IX

Fright Me with Your Sprites

Mass Murderer Strikes at Hogwarts - By Rita Skeeter

'Disturbing news broke last night from Europe's premier school of magic: Wanted criminal Sirius Black, having bypassed all of Headmaster Dumbledore's defences, secreted his way into the castle intent on causing havoc, and perhaps adding another name to his list of victims.

Fortunately no students were harmed during his rampage, but considerable property damage occurred when Black was unable to access the Gryffindor dormitory where his intended target, Harry Potter, was resting after a long Quidditch practice. Not so fortunate was the much beloved Fat lady of Gryffindor, whose portrait was brutally mutilated during the attack; a sight which must have given our young hero quite the fright when he was the first to come upon the scene of the crime.

Just imagine what may have been, had he arrived only minutes earlier.

The question on everyone's lips now; how did Black get so close to his nefarious goal? Is there a twisted genius lurking beneath his veneer of insanity, or did he have help from the inside? Did the headmaster's decision to allow a student visit to Hogsmeade put our children in a position where they could be threatened, blackmailed, or even imperiused into aiding Black? Or was such persuasion even needed? Are there dangers hiding within the student body itself? Impressionable youths already swayed to the dark path, eager to aid the machinations of evil?

Rumour has it there is a rising movement amongst the muggleborn population, one which asserts there is no such thing as dark or evil magic… one which asserts magic is only a tool, to be wielded by those with the power and will to do so. Our older readers will recall a similar sentiment coming out of the German States in the thirties. They will recall what horrors such preposterous thinking led to.

Yet the plot thickens, because the supposed leader of this uprising-in-the-making is a name many will recognise from the untimely demise of Gilderoy Lockhart. Yes, dear readers, the newest threat on the horizon is none other than the Boy-Who-Lived's best friend, Hermione Granger. Or should that be former best friend - sources tell me the two have not spoken for a month.

Is her probable collusion with Black the wrath of a dark witch scorned, or did she plan betrayal all along? Does she seek to remove the hero of the light before her dark campaign begins in earnest?

Either way, life is looking bleak for our young saviour: His once-friend and his godfather out for his blood; his headmaster failing in his duty to protect his charge… what comes next for the beleaguered boy?

Neither Harry, nor his friends - true or otherwise - were available for comment. We did however, speak at length with one of his housemates, who had the shocking revelation that for several weeks of the last school year the boy was sleeping with his treacherous friend, alone, in an unknown location. What transpired in these private moments? What corruptions and false promises could she have used to sway him from the righteous path? Is their public falling out a genuine result of plans being discovered, or merely a ruse?

Has a muggleborn witch stolen our hero from us already?

If so, what is the mighty Albus Dumbledore intending to do about it?'

Harry rolled the Prophet up into a little ball and dumped it on the table next to his forgotten pancakes. Getting the words out of his sight didn't do anything to remove them from his mind. Questions spun themselves into tight knots of confusion: Who had Skeeter spoken to, to get that information? How could they paint Hermione as such a bad person? Why was the focus of the article on her and Harry, not the murderer breaking into the school. And, at the fore:

"How is it," he fumed at no one in particular, "that this is how I find out Sirius Black is my Godfather?"

Explanations were not forthcoming; at least, not before someone else found something to say on the matter.

"Oi, Potter!" Malfoy yelled across the hall. "Potter! How's the fame treating you today?"

"Hey now, no shouting," Hagrid - the only staff member at the head table that morning - admonished.

Malfoy took the advice to heart: He decided to head over and pester his newest victim up close. Harry stared daggers into him every step of the way, balling his fists. If the boy was looking for a fight, he was coming the right way. He might just learn Hermione wasn't the only dangerous one in Hogwarts.

No, hang on, Hermione isn't dangerous.

"So, what did Hogwarts' new dark witch have to do to turn your head, eh?" Malfoy taunted as he drew up in front of Harry's group of friends.

Harry was aware of every head in the vicinity turning to him; every breath baited on his response. Moreover, he spotted, in the corner of his narrowing vision, Hermione's head perk up and turn an ear toward them.

"Go to hell," he spat back.

"Funny, last I heard, that is where your best friend is going. Why would I want to be anywhere near her?"

"If you knew how to choose your friends you would."

"Oh, but I'm not the one with friend issues, am I, Potter?"

Harry decided to give him one more chance to leave of his own accord. "Just piss off, yeah?"

"Very well," he sniffed, pretending he was turning to leave before stopping for a parting shot. "I see my words are falling on deaf ears. Not surprising, really - it's not as if you're the first Potter to be reeled in by a mudblood whore. I wonder how long this one will lead you on; they say it was years before your mother opened her legs for-"

Harry punched him in the face.

He had to leap from the bench to reach him, and both boys sprawled on the floor as a result, but then Harry was the first to find his balance. Malfoy was still cupping his bloodied nose when Harry's hand found his collar and dragged him over to the bench. Inspired by a threat Dudley had made more than once, Harry swung the boy about, wrestled one of his legs up onto the bench, and raised his own foot to be brought down, hard.

Dudley had never gone through with the threat, but then Dudley had never had real reason to be mad. Harry did, and was, and would. He didn't think he was going to enjoy inflicting pain - the thought was sickening him, actually - but it had to done. Malfoy had to learn a lesson, and it was better he learnt it from Harry than from Hermione. Better for everyone.

A broken leg wouldn't take long for Pomfrey to fix anyhow.

Hands grabbed at Harry from both sides and pulled him away before he could do the deed. He tried to shake them off - tried punching their owners, too - but he was pinned all the same, against the body of a larger boy, and too tightly to break free.

"Let me! Let go of me!" he raged.

His rage was to no avail; they wouldn't let him go. In fact, Sally was trying to help Malfoy to his feet - when he batted her hand away and damn near slapped her face in the process, Harry almost broke free. He didn't stop struggling until Malfoy found his feet and turned to face him.

There were tears in those glaring eyes, running freely as the blood from his clearly broken nose. Did I do that? Harry thought, abruptly coming to his senses as he recognised the crying ponce was no threat. Did I make him cry?

It didn't matter one bit to Harry that he had injured the lad - he was intending to, after all. It didn't matter that Malfoy was muttering something about his father hearing about it, because he was pretty sure Lucius Malfoy already hated the Boy-Who-Lived for reasons far greater than a childhood feud.

It did matter that Harry had been assaulted by a dementor (and assaulted one in turn); attacked by a professor; killed by a basilisk (only temporarily, but it still counts); and endured a slew of other hurtful moments which made up his life, and yet never in his life did he think he had cried as many tears as the Scion Malfoy did over a crooked snout.

What a wimp.

That was why Harry's instincts had stopped seeing the boy as a threat. Not because he was backing down - his comically shaken fist was saying otherwise; nor because he thought he could take the boy in a fight, being a year behind physically and magically. Draco Malfoy was not a threat, because Draco Malfoy was a snivelling coward. A coward who fought with words, and wasn't even good at that. He probably thought he'd hit the mark making comments about Harry's mum, but he'd be mistaken; that punch was for Hermione. That punch was because nobody got away with insulting his friends. And Hermione is very much a friend.

Not that he got the chance to tell her about that epiphany; Professor Vector had come, no doubt summoned by the cowardly snakes to save their errant twit, and soon all was a whirlwind of accusations, pointless points deducting, and being escorted to a room devoid of punchable students to 'think about our actions'. Harry tried explaining, of course, even going so far as to mention he was doing Malfoy a favour in sorting him out before Hermione had to, but Vector lived up to her reputation of strictness and somehow Harry's honesty only served to earn him more detentions.

All in all, it was a miserable morning, but not one Harry would have taken back - he had learned far too many lessons about life, and where he, and others, stood in it.

"…before Hermione really taught him a lesson…"

Harry's words to Professor Vector had been echoing in Hermione's head all day. Sally had described exactly what he did, and what he had tried to do - much to the girl's horror when Hermione explained the anatomical consequence of stomping a kneecap the wrong way. Hermione was disappointed, but she couldn't say she was surprised; Malfoy had insulted the memory of Harry's mother, so he got what he got. She hadn't realised Harry was that protective of his mother, though it made a lot of sense; he simply hadn't talked about his parents much. One more painful memory he has no desire to revisit.

What she couldn't get her head around was what that comment meant… what did he think she would do to Malfoy? Sure, she had a few hexes she wouldn't mind throwing the prick's way, but nothing as nasty as breaking his kneecap. That was just violent. Needlessly violent.

It wasn't like Malfoy was an actual threat. He wasn't a danger to Hermione or her friends, so why would she see a need to do… whatever it was Harry was worried she would do? What have I done to make him think that of me? Or does he just hate me any way that takes his fancy?

He can't possibly believe the Prophet's drivel… can he?

Hermione avoided just about everyone for the next few days. The Slytherins, half of Ravenclaw, and the upper year Hufflepuffs who never quite got over the incident with Colin were all taunting her in the corridors. Every time she heard a set of footsteps approaching, it was safer to assume the approach was an unfriendly one and to find some business to attend to in the opposite direction. Every time someone called her name as she retreated she was already too deep in her paranoia to distinguish friend from foe; especially after one or two people she had expected to take her side (or at least stay out of it) had not.

She caught whispers of a rumour that Harry was wanting to talk to her, but she dismissed those as a callous trick, or else a blindingly obvious bait into some kind of trap - no doubt 'he' would want to meet in some barely travelled part of the castle, where there would be no witnesses when it was a pack of snakes who showed up instead. She was not falling for that one, no way.

Justin hadn't tried to say a word to her since Hogsmeade. She didn't know what to make of that, so she considered it a dilemma solving itself and put it out of her mind.

In place of friends she couldn't trust, she turned to the old friends she could - books. There were a couple of them, between the library and the set she had brought from home, which she had been putting off reading because the subject matter was too advanced, the concepts too involved for a witch of her experience. Then again, Rita Skeeter seemed to have a high opinion of her competence in advanced magics, and it wouldn't do to fail to live up to peoples' expectations in that regard, so… she dove in.

'Advanced Arithmantic Principles' was laughably easy for all the complaining the OWL students did about it in the common room - it seemed most wizards' poor grasps of simple mathematical ideas like polynomial functions was the basis for their fear of that book.

'Charms of the Mind' proved woolly, but there were a few nuggets of wisdom regarding spell intent and mental defences which made it worth the slog of reading. Hermione didn't think she'd ever be proficient with compulsion charms and the like - apparently pure intent was only good for the dreaded imperius - but she could shore up her defences with sheer force of will. It also explained why her mind was so resistant to outside influence already; most attacks tried to slip in unnoticed or disguised, but her mental filing system was perfect for recognising a foreign thought and labelling it as such, at which point she could confront it head on, with the defender's advantage. With no small amount of work, she could learn to turn her mind palace into a labyrinth, designed to draw in and ensnare an intruder. Unfortunately, the book neglected to describe exactly how that was done.

'Wands as Weapons' was the sort of book to avoid when there was an air of negative attention such as there was - anyone seeing her reading that would probably assume it was full of dark curses and let the whole school know the Prophet was right. Hermione read it anyway, and her only regret was that it refused to detail many of the more violent - and therefore useful - curses, citing them as 'dark'. It really was a shame; the author's description of fiendfyre sounded like a perfect last-resort defence for a blind witch. His insights into the protego shield were excellent, but Hermione knew all too well the best defence was to attack. Still, the concept of protego layering gave her the beginnings of an idea...

So deeply was she lost in her new studies, she almost forgot the boggart lesson. So interesting was her study, and waning her resolve to protect Harry, she might have chosen not to go had it not been in her power to do both at once.

An hour, and a mere three minutes, later, she was just joining the queue outside Professor Lupin's classroom when the door creaked open.

"Hermione, you made it," a familiar voice whispered - Patricia.

Hermione had no chance to respond right then, as Lupin was addressing the group, welcoming them in and directing them to stand in a semicircle within the room. Hermione stuck close to Patricia, thankful to have someone there she could trust to at least be civil and helpful - she had no clue what the older girl actually believed following that blasted article, but knew her not to be the sort to act without good reason or evidence. Innocent until proven guilty was a muggle sentiment depressingly few of her peers shared.

"Now, you've no doubt heard about the… unfortunate nature of the second years' boggart experience," Lupin was saying, sheepishly, "so for today, we'll be assisted by another member of staff. Headmaster Dumbledore has asked to observe… let's give him a hand."

Dumbledore's voice floated in from the doorway. "Thank you, Remus, but truly, there is no need to thank me for my attendance at what I am sure will be a… most interesting experience. And besides, should all go well, then you shan't even know I am here."

With the room's fleeting awe disarmed, the headmaster moved to take a seat in a far corner. As he swept through the room, Hermione could have sworn she could feel his presence, so precisely she could find him by it. Either the man was projecting a trickle of his immense power for some reason, or she was starting to hallucinate through lack of regular sleep.

Given the way she didn't shake herself back to the present until the first student was finishing off their boggart, she figured it was probably the latter.

"Very good Ms Johnson!" Lupin congratulated. "Next up, Ms Stimpson."

Patricia's boggart was a silent one, much to Hermione's annoyance, but it sounded as though she did rather well, changing it with the riddikulus first time.

"Okay, good work so far. Mr Wood, I see you're lingering near the back. Better to get it over with, wouldn't you say?"

Oliver's boggart was… intense. Hermione didn't get to see it, obviously, and the sounds it produced made little sense - squelching and cracking with no reference as to what might be doing so - but the waves of emotion from those around her were palpable. Just for a second, raw magic crackled and fizzed in her ears, tingled over her skin, and crept into her stomach. When Oliver failed to defeat the boggart, there was no judgment; he received a general whispering of encouragement from his fellows. It was then that Hermione realised she had signed up to rather more than just a helpful side activity in her quest to learn the patronus.

What is this thing going to drag up from my subconscious? And when it does, will I get the same support as Wood did?

Lupin managed to select a follow-up with far more pedestrian fears - the hissing was a fair give-away as to what he faced - which served to settle the room a little, although the smatterings of laughter after the riddikulus were much more muted than before. Then…

"Miss Granger; care to show us what our youngest brave soul can do?"

Hermione went over the wand motion and incantation one more time in her head, then stepped up, head raised high. Whatever was waiting for her, she knew she had to face it in a certain way; if she showed weakness here, the vultures would swoop in the corridors later.

It can't be that bad… it can't even show me my fear. Just a bunch of freaky noises, maybe a nasty smell… do boggart even create a smell? I should have asked…

"Hold there," Lupin instructed. "One more step, you'll be the one shaping it. You might want to ready your wand."

Hermione ignored the odd snicker from the crowd and did as suggested, flicking it out from her sleeve. She didn't know what was more irritating: the way they laughed at her expense, or the way they stopped when her wand hit palm. Either way, they weren't her concern; that lay ahead.

She was about to take a step forward when a thought occurred to her. After flicking off a quick, silent augmenosensus - damn, but it's cold in this room - she was ready. She took the step, paying more attention to the crowd than the task, just for the initial reaction.

The idea: To feel that surge of magic; to pinpoint each and every witch or wizard in the room; to find some way to tell them apart.

When it came, it was not the same as Wood's; it was more a nervous ripple - a tremor in a stagnant pool, as something shifted beneath the surface. Annoyingly, she couldn't pick out individuals, they were all- no. No, there was one, apart from the rest, and stronger in their reaction: Dumbledore. Whatever form her boggart had taken, there was no-one in that room so disturbed as the greatest wizard of his time. And all Hermione could do was wait, wand raised, for it to find a way to target that onto her.

When it spoke, its deep, feminine voice echoed off the walls.

"Foolish child," it boomed. "Scion of Ambition. So wise, yet so... naïve. Such strength is surely our undoing."

An overdramatic poet? That's my fear? The boggart couldn't even come up with a terrifying voice; it was just Hermione's but older. Heavier. Pained.

"In place of the Dark Lord, you will set up a Queen,"

Okay…? Odd change of pace-

Dumbledore's aura crackled wildly, and felt almost as if it were reaching out to her; whether to embrace or smother, she couldn't have said.

"And I shall not be dark-"

Hermione was sure she knew those words from somewhere - not too surprising considering the boggart was trawling her mind for inspiration - but she couldn't recall where. It wasn't really the time for checking her mind palace…

"-but beautiful and terrible-"

The light bulb moment; the instant of recognition. The birth of worry. Oh, no. No way; I am not having anyone hear me saying all that!

"Riddikulus!" she cried, flicking her wand to dispatch her foe; forgetting to bring a humorous change to mind.

"-as the Morning and the Night!" the voice thundered on, unhindered.

Ok, alright, so they'll hear some of it. But is that really my worst fear? Everyone thinks I'm going dark already.

"Fair as the Sea-"

Let's hear this drivel from Malfoy's mouth instead. It is just like all the lies he spouts: Pure fabrication.

"Riddikulus," she chanted, focused on the thought of an outrageously 'French' Draco. Her hand trembled slightly as she cast.

Isn't it?

"-and the Sun-"

They do say the best lies are based in truth.

"Riddikulus" she whispered, her resolve straining; her intent unfocused.

It occurred to her the boggart would have no interest in showing this charade to the crowd - it was focused solely on her. It was dragging this character out of her mind; putting it out in the open for her fear alone. Not what I am scared to be seen as; what I am scared to become.

"-and the Snow upon the Mountain!"

Her - no, the boggart's - voice was reaching fever pitch. The crackle of anxious energy was growing, tickling the nape of her neck, like a thousand eyes were upon her. Judgmental eyes. And none more so than the headmaster. But it's not true! It can't be!

"Dreadful as the Storm, and the Lightning!"

I am not like that! I won't be like that! How dare you presume to tell me what I am!?

"Stronger than the Foundations of the Earth!"

Pathetic boggart! I am no dark witch!

"All shall-"

I am better than that! Better than you!

"-RIDDIKULUS!"

Submit!

Hermione felt the wave of wind and magical energy roiling back from her spell's impact. The voice stopped dead, leaving the room in eerie silence. The loudest sound was that of her heavy breathing as her chest heaved and she blasted air from her nose like a maddened bull. She tried to recall what she'd been thinking of when she cast the spell: what form the boggart should now have.

But she hadn't been picturing anything particular. No finesse to her charm; no plan or design; only furious intent. Whatever was before her now, it-

"Hermione Granger," Professor McGonagall said softly.

When did she enter the room? And how did she get in front of me without my noticing?

…

Right.

"I'm afraid to say," the boggart continued, "you have failed-"

The relief was a wave of ecstasy; she had succeeded. The lies were silenced; the deceiver driven into submission. As well it should be.

"-in every test. Trolls, across the board."

A tremor wracked Hermione's chest. Then another, taking hold of her whole torso. Her hands rose to her mouth, and she buckled forward: Laughing.

"You'll have to retake the year, Ms Granger."

Two years ago she would have still been distraught at that. Two years ago she was a naïve little girl full of wonder; her priorities all wrong. The idea that grades mattered; that an extra year with access to the Hogwarts library was a bad thing…

"Ms Granger, I'm ever so disappointed in you."

It was just so… funny.

Hermione Granger stood there triumphant, before a perfect mimicry of a castigation from one the people she respected most in the world, and - damn what the rest of them may think - she cackled her heart out.

Murderer at Hogwarts… Continued - By Rita Skeeter

'The Daily Prophet wishes to address several letters it has received from classmates and peers of Hermione Granger, the questionable witch mentioned alongside Sirius Black in a previous article. Those close to her are eager to extol her virtues and declare her innocent of any wrongdoing or bad intention. They refer to her as a heroine; a saviour, even.

Others have reported that her behaviour since the article has become hostile, even threatening, especially to those in open opposition of her radical views.

This reporter asks whether Miss Granger's friends' show of loyalty is a reflection of her good nature, or only another indication that the corruption of her followers runs deep? Is their correspondence driven by altruism, or by fervent zeal?

In the wake of yet another moonlit attack by the dark maniac Sirius Black, leaving one missing, should we be cautiously optimistic that a girl who already killed one professor has the best interests of others at heart?'

A/N:

Welp... another scene I wrote right back at this story's inception sees the light of day. Chapter ended up a little short, but I love presenting it sandwiched between Skeeter's articles, so meh.