Chapter VI: Seeing is Believing

Hermione slid her fingers across the parchment for a third time before accepting that her mind was too absent for worthwhile study. No matter how else she'd tried to justify the amount of time she spent at the breakfast table that morning, the truth was she hadn't wanted to miss the first years arriving. The conversation the night before had been stimulating, and she'd laid the foundations of a relationship with Ginny founded on a mutual dislike of her brother. Then they'd shown up and utterly ignored her presence.

That hurt. It shouldn't have. There was no compulsion for them to talk to her. They had their own networks of friends to build, most notably with each other. Hermione had no right to intrude on that, nor to expect them to abandon their own plans for her. They'd barely met.

The pain didn't care about any of that; It just hurt.

Rejection was nothing new in Hermione's life. Teased for her buck teeth; bullied by kids jealous of her brains; looked down on for her blood; shunned when her blindness made her different… At this point she had felt the stab of betrayal so often she should, by all rights, have become numb. There wasn't room to fit another blade in her heart, and yet there it was: The cruel twist of the knife.

As she packed away her papers she tried once again to push the bitterness from her mind. She had a lesson to get to, and finding her way to the new Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom would require her full attention. Besides: They were only kids, young as they were naïve. They couldn't possibly understand the consequences of their actions; they hadn't suffered enough.

Harry had patches on his palms thick as a manual labourer's.

Had they?

Snatching her paper plane out of the air and cancelling the point-me charm tracking it, Hermione halted at the classroom door. The staircase shifting hadn't left her completely lost so she couldn't be more than a minute late; any other student might have been able to slip in quietly and pretend they had been there all along, but that option wasn't open to her. Getting to a desk in an unfamiliar classroom was a whole debacle in itself, and far easier with help.

In the interest of not holding up the lesson any longer than she had to, she would quash her pride and ask for it this time.

"Sorry, is this the defence classroom?" she queried into the darkness.

"Oh, yes, hello! Come on in and find a seat, lucky for you we haven't quite started yet."

The responding voice was adult (though very soprano) and unfamiliar. It was altogether too soft for the image she'd made of Lockhart from his books (what little she'd read and heard of them), but it must have been him.

"Could you help me to a desk, please?"

Snickers rose from the back of the room, and she knew them all too well. Malfoy and Nott. Defence with the Slytherins. How long 'til the hexes start flying? Why the faculty saw fit to schedule any lesson such that Gryffindor and their rivals shared the slot, Hermione would never fathom.

"Yes of course Miss Granger. The headmaster told me all about your predicament. You know, I once met a blind witch in Bohemia; we almost dated in fact, so I know just what to do."

Hermione heard him approaching as he spoke, then felt a hand grasp her arm rather firmly as an arm looped round her shoulder. She could fully believe he and his blind witch had been amorous, because that was altogether too much close contact for a teacher and student. It was only in the interest of not causing a further delay that she held her tongue.

"Thank you sir," she said as he almost rammed her into an unoccupied desk.

"Not at all, lass. And here's your copy of the test."

"Test?" Ron groaned from somewhere behind her.

"Not to worry young man," Lockhart chuckled with a laugh smooth as butter, "this won't be graded. It's more of a little quiz; we'll see how well everyone's understood the reading material."

Great.

Normally Hermione would have been overjoyed by that idea. Tests were an excellent way to establish what she knew, and what she needed to spend more time learning. The satisfaction of routinely scoring higher than the rest of her year was an added bonus. This test, however, she was not happy to hear about, sprung on her as it was; how can you revise for a surprise quiz?

Not that she would have revised for this particular test anyhow. She'd read the first two pages of every book in the 'reading material' Lockhart had assigned, confirmed that they were totally non-academic in format, and not bothered with them. There were other books far more deserving of her time. She had taken the precaution of asking Parvati to let her know if any mention of healing or vision related magics came up, and by the way the girl had devoured the books she'd have a definitive answer in a day or two.

That highlighted another issue with the timing of this test: Parvati had purchased her books shortly after receiving the reading list, then spent more time per day reading than Hermione thought the girl was capable of, and still she had a book left to read. Did Lockhart expect everyone to have read his books before they were assigned? If that was case, why assign them. Why force every student - across all seven years if she wasn't mistaken - to buy every one of his books?

Oh. What a money grabbing bast- not very nice man.

"Ok then," the not very nice man said, having moved about the room rambling about something Hermione hadn't been listening to, "that's one test sheet for everyone, so you may… Begin!"

Hermione put her fingers to the sheet of paper, and found it was completely blank - or rather, smooth.

He knows just what to do… Yeah, Ok.

Sighing, she withdrew her translator quill and set it to work. The exam may be a farce, but she'd still give it her best shot. She expected her best would still be rather respectable - she was quick-witted and generally knowledgeable enough that she should be able to blag her way to a passing grade. Not that she had any experience with 'winging it', but if Ron and Seamus could manage it on occasion how hard could it be?

The quill finished the first line and, impatient to get started (if only to be done sooner), she reached around it to read the first question:

'Question 1: Where was Gilderoy Lockhart born?"

What?

Incredulously she re-read the line, wondering how she could have misread it so grossly, but there was no mistake on her part; that really was question one. Had her quill malfunctioned? She almost raised her hand to ask, but realised Lockhart wouldn't be able to fix it if it had, and the professors who could were too busy teaching their own classes. That meant there was nothing else for it: She'd have to assume it was working correctly, answer the questions (somehow) and make her excuses at the end if they were wrong.

So… Where was the professor born? How do you blag that? Britain seemed an obvious answer but wholly unsatisfactory too. What about his accent? Fairly posh, and nothing to suggest it was affected, so South-East England was a good bet. Biggest population centre there is London, no reason to think that's different for wizards… 'London', she wrote.

Next question: What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favourite colour?

If the whole test is like this I might just scream!

It was.

She didn't.

The 'quiz' only took half an hour, which left another half hour for Lockhart to demonstrate his teaching capabilities. Hermione was not expecting much from the man, but she was no one to judge a book by its cover. The man had, after all, managed to get himself hired on some merit or another, and his business model was brilliant, in a despicably immoral way. There was definitely some kind of intellect in him, and if he was half the daring adventurer his books purportedly made him out to be, he'd be leagues above Quirrell in terms of defensive magical talent.

If one could dig their way through the immensity that was his ego, would they find a competent teacher at the core?

"Now that we've gotten the theory bit out of the way," Lockhart said, "I thought we could do something a touch more hands-on."

Hermione heard the swish of a piece of cloth, followed by mad chattering at the front. A few of the girls in the class started whispering too low for even her Augmenosensus to pick up.

"Cornish pixies!" Lockhart dramatically declared. Hermione perked up at that, finally feeling a desire to listen to something the not very nice man had to say. Pixies were a class XXX magical creature, which was frankly above what starting second years should be learning about. And did he just say 'hands-on'?

"Pah!" Malfoy scoffed. "Pixies aren't dark, and they're hardly dangerous. Why would we need to be taught to 'defend' ourselves against a bunch of puny creatures?"

"Now now, Mr Malfoy, don't underestimate a pixie," the professor chided, "they're tricky little blighters; cause a right nuisance if they're allowed to breed out of control. I dealt with a nest of them once in Norway and they gave me quite the run around before I wrangled the last of them."

Malfoy grumbled something including language that didn't bear repeating. Apparently he was forming a similar opinion to Hermione's of their new teacher.

"Ok class, let's see how you handle them!"

He did not just release a pack of class XXX creatures into the room without even teaching us how to deal with them!

Most of the girls, and a couple of the boys, started screaming so loud Hermione's ears rang.

He did. He really, actually did.

"The charm," Lockhart shouted, pausing at random intervals as he did, "you will be needing, is thus: Peskipiksi Pesternomi! Watch the wand movement carefully!" - judging by the chaos the room was descending into, no-one but Hermione had the unmolested opportunity to do so, and she couldn't for other reasons - "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"

Hermione couldn't tell what effect, if any, the spell had had, but it hadn't dealt with the majority of the pixies. Just how many did he set loose? When Lockhart squeaked with surprised terror moments later, she guessed it hadn't helped him overly much either.

So much for the competent teacher at the core, she thought dryly as she reached into her pocket and scattered a small pinch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder above her head. She didn't know much about pixies, but she did know their eyesight was nothing special: They couldn't see in the dark any better than she. When the class eventually, by a myriad of loud and mostly unsuccessful means, wrangled the last of the little menaces into their cage, Hermione sat untouched. However they'd managed to smuggle it all the way from Peru, she owed those Weasley twins a very big 'thank you'. And an order for a lot more powder.

"Hey Hermione?"

"Yes, Seamus?"

"Can you teach us that spell?"

"I think teaching spells is usually the professor's job," she curtly replied, before Seamus could disrupt whatever was left of the lesson. Sure, Lockhart was terrible at said job, but Hermione wasn't about to get herself into trouble for 'undermining his authority'. Or share any level of responsibility if one of her reckless classmates hurt someone casting a spell she had taught them. That was a good way to risk getting expelled.

"But Lockhart ain't here. He scarpered when the pixies nicked his wand."

Just when you think your opinion of someone can't get any lower…

"Well I'm sorry Seamus, but I don't actually know the peskipopipski pessertomi charm. It isn't in any of the books I've read."

"Oh no, I don't mean that pile o' horse-crap. I wanna learn that darkness spell you did."

That put Hermione in quite the dilemma. On the one hand, showing her classmates could do wonders for her standing amongst them, and it may well save them in a tight situation later. On the other, she'd purchased the powder expecting to need it to deal with bullies - if she told everyone she had it, it would be far less effective should she need to use it against them.

There was also the matter of Fred and George to consider. Sharing the pranksters' secrets was a one-way ticket to Pranksville, population you. So far they'd left her be, probably out of pity (which irked her nearly enough to complain about it). If she told people then they'd be inundated by demands for 'that stuff Hermione used', and there was no hiding from her involvement in that case.

Inundated by demands, eh?

The powder had been expensive. She had no doubt the twins made a tidy profit anytime they sold a batch; how many galleons would they take selling a pouch of it to every student in her class? If she framed it right, she could claim she'd acted in their best interests, and when the galleons rolled in they'd be hard pressed to argue with her. So the twins shouldn't be an issue… Which honestly made Hermione's life harder; fear of retribution would have made her decision easy.

To tell or not to tell, that remains the question. She was leaning toward not - selfishly, and she acknowledged that, but when did they ever do things for her? That left the challenge of shirking out of the request gracefully. A challenge that would only get harder the longer she mulled it over.

"Sorry, Seamus, but the person who taught me that trick would expect me not to share it around. I wouldn't feel comfortable breaking that confidence," she cautiously replied.

It wasn't technically a lie, which is the best kind of lie. When someone inevitably discovered the powder's existence she'd be in the clear; no one in Gryffindor would begrudge any efforts to avoid the twins' undivided attention. And in the meantime, she got to keep her edge.

"Damn. Don't suppose you could ask them? It seems way more handy than anything Lockhart's gonna 'teach' us."

If there was one thing you could say about Gryffindors, it was that they didn't know when to quit. With Seamus it was possible he didn't even know how.

Since when do I think like that? I could imagine Malfoy delivering that line!

Hermione shuddered in disgust as she responded, "I could ask. Just don't go holding your breath, all right?"

Hermione was rather pleased with her non-committal, dismissive answer she had no intention of following up on. It was, to her reckoning, a perfect evasion. It was also a touch alarming to her how easily she'd come up with it, and she thought it high time to cut it out with the Slytherin act. Before it becomes more than an act.

There were no clocks in the defence against the dark arts classroom that had survived the pixie mayhem, and nobody was carrying a watch. Fearing detentions from Mr Filch should they leave early, the class agreed to hang around until the majority were sure the lesson should have ended, then leave en-masse to back each other up in the likely event that they got it wrong.

A knock on the door followed by a tentative, "hello, I think we're supposed to be in here this period," reminded them how time flies when playing exploding snap. Hermione hadn't joined in, of course, preferring to read a highly insightful treatise on the fundamental principles of arithmancy (or aggravatedly trying to read, as the frequent explosions were not helping her concentration). Her mood was only worsened when Ronald opened his foul-tongued mouth.

"Ooh damn!" Ron shouted, "We'd better get going or we're buggered!"

Language!

The second years hurriedly exited as if pursued by a bear, abandoning Hermione to steadily pack her bag as the next class - first years by the pitch of their voices - filed in. She had learned that taking a little time collecting her things was much quicker than trying to find them when you'd knocked them to the floor through haste, so hurry she did not. Besides, if she was late to a lesson she could always play the pity card and say she got lost in the corridors. She was loathe to do so but it beat detention, and as the rest had run ahead she couldn't depend on their supportive testimonies.

"Hey Hermione."

Was that - "Harry?"

"Yeah. Say, where's the professor?"

Something about his easy tone irked her.

"No idea. He ran off when the pixies attacked him."

"Pixies? What?"

"That's a long story, and I've got a lesson to get to," she said, not in the mood to talk.

"Oh, yeah, of course. You don't know when he'll be back then?"

"I haven't the slightest," she answered haughtily, hoping he'd get the idea.

"Ah. What are we meant to do then?"

"How should I know? Find another professor, or just sit around and waste time playing gobstones," she snapped.

Why should she spend her time solving his problems? He was happy to ignore her existence when his friends - for all of a day at that - were around to talk to instead, but when there was an issue it was ask Hermione time. Just like with everyone else. No: Worse than the others. When they came to her they had the good manners to grovel about it, to appeal to her ego and praise her intellect that they oh so desperately needed to borrow. Harry wasn't even acknowledging the issue.

Now he wasn't even talking. It was like he was shocked by her response; it was like he assumed she would help. Well he needed to learn that she was not going to be friendly with him at his convenience. That was how Ron had been the previous year, and she was well shot of it.

She gathered up her bag and - only somewhat unintentionally - barged through him to the door. Her annoyance was turning already to sadness at the thought of another year friendless, but she hardened herself against it. She would not let this affect her education. She most certainly would not run off to cry about it in the bathroom; that was a lesson she had learned the hard way.

She was Hermione Granger, smartest witch in her year, and she was not prone to weeping. She literally couldn't if she tried.