A Study in Magic
by Books of Change
Warning/Notes: This is a BBC Sherlock and Harry Potter crossover AU. The HP timeline and BBC Sherlock's timeline has been shifted forwards and backwards to match up. One major BBC Sherlock character's gender has changed for the sake of the plot. Readers beware!
Chapter Six: Harry and the Fall Full of Debacle
If there was one thing Harry promised himself when he prepared for Hogwarts, it was to not look for trouble. He had enough of that after getting kidnapped, held hostage, nearly blown up before his tenth birthday and then spending a year in a London primary school where the kids were both harsher and meaner than the ones in Surrey, blundering around reacting like a short-tempered idiot. He also wanted John to be proud of him, and getting into trouble did nothing to achieve that goal.
Harry knew he had his work cut out for him the moment Professor McGonagall called his old name at the Sorting Ceremony. Whispers broke out like wildfire as he trudged to the stool where an old, patched and dirty wizard's hat lay. The last thing he saw before the hat was placed on his head was the sight of the students craning to get a better look at him. Staring at the dark insides of the hat, Harry waited.
"Hmmm," said a small voice. "Difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either; and no stranger to loyalty and cunning. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes, and a nice goal to use them on. That's very interesting. So where should I put you?"
Harry drew a blank. He certainly didn't feel brave or smart or whatever in particular.
"How about Slytherin?" said the small voice, "You could be great you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. There's no doubt about that."
But I don't want to be a great man, Harry thought almost immediately. When he thought of greatness, he thought of Sherlock and Mycroft — great talented men, who were little else. As good as Sherlock could be on occasion, that goodness wouldn't have seen the light of day if it weren't for John mining it out of him. I want to be a good man, Harry thought as he pictured John — fearless, dangerous, honest and kind.
"A good man, eh? It's an impossible business, you know, being good. At least greatness is viable. Still no? Then what about your goal? Hard work and toil will best help you achieve it. Would Hufflepuff interest you?"
Will Hufflepuff help me be a good man? Harry asked inside his head.
"No. No house can help you on that. But if you're so adamant about it, then it better be GRYFFINDOR!"
Harry removed the hat as a thunderous applause rang the Great Hall. Harry was so relieved that his sorting was over he didn't realize he just revealed himself to Draco Malfoy.
Harry met Malfoy on his second trip to Diagon Alley, on his birthday to be exact, which also happened to be the day Sherlock was let loose upon the poor unsuspecting shoppers and shop keeps of Diagon Alley. Sherlock had dragged them to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions to purchase everyday wizard robes. As it happened, Malfoy was there too to get outfitted for Hogwarts. Sherlock rattled off-hand that Malfoy was the only scion of an old magic family, of old money and old prestige, raised by his mother, served by actual servants, and well indoctrinated in tradition. It was clear Malfoy took Sherlock as a wizard and his deductions as compliments because he puffed up.
"As you noticed, sir, the Malfoys are one of the oldest magic families," he said, "Not at all like the riffraff Hogwarts is letting in these days. I heard some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get their letter, can you imagine? They really should keep it in the old wizarding families."
John and Harry were cringing in behalf of Malfoy at this point. Sherlock reacted as expected.
"Clearly your isolation from society has left you blind and the inbreeding has only exacerbated the condition," Sherlock sneered. "Can't you tell a non-magical even when he standing right in front of you?"
Thus they left Malfoy sputtering and outraged.
"Charming, well done," said John, sighing.
"Why? Disabusing his false notions, isn't that kinder?"
"Sherlock, if you were born a few centuries ago, you would've been burned," John declared. "You're more wizard than actual wizards."
Harry forgot about Malfoy until the sorting ceremony, vaguely recognizing him as Sherlock's first Diagon Alley victim when he swaggered up to the Sorting Hat, which screamed 'SLYTHERIN!' after barely touching his head. Then Harry forgot about Malfoy again when Professor McGonagall intercepted Harry after Dumbledore dismissed the students, and took him to Hospital Wing for a thorough medical examination. Harry was too depressed to think about anything after Madam Pomfrey, the school matron, said he had to come every Sunday for treatment.
Malfoy remained under Harry's radar until his first Potions class, when Harry was having trouble answering Snape's questions and Malfoy laughed unpleasantly at his predicament. After forgetting Malfoy for the third and final time, Harry came face to face with Malfoy and two other Slytherin boys — both of them big, thick-set and extremely mean looking — when he was out alone exploring the grounds after his first appointment with Madam Pomfrey.
"Is it true?" said Malfoy. "Professor Snape said you're the real Harry Potter who vanished more than a year ago."
"Yes," said Harry, flicking his eyes at the two other boys and wondering how Malfoy came to know his 'vanishing' when his disappearance was classified information.
"Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle," said Malfoy, waving carelessly. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Harry nodded. He felt a bit at lost. What was he supposed to do in this kind of situation? Malfoy already knew his name and knew of him, like every other student from magic families, though none have plunk themselves in front of Harry like they had every right to.
"I saw you hanging around Weasley, Thomas and Finch-Fletchley," Malfoy said. "You really shouldn't, you know. The Weasleys may call themselves an old wizarding family, but they've got no wizard pride. All they've got is red-hair, freckles and more children than they can afford. As for the mudbloods, they'll only drag you down. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort, Potter. I can help you there."
This time Harry blinked. He didn't know what Malfoy meant by Mudblood, but he could guess from the context. He also supposed he should be angry at Malfoy for insulting his friends, but a year exposure to Sherlock and London completely messed up Harry's ability to react properly to insults.
Then Harry realized Malfoy held out his hand to shake Harry's.
"…Okay, hang on," Harry said, hands resolutely to his sides. "Are you telling me all my friends are worthless and you're better than all of them?"
Malfoy just lifted an eyebrow at this bald-faced statement, as if Harry was being stupid for saying the obvious.
"I think you just showed me who really the wrong sorts are," Harry said. "Thank you for your input."
This time, Draco Malfoy gained a pink tinge to his cheeks.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer, you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around riffraff like Weasleys and Muggles it'll rub off on you."
Harry shrugged. "Good."
Malfoy went even pinker. "Fancying a fight, Potter?" he sneered.
Harry kept his face carefully blank. He didn't fancy a three-against-one fight, especially against Crabbe and Goyle, who were a lot bigger than him, but to show fear now would only make the fight happen quicker. Harry considered his options: Usually, when he was this hideously outnumbered and outgunned, he had to find a way to make a quick stab at the leader and run like hell.
Crabbe and Goyle were stepping forward, cracking their knuckles, when Harry saw a creature approaching from the forest. It looked like — well, Harry supposed it looked like a horse, except it had long, leathery wings and its body was so fleshless its black coat clung to its skeleton. There was something distinctly dragon-like about its face, and as it got closer, Harry noticed the white, pupil-less eyes that glowed eerily.
"What are you looking at?" said Malfoy, when he noticed Harry was staring a couple of feet above him.
Harry pointed at the creature, which was standing directly behind Goyle. Goyle's long, gorilla-like arm hit its bony chest as he turned around in reaction to the creature's breath ruffling his bristly hair. The beast nabbed Goyle by the scuff and flung him over its shoulder. Goyle crash-landed to the ground. Malfoy and Crabbe looked around wildly, terrified, but didn't notice the beast. Finally, perhaps thinking Harry had done some mysterious magic, they all turned and ran away. Harry watched them go, his mouth hanging open.
"Thank you, horse-thing," said Harry at length, patting the creature's nose. It didn't seem to take much notice, and went straight for Harry's pockets, which had several vials of blood replenishing potion he had to take for his anaemia.
Harry told Ron about the encounter at Lunch time. Ron looked in askance when Harry mentioned the horse-like creature, but had plenty to say about Malfoy.
"I've heard about his family," Ron said darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over the Dark Side."
Since then Malfoy kept looking for opportunities to torment Harry. But unlike his primary school years in Surrey, where he had no one to help him fend off his bullying cousin Dudley, Harry had Ron as a friend, and the first year Gryffindors shared only one class with the Slytherins, so their interaction was limited. At least, it was limited until Harry spotted the notice pinned up in the Gryffindor common room that announced flying lessons starting on Thursday—and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.
"Figures," Harry muttered darkly. "Of course I have to make a fool of myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy."
He had been looking forward to learning how to fly more than anything (he had been looking forward to Potions, too, and look what happened).
"You don't know that," said Ron reasonably. "Anyway, I know Malfoy's always going on about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet that's all talk."
Harry would later learn, perhaps not in the way he wished, that Malfoy was good at flying, though he'd been mounting brooms the wrong way for years (this puzzled Harry, actually—there was a wrong way to mount brooms? Granted they were flying ones…). Neville broke his wrist at flying lessons when he fell off his broomstick twenty feet in the air (Harry could almost hear John's dry voice asking: "So why isn't he dead?"). Soon after Madam Hooch left the lawns escorting the poor tear-streaked Neville to the Hospital wing, Malfoy burst into laughter.
"Did you see his face?"
The Slytherins joined in.
"Shut up, Malfoy!" Parvati Patil snapped.
"Oh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced Slytherin girl, "Never thought you'd like fat little cry-babies, Parvati."
As the tension escalated, Harry stooped to pick up the Remembrall Neville had got that morning and dropped when he fell off his broom. But another hand snatched it before him. When Harry looked up, Malfoy was holding up the glass ball and had a nasty smile on his face.
"I think I'll leave this somewhere for Longbottom to find," Malfoy drawled. "How about up a tree?"
Harry felt his rage boiling quickly to the surface. He ruthlessly tried to keep it down.
"How are you going to that?" he said, in what he hoped was a fair imitation of what John did to small-time criminals to show they were two seconds away from being eaten for breakfast (they usually got the hint quickly; the others … well, they were eaten — for breakfast).
Malfoy just sneered. He leapt onto his broomstick and took off with practiced ease. That was when Harry knew Malfoy wasn't idly boasting about his flying abilities. Malfoy flew towards the trees lining the boarders of the grassy lawn and hovered next to the topmost branches of an oak.
"Come and get it, Potter!" Malfoy shouted.
Harry felt blood pounding in his ears. "You know everyone can see what you're doing!" He shouted.
Malfoy laugh derisively and placed the Remembrall precariously between two connected branches. Harry snapped: without thinking, he mounted his broom, kicked hard against the ground and soared to the sky. As the air brushed through his hair and his robes whipped out behind him, Harry realized in a rush of joy he found something he was born to do. Flying was easy — it was wonderful — and no one needed to teach him. He pulled his broom up to take it up even higher and then turned to face Malfoy. He first thought about javelining into Malfoy, but then decided to go straight after the Remembrall. That was why he was up there anyway, and to Malfoy it would look the same.
Harry leaned forward, grasped the broom tightly between both hands and shot towards Malfoy. He briefly saw the look of fear on Malfoy's face as the other boy barely got out of the away. When he looked back, Harry saw in slow motion the Remembrall slip out of the connected branches, roll off a longer branch and started to free fall. Again, somehow knowing exactly what to do, Harry dipped his broom and turned to port in a corkscrew motion before directing his broom to a steep dive, racing the ball. Wind whistled his ears—people were screaming— he stretched out his hand—the ball was a foot above the ground—and he caught it, just in time to pull up his broom and soar back up again, the Remembrall clutched safely in his fist.
"POTTER! MALFOY!"
He looked down and saw Professor McGonagall running towards them. Harry's heart sank. He slunk back to the ground behind Malfoy, who looked pale.
"Never—in all my time in Hogwarts—" Professor McGonagall was almost speechless, so shocked was she, "—how dare you—might have broken your neck—" Then she hardened her expression. "Potter, Malfoy, follow me now."
Harry walked numbly after Professor McGonagall. He refused to look at Malfoy, who was furious and sulky. Provoked or not, flying brooms without permission could merit an angry letter to John at least, perhaps even expulsion. Harry felt his innards freeze at the thought of getting expelled. What would John say?
They went up the front steps and into the Entrance Hall, where they turned to the left hand corner and stopped at a doorway flanked by two stone gargoyles. Professor McGonagall wrenched open the door and Harry saw a long panelled room full of mismatched, dark wooden chairs and a large wooden wardrobe. Only one person was present and—Harry felt his like stomach was trying to expunge something large and slimy—it was Professor Snape.
"Professor Snape, I caught Mr. Malfoy flying a school broom against Madam Hooch's orders," said Professor McGonagall. "I brought him to you, his Head of House, so that you may deal with him as you see fit."
Malfoy glared resentfully up at Professor McGonagall, muttering: 'but I wasn't…' Snape's black eyes swiftly landed on Harry and they narrowed. Harry put his head down.
"And Potter—" Snape started.
"—was provoked into doing the same," said Professor McGonagall. "As his Head of House, I shall deal with him as I see fit."
Snape had nothing to say to that. Malfoy stayed behind, and Professor McGonagall marched Harry up the marble staircase without another word. Harry wondered what she was planning to do as he miserably trotted behind her. He thought about what would happen if he got expelled, and his thoughts landed on the comprehensive he was originally going to attend before Hogwarts entered the picture. He suppose it wouldn't be a complete disaster, he'd see Peter Bradstreet and Rory MacDonald, his first friends at the London primary school, again, but his stomach twisted as he imagined Ron and the others becoming wizards and witches while he was forever banned from the wizarding world.
Professor McGongall stopped outside a classroom. She opened the door and poked her head inside.
"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"
Wood turned out to be a burly fifth year boy, not the cane Professor McGonagall was going to use on Harry. Professor McGonagall marched them into a classroom that was empty except for Peeves the Poltergeist, who was busy writing rude words on the blackboard. She ordered Peeves out, which he did, cursing, and slammed the door behind him.
"Potter, this is Oliver Wood. Wood, I've found you a Seeker."
From the words that followed, Harry learned Professor McGonagall was so impressed at his flying ability, she wanted him to play for the house Quidditch team, and was letting Oliver, who was Gryffindor's Quidditch house team captain, know. Harry was so relieved that he wasn't going to be expelled, it didn't even occur to him to say anything for or against his placement, or indeed think what the consequences would be. But he did offer token protest for not getting punished.
"I am sure Professor Snape has taken off points from Slytherin," said Professor McGonagall, peering sternly over her glasses at Harry. "So I shall do the same: A point from Gryffindor for allowing others to provoke you. Now I want to hear you're training hard, Potter, or I may rethink my punishment."
Then she suddenly smiled.
"Your father would have been proud," she said. "He was an excellent Quidditch player himself."
Harry told Ron what had happened over dinner, and got a nice view of the half-chewed steak-and-kidney pie in his mouth. Fred and George came over to congratulate Harry for his placement in the team and told him they were on the team too, as Beaters. After they went away, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle came over.
"Having your last meal, Potter? When are you getting on the train back to the Muggles?"
"I'm assuming you've finished yours and are off to pack your bags," Harry said. He was pretty sure Malfoy wasn't, just as he was sure Snape had taken only taken a single handful of points at most if he took any at all. He'd checked the house points when he entered the Great Hall, and found them more or less the same the last time he checked it. At any rate, Malfoy's face turned pink and ugly at the implied reference of his own punishment.
"You think you're brave, don't you?" said Malfoy, "Talking smart when you're hiding behind the teachers and your little friends. I can take you on anytime on my own. Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only, no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of wizard's duel before? I supposed you wouldn't, when you hang around trash like Muggles and the Weasleys…"
"Of course he has!" said Ron, wheeling around. "I'm his second, who's yours?"
Malfoy looked at Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.
"Crabbe," he said. "We'll meet you in the trophy room at midnight."
When Malfoy was gone, Ron and Harry looked at each other.
"What is a Wizard's duel?" said Harry. "And what do you mean, you're my second?"
"Well, a second's there to take over if you die," said Ron casually. Then catching the look on Harry's face, he quickly added, "People only die in proper duels, you know. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway."
"Then why bother challenging at all? A sneak attack when the teachers aren't looking would probably suit him better…"
"Excuse me."
They both looked up. It was Hermione Granger.
"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" said Ron.
Hermione ignored him and spoke to Harry.
"I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying—"
"Bet you could," Ron muttered.
"—and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you. I thought you were better than that, when you almost didn't take the bait at flying lessons. You know if you waited a bit longer you wouldn't have got into trouble with Professor McGonagall—"
"Yes, I get the point," said Harry. "Thank you."
"Good-bye," said Ron.
They went back to the common room. There, Ron started giving Harry advice such as "If he tries to curse you, you'd better dodge it, because I can't remember how to block them." Harry had to nip it at the bud.
"We're not going," he said.
"What?" Ron sputtered. "But this is our chance to beat Malfoy! We agreed to the duel! It's a matter of honour!"
"If Malfoy shows up," said Harry grimly. "I want to beat him as much as you do, Ron, but I know his type. They promise to meet you and then stab you in the back, so they can watch you get caught."
Ron frowned. "You mean the duel is a trap?"
"Would it surprise you if it was?"
"…No," Ron reluctantly concluded. "It's totally the rotten sort of thing that git Malfoy would do."
"See? No need to give him the satisfaction of expelling us," said Harry. "Who knows? He might actually show up and get himself expelled, but I think he's too fond of his own skin to risk it. I reckon the look on his face tomorrow morning is going to be a hoot, whatever the case."
Ron drifted peacefully to sleep on that happy thought. Harry phoned up John that night in the dorm. John agreed it was a wise to do, not going to the midnight duel.
"You'd be letting your enemy choose the time and place of battle," John said. "That gives him too much advantage. Good thing you thought it through. I'm so proud of you."
Harry grinned into the pale moonlight.
He then told John about flying lessons and how he got in the house Quidditch team, the youngest player in about a century. John was as excited at the idea of Quidditch as Harry was ("You play it on flying broomsticks! FLYING! Broomsticks! Please tell me you don't have to be a wizard to fly one!"). Sherlock was evidently nearby because he took over the phone and told Harry to stop putting ideas in John's head, he's not going to waste money buying two flying broomsticks, thanks, now go to sleep don't you have classes tomorrow? Harry grinned again, said goodnight and hung up the phone.
He looked around the dormitory before he got under the covers. Dean and Seamus were sleeping. So was Ron. He noticed Neville's bed was still empty. He checked the clock on his phone, and noted it was half-past eleven. Where was Neville? He remembered seeing him at dinner, so he couldn't be in Hospital wing. Did he forget the password? Was he still outside?
Thinking he'd check, Harry put on his bathrobe and stuck his phone in its pocket. Then he padded down the spiral staircase and entered the Gryffindor common room. A few embers were still glowing in the fireplace, making the armchairs look like dark, hunching boulders. Harry quietly made his way to the portrait hole when a voice spoke from the chair nearest to him, "I can't believe you're going to do this, Harry."
A lamp flickered on. It was Hermione Granger, wearing a pink bathrobe and a frown. Harry covered his face behind his hand.
"Of course it's you."
"I almost told Ron's brother," Hermione snapped, "Percy—he's a prefect, he'd put a stop to this."
Harry couldn't believe anyone could be so interfering and condescending. He knew he could just tell her that he was looking for Neville, point out Ron's absence and so forth, but he didn't feel like it. So he pushed open the portrait of the Fat Lady and peered out. Behind him, Hermione was hissing like an angry goose.
"Don't you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourself, I don't want Slytherin to win the house cup, and you'll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells."
Harry pointed his phone light to one side of the corridor. He saw nothing. He then directed the light to the other side. He saw a lump a few feet away, and it was snuffling. Harry only heard the noise because Hermione paused to take a breath before continuing her shrill monologue:
"—your parents are going to be so disappointed, and don't say that I didn't warn you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow—"
"There you are Neville," Harry said loudly.
Neville suddenly jerked awake from where he'd curled up on the floor, fast asleep.
"Thank goodness you found me! I've been out here for hours, I couldn't remember the new password to get in to bed—the Bloody Baron's been past twice!"
Harry helped Neville scrambled through the portrait hole.
"How's your arm?" Harry asked.
"Fine," said Neville, showing him. "Madam Pomfrey mended it in about a minute."
"Good—I was wondering where you were at, I didn't see you in bed. The new password is 'Pig snout', by the way."
Harry headed back to the boy's dormitory behind a grateful Neville. A few steps in, he looked back at Hermione, who was slack-jawed and speechless.
"Good night," he said quietly. Then Harry turned around and climbed the spiral staircase.
-oo00oo-
The look of disbelief on Malfoy's face next morning was enough to convince Harry that he was right; the duel was a trap. A week later he got a new broomstick via owl post—the latest Nimbus model, one of the fastest brooms on the market. It was beautiful thing, made of a sleek and shiny mahogany handle and long tail of neat, straight twigs. It drove Malfoy mad with envy, much to Ron and Harry's delight. Harry sent several pictures of his new broom to John and Sherlock, and once he taught Ron how to do it, he sent a video of him flying it too (he let Ron fly the broom in return). John was ecstatic, a sentiment Sherlock did not share, surprisingly. He just told Harry to not come home paralyzed, please, as one cannot tell NHS funded hospitals that my child has fallen off a flying broomstick, and taking Harry to a private practitioner would surely decimate their meagre finances. John later told Harry that Sherlock, while liking the idea of flying broomsticks as a means of transport, had no interest in its function as sports vehicle as Sherlock didn't believe in exercise for exercise's sake.
What with Quidditch practice three evenings a week plus classes and homework, the days passed by quickly. Before Harry knew it, he'd already been at Hogwarts for two months. The castle felt like home—not a home away from home, but home, like 221B was home. Sure, he missed John and Sherlock, but they were, as promised, only a phone call away. Being able to call Sherlock was particularly helpful. Harry was certain he wouldn't have kept getting high marks without him (and what that said about magic or Sherlock, Harry wanted to know).
Speaking of his phone, Hermione hadn't borrowed it from Harry since the midnight duel that didn't happen. Like a lot of the other Muggle-borns, she liked calling her parents and would borrow his phone at least once a day. But now she avoided him, and refused to speak to him when they couldn't avoid each other. Harry didn't know what made her so. Didn't he stay out of trouble like she wanted? What hacked her off again? Ron, on the other hand, thought it was huge bonus since she was such a bossy know-it-all, and Harry had to agree.
On Halloween morning they woke up to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting the corridors (Harry wondered how this worked; scenting charms? Ventilation?). In charms, Professor Flitwick announced he thought they were ready to start making objects fly. Even Harry, who already knew how to do it, was excited because though he could make things float he couldn't make things zoom around the classroom like Professor Flitwick, who made Neville's toad Trevor zoom around the classroom to demonstrate. Professor Flitwick put them in pairs to practice. Harry's partner was Neville Longbottom (he found himself partnering Neville often since the teachers caught on to the fact Neville relaxed more around Harry, thus leading to less accidents and collateral damage). Ron, however, had to work with Hermione Granger, and it was difficult to tell who was angrier about the arrangement.
"Now, don't forget the nice wrist movement we've been practicing," squeaked Professor Flitwick, perched on top of his pile of books as usual. "Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too—never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest." (For this Harry was thankful of Sherlock for hounding him on his Latin pronunciation over the summer—he didn't fancy a Tibetan yak sitting on his chest).
Harry let Neville go first. Neville swish and flicked, but the feather they were supposed to be sending skywards just lay on the desktop. Harry had to keep encouraging him to try this or that differently least he be reduced to tears of bewilderment (again). Seamus, two tables down, impatiently prodded his feather with his wand and set it on fire. Ron, at the next table, wasn't having better luck. Harry winced as he watched Ron wave his long arms around like a windmill shouting: "Win-gar-dium Levio-sa!"
"You're saying it wrong," Hermione snapped (Harry winced again). "It's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."
"You do it, if you're so clever," Ron snarled.
Of course, Hermione did it perfectly and made their feather hover four feet above their heads. Professor Flitwick's delight over her success did nothing to improve Ron's very bad mood, which lasted until the end of class.
"No wonder no one can stand her," Ron said to Harry as they milled out of the charms classroom, "she's a nightmare, honestly."
Someone knocked into Harry as they hurried past him. It was Hermione, and she was in tears.
"I think she heard you."
"So?" said Ron, looking uncomfortable despite his words. "She must've noticed she's got no friends."
That struck a painful chord in Harry. That Hermione was friendless hadn't even occurred to him, and Ron didn't even like her and had noticed.
Hermione didn't turn up for the next class and was conspicuously absent for the rest of the afternoon. On their way to the Great Hall that evening, Harry and Ron overheard Parvati tell her friend Lavender that Hermione was crying in the girls' toilet and wanted to be left alone. Ron looked really awkward at this. So was Harry. He wanted to ask John for advice, since John was, you know, despite the name and disposition, but he wasn't sure if it was going to be any help because he couldn't imagine John at any point in life crying for hours in a toilet. The two were mutually exclusive. It simply couldn't exist.
Then they entered the Great Hall, and the Halloween decorations put Hermione right out of their minds…
…Until Professor Quirrell came running in, screaming about a troll in the dungeons before fainting dead away.
-oo00oo-
Final Notes: Harry forgetting Malfoy until Malfoy makes sure he doesn't forget tickled me. Next stop, Hermione!