm sure my Harry doesn't mind!" she says loudly, loyal and smug in equal measure.

At least the higher ranked aviators do not openly oppose her, even if Captain Moreton is not particularly pleased with it all. "It's a load of nonsense, is what it is; there's more than enough for the young ones to learn for the fighting, without going looking for troubles with poetry and music and whatnot."

Because the dragons are clamouring about music lessons, now.

The idea is launched by two friendly Yellow Reapers who happened to be at Dover the previous autumn, for the great battle and the following celebrations. As they happily explain, Captain Laurence of Temeraire and Captain Harcourt of Lily – heroes of the great victory on the southern shores of England – organized a small concert for all the dragons.

"It was so very pleasant!" enthuses Silvana, whose lithe grace and burning orange eyes make Hermione think of a fierce tiger, but who is really a very mild-mannered and sweet dragon.

"Yes," agrees the other, Vivax, bobbing his enormous head up and down in his enthusiasm and almost knocking a little Greyling about. His captain, as young and as vivacious as the dragon himself, laughs at his antics. "And the musicians were nice. They were so very scared at first, but when they saw that we liked the music, they were more happy to play and it was delightful."

"This one man, he was very patient and answered all our questions and played for us from different composers, so that we may understand the differences," recounts Silvana dreamily. "I wish we could have concerts more often."

Captain Moreton shoots down the idea flatly, but Hermione isn't inclined to give up so easily.

"It's such a perfect thing," she explains to Ron and Harry warmly. "Just think about it! Keeping the dragons penned up and away from society increases the fear they inspire. If we can arrange for situations where the dragons can mingle with people, in a way that shows they're sensitive and intelligent, everybody will eventually get used to the idea and stop being frightened!"

"I think you're being optimistic," cautions Ron, but Hermione knows she's right; with her enthusiastic approval, a small group of dragons is soon formed, who discuss music – what little they know of it – on a weekly basis and even try out some singing – a venture that is quickly ended, because it makes every glass surface in an impressive radius rattle and leaves people's ears ringing unpleasantly.

There is a fine line between a nice, full, powerful singing voice and just out and out screaming on pitch. Dragons, it turns out, have the kind of lungs capacity that causes their notes to be much harsher and louder than expected, even from beasts of their bulk.

The singers are very pleased with themselves, but their captains all but promise to hire string quartets for them every month, if they would just stop.

"Oh, I so wish I could learn to play an instrument," declares Silvana, the Yellow Reaper with musical inclinations, wistfully.

"Pray, just leave such things to the professionals," hastily replies her alarmed captain, likely imagining the size such an instrument ought to be, and what kind of resounding noise it might produce.

Diplomatically, Hermione suggests they put their effort into reading and writing poetry instead. Just as creative, not nearly as loud.

The younger ones are happily excited to discover they have very good memories for verses.

"We should have an evening recitation!" says Vivax exuberantly, catching Hermione completely by surprise. "It would be infamous not to have a chance of showing what we can do!"

"Oh, yes, let's!" yells Fortuna with glee. "I shall learn a poem to recite for it, and it shall be the longest!"

Vivax and Priscus at once protest this claim, and as they bicker Harry mutters apologetically to the other two captains: "She's got a prima donna streak in her. We shan't escape the recitation now, I fear, not without a great deal of tantrums."

"Well, I think it's a splendid idea," proclaims Hermione, smiling proudly.

Within herself, she thinks, more and more enthusiastically: And if they see what you can do, maybe they'll realize how important it is that all of you be educated, and given political rights!

It is probably out of the question right now, but once the war is over and things calm down, perhaps...

If she could, she'd spend all her time on working out the perfect syllabus and persuading others to teach alongside her. Under the circumstances, that's not to be.

Two dragons have fallen ill here in the Covert; they have been promptly quarantined, but the fear of a contagion remains. Everybody is doing what little they can to prepare for the worst, should it come to pass: Hermione herself helps as much as she is able.

The worrisome sickness makes it so that the inexplicable disappearances are not a priority with anyone but the three magicals; Hermione knows they have no choice by to crack the mystery themselves. It's not only Ron's resoluteness that pushes them: they are all determined to put a stop to the whole thing and dispel the fearfulness that pervades the villagers (who no longer dare venture beyond the cultivated fields close to their homes).

"I know you would prefer to have time for your School... and with the plague..." says Ron, half-apologetic, half-defiant.

"Nonsense," says Harry strongly. "This is important."

And Hermione, nodding in agreement, briskly summarizes their latest findings, or delineates their newest proposal, while her boys listen and build upon it. Exactly like they've always done back home.

She tries her best to reassure her boyfriend, when they're alone, that she's fully committed to finding the missing people, but she suspects he senses how torn she is, between wanting to investigate (because of course she does: it's what they do) and yet having so much to do, with the School and all.

He never says a word and for that, she's grateful.

She wonders if she isn't growing old. Time was, she could keep up with all her homework, independent study, side-projects and leisure reading, and still save the world alongside Harry. What happened to her infamous organisational skills?

Ah, well.

It's just a matter of time management, she's sure. Perhaps a colour-coded weekly schedule will help.