Chapter XIII

Lionheart

Hermione reckoned whoever thought using trolls to guard Gryffindor tower was an idiot. Firstly, because who would ever trust such a dumb, violent brute to keep anything safe? Secondly, because they had obviously failed to consider that one amongst the lions might have just the tiniest little bit of trauma-induced phobia. Not phobia. Phobia is irrational fear.

"You're sure you don't want me there?" Harry offered, again.

"Positive. It would be no good getting in with assistance, only to find I cannot get out on my own."

"Fair enough. See you in the common room later, then."

"Yes. You will."

They parted ways then, to attend their lessons for the next hour. Harry was off to potions, Hermione to care of magical creatures and arithmancy, via a broom cupboard to use the turner. That gave her two hours before she really, definitely had to go back to the tower; Madam Pomfrey had weathered her bollocks excuses for staying another night in the infirmary with a sympathetic sigh, but only agreed to the one night.

Two hours to try to keep her focus on anything but the trolls. Two hours which dragged by slowly, yet not slowly enough by half, because all too soon she was stood at the end of the corridor, trying her best not to hyperventilate air which reeked of sweat and pain.

It's just a troll. It's just a pair of big stinking trolls. A pair of giant, menacing, violent trolls.

Hermione gripped her wand tightly as the stench wafted up the corridor, assaulting her augmented senses until she could taste it. It would be so easy to turn back; there was still time; she didn't need to get into the tower for anything in particular. The classroom from second year would still be where she left it.

She didn't need to, but she wanted to. She wanted to sleep in a proper bed; wanted to be with her friends again; wanted to be with Harry. Those ridiculous, drooling excuses for guards were the only thing in her way. They were in her way, and if they didn't get out of her way in extremely short order, she was going to teach them a thing or two about what a bad idea that was. She was a witch, best in her year, and she had faced far worse than trolls since her first.

They were, as Harry would put it, no basilisk. Not that it would stop her if they were, because the last basilisk she faced was dead, she was not, and she was far, far angrier now than she had been then. Actually, she thought she should probably calm down, just a touch, lest she be the one to pick a fight. Easier thought than done, though; the last time she had felt this sort of anger had been Lockhart's fault, and she had only calmed down into a more manageable fury when her taipan snaked its way up to her shoulder, like a little guardian angel.

Guardian devil, she amended. It killed a man, after all.

Hermione hissed the incantation and soon a faithful rattlesnake was coiled about her neck, alert and ready, its rattle tail shaking out a slow rhythm to match her footfalls; a warning to all in her path. Then she found her footfalls were matching the rattle instead, as it led her onward when she may have faltered in approaching the guards. She could hear them now, clearly; the snuffling, heavy breathing of creatures too big for their lungs; the scraping of their axes on stone; the drip of the vile mucus from their every orifice.

How she hated trolls. She hated them even more when their rank breath rustled her hair as she drew up before them. Within arm's reach. One clawing, meaty hand reaching out, one swing of the axe, and -

An involuntary step back took her away from the brink of the oncoming panic attack, but only just.

Again. Try again.

She couldn't move. She was a deer in the headlights, frozen by her fear. Frozen like a dementor floated there before her, sapping her strength and resolve. Fighting a troll would be easy enough, really. Fighting fear itself… Impossible, if she didn't know the spell for it.

"Expecto patronum."

The magic stuck in her wand, as blocked as the lump in her throat.

Come on. State of mind…

Harry's voice after he died. Luna skipping through the corridor. Harry's lips on her forehead. Neville's open laughter. Harry's arm about her shoulder. Her magic took on all the beauty of the spell, but still refused to flow; refused her call. Denied her need.

Come on, Hermione; you're better than this. Stronger.

Strength: A bathroom torn apart in a struggle. A stinking troll laid out on the tiles.

Hope: A young woman stood, one foot on its chest, wand glowing in her outstretched hand.

Triumph: Spellfire bursting forth from her wand; it would not be hurting anyone again.

Victory: It was bested; she had won.

Satisfaction: Fear in its eyes as it died.

Wait, that's not-

The spell poured jubilantly from her wand, setting the air to ripple with its protective aura. Calm washed over her; telling her she would be past the trolls soon: Hope. Telling her she was a powerful witch: Triumph. And if they tried to hurt her… Her snake hissed violence in her ear. She straightened her spine and adjusted her grip on her wand as she walked forward. If they tried to hurt her, they would get what was coming to them; the fear in their eyes would be of their own making. He magic crackled in the air:

Retribution.

"I say!" Sir Cadogan shouted, "Good day to thee, young miss! Yet, is the lady mayhap lost? Tis a long way from dark dungeons for a Slytherin to have come a-wandering."

"Slytherin?" she asked, cocking her head to listen for anyone somehow standing next to her. The trolls were loud, certainly, but she was sure she was otherwise alone. Alone with two trolls.

"Why yes, I should say so. Never, not in all my days, have I known a Gryffindor to make companion of a serpent, not even one so resplendent as the beauty about thine neck."

Hermione finally stopped to think how she must look: wand held ready for battle; determined snarl on her face; and a deadly snake hissing its displeasure over her shoulder. For all she knew one of the twins could have charmed her robes green - it wouldn't have been the first time. Was it any surprise the portrait mistook her for a Slytherin?

Was it more surprising she had slipped into the role so easily?

"I am a Gryffindor," she insisted. "The password is Lionheart."

"If the lady insists, let me not be the one to besmirch her honour by questioning. Be welcome in our tower, young lioness. I, Sir Cadogan, stand at your service."

The unmistakeable creak of the painting door opening was sweet music to her pounding ears. She hurried through with a muttered thanks, hating putting the trolls at her back even for a second. Such a hurry was she in, she barely remembered to drop her patronus, and didn't think at all what ruckus it would cause to bring a literal snake into the lions' den.

Harry's eyes had been fixed on the door for the past ten minutes; Hermione, ever punctual, was three minutes late. Something stirred in his gut, like his inner lion but not so familiar. Nor unfamiliar, merely not him. Whatever it was, it bolstered his spirit, tempting him to jump up and go looking for her; to protect her from whatever was keeping her; to fight if he had to.

Had it lasted a moment longer, he would have, but it faded as quickly as it had come - as did the need to go searching. The door swung open and there she stood: Proud; wand out; snake about her neck.

Snake?

Fred let off a party popper, but as the streamers drifted down the common room fell silent.

"Hey guys," she said. "Miss me?"

Sally was the first to break the tension, crossing the room like a bullet and scooping Hermione up into a hug. A couple of others looked ready to join her… until the snake slithered its way around the back of Sally's neck to lock her into the embrace. Harry, supernaturally proficient in serpentine body language, knew it was only being friendly, but by the looks on everyone else's faces he was alone in that regard.

"Uh, Hermione… I don't like snakes," Sally said. "Can you maybe…?"

"Sorry. She doesn't really listen to me." - Sally stilled - "I mean, she's under control, but she sort of does what I want, not what I tell her."

The snake hissed a happy little hiss. "Sister."

Harry stood up and went over, moving a gobsmacked first year aside, to address the snake. Someone had to get the thing to let Sally go.

"Salutations."

"Salutations, speaker. Mistress is pleased to see you."

"Sister" (there was no better word in parseltongue for what Hermione was to him, and he was not about to call her 'mistress') "is anxious. Come, sit on my shoulder."

"Yes, master."

"Master?"

"Mistress cedes," she asserted as she slid from Sally's shoulders up his arm. "Master sustains."

His request for an explanation was ignored; the snake coiled twice about his throat and settled in, tucking her snout away and letting her rattle sway gently. Sally broke the embrace and thanked him, then with a glance about the room and a growing blush, hurried off to take back her seat.

"I'm guessing that's you, Harry?" Hermione addressed the air.

"Think I'm still the only parseltongue in these parts, yeah," he said, giving the snake a scritch on her belly.

He was trying to be casual, but the smile his quip brought to her face was too much; he gathered her into a hug of his own, burying his face into her hair. The room gasped, collectively, and he ignored them to focus on her words in his ear.

"You only saw me two hours ago."

"One," he corrected. "And I'm still new to this hugging thing - how am I meant to know when not to?"

"Did I say not to?" she shot back, squeezing him tighter. The snake gave a happy little rattle.

"Bloody hell," someone in the room said. Harry didn't like his tone. "So it's true then. They really have been at it."

"Shut it Cormac," Wood spat.

"You're seeing this right? Mr Boy-Who-Doesn't-Touch with his hands all over her?"

And just like that, hugging his best friend felt awkward once more. Thanks, McLaggen.

"Seriously mate, stop."

"What? Am I the only one? Nobody wondering what else has changed about these two?"

The snake's rattling turned decidedly less pleasant at that implication. Hermione broke off the hug and made to step around Harry - so he blocked her way.

"Harry," she hissed in his ear, "I don't need-"

"Yes, you do," he whispered back. "People are badmouthing you already; let me take the flak for this one."

"Fine. Just, be careful, alright?" she urged as he rounded on the older boy.

Not that Cormac was much older, but he was a good six inches taller and built heavy like the keeper he so desperately wanted to be.

Cormac laughed. "Yes, Harry dear, be careful. Picking fights doesn't end well for second year runts."

"I wasn't worried about him getting hurt, you dolt," Hermione scoffed from behind him. "She's a venomous breed, Harry."

"Is she now?" he asked, letting a little venom of his own into his voice. "Fancy that."

Cormac took a rather sensible step back. "Hey, that's-"

"Do you know, Cormac, how Lockhart died?" Harry wasn't sure what he was trying to say; he let instinct take the wheel. Instinct was apparently pissed at being made to feel uncomfortable in Hermione's arms. "I bet you've heard the rumours a hundred times, how Hermione set a snake - a lot like this one, actually - on him? How he writhed in agony on the floor while she, cold as ice, walked away? Funny thing is, unlike every other rumour in this castle, that's pretty much right. There's just one detail nobody cares to mention - if they ever knew. Do you want to know what it is? Are you curious?"

"Wh-what is it?"

"Glad you asked." He lifted the snake down onto his arm, extending it toward Cormac. "She summoned the snake, but she didn't order it to kill him. She couldn't; she doesn't speak snake." The snake flicked its tongue happily as he petted her head. "But I do. I did. And after I gave the order, we both left that bastard to-"

"Threat." the snake interrupted, urgent. "Taste it."

"What?"

"Save Mistress."

It dropped from his arm and shot off across the room, straight at McLaggen. Yelling, the boy drew his wand and hurled a spell - which it easily dodged - before it lunged, right between his legs and under a couch. Something squealed, and a blur of grey shot out from underneath, pursued by a streak of mottled brown.

"Scabbers!" Ron shouted, scrambling after the chase. "Hey! Come back! Call off your bloody beast!"

Harry hissed the command, but the serpent would not listen, preferring to hunt the rat around the common room. Cormac melted away in to the crowd he had drawn as Ron took the attention.

"First your cat, now a frigging snake? Call it off!"

"I can't!" Harry and Hermione yelled together.

"Dispel it! It's conjured, ain't it?"

Hermione slashed her wand through the air; nothing happened. She tried again, with an incantation, but again it failed.

"It won't go away."

"Stop feeding it magic!" Wood shouted, narrowly missing a grab at the rat as it passed.

"I have! It's like it…" - she held a hand to her chest - "it isn't feeding off my core anymore."

"How is that possible?"

"How should I know? Harry, you aren't powering it somehow?"

"How do I tell?"

"Oh, for- Feel for it!"

Right. I knew that. Harry reached down into his magical core, feeling it out like focusing on an itch. There was something there; something happening. It felt familiar, but foreign. Aggressive.

"It is my spell. How is it my-"

"Who cares?" Ron shrieked, lunging for the snake and missing - fortunately, given its breed and agitation - by a mile. "Cut it off!"

Harry tried. He tried really, really, hard, but the flow refused to stop. Or rather, he couldn't make himself stop it; like poking himself in the eye, there was some instinct getting in the way. Part of him wanted that snake there, and it was not to be denied so easily.

"I can't."

"Dispel it then," Hermione suggested. "Finite should work, if you don't know the counterspell."

Harry tried aiming a finite at the snake as it darted across the hearth - he only succeeded in killing the magical flames. He tried aiming another at nothing at all, focusing on the concept of this magic flowing from him to the snake; again, fruitlessly. Then Scabbers dove behind a bookcase and, when the snake followed, both were gone.

There was a violent hiss - simply a noise, no words to it - a loud squeak, and silence. A little rush of satisfaction fed back through Harry's magic before the connection died. Mistress safe.

He breathed an instinctive sigh of relief, which caught in his throat as Ron stomped over to him.

"You!" the redhead shouted, "And you! You two killed Scabbers! You killed… He was… Percy's gonna, oh Merlin. Why do you ruin everything?"

With that, and tears streaming down his face, he pushed through the throng and ran off up the stairs.

"Is he right?" Hermione asked, pulling on Harry's arm. "Did we…?"

"I don't know."

Over the following days Hermione offered to: Send a better controlled, less lethal snake looking for Scabbers in the crawlspaces; Accio Scabbers (yes, Ron, gently); ask Crookshanks to keep an eye out; try to modify the revelio charm to only detect pet rats and search that way.

For some reason, each offer only made Ron more angry with her. He was so aggravated, in fact, that he finally lost a game of chess against her, which unfortunately signalled the last time they played at all; it was clear then he had only continued because he was enjoying beating her. Not the worst way to channel his emotions.

The rest of Gryffindor had initially sided with Ron, because he'd lost his pet, but as the days went on and the rants did too, they slowly distanced themselves from him and eventually starting telling him to shut up, coming to Hermione and Harry's side out of a desire for peace and quiet. Mumbled condolences to Ron of 'I'm sure he'll turn up' became 'he was very old already' and finally 'for Merlin's sake it was only a rat'.

None of this served to improve the boy's mood. Inevitably the conflict spilled out beyond the confines of Gryffindor house, with the Hufflepuffs chipping in trying to console, while the Slytherins snickered, hissed at Ron, and made impressions of dying rats. Harry yelling at them to have some class did not help - Hermione told him as much even as he did it, but she didn't really try to stop him, as she was sure he needed the outlet; heavens knew she did.

She wanted to go off on Ron, to pin him to a chair and tell him to grow the fuck up because oh boo-hoo he'd lost a mangy old rat but he wasn't half this bothered when a girl he knew lost her sight! She wanted to scream from the top of the astronomy tower into the chaos of a spring storm; see what the cruel universe had to say to her. She had the frustratingly idiotic desire to find a boy - any bloody boy at this rate - and blow off some steam in a broom cupboard or whatever it was Lavender kept going on about being so much fun. Anything to feel something other than pissed off.

The first would not have solved anything; the second depended on the weather not being so infuriatingly pleasant (not to mention how it would have added to the whisperings about her being 'dark'); and the third… Eww.

The only boy she trusted enough to do anything even approaching that with was Harry. Which was something of a dead end, considering. Easier not to think about it. To think, but for certain interruptions, she could have been in that situation with Justin; as it was she hadn't spoken to the Hufflepuff in weeks-

"Hermione?" he whispered as she was absent-mindedly returning her book to its place in the library. Think of the devil…

"Justin?"

"Yeah. Hi. How, uh, how've you been?"

"Stellar," she said, sardonically.

"Right. Yeah, I can imagine. Look, uh I just wanted to say… well, the thing is… My mum told me not to associate with you."

Hermione sighed. That explains a lot. How many other kids are doing what their mothers told them? "Isn't your mum muggle?"

"Yeah. Yeah she is, but she reads the Prophet, so."

"So she thinks I'm the next Dark Lady."

"She's worried about it."

Her and how many others? "And she does not prescribe to your mantra of buddying up with rising dark witches and wizards?"

"She does not," he huffed. "And dad reckons there's a difference between 'buddying up' and 'going on maybe-dates', so he's not really taking my side."

"So is this you telling me we're going to continue to not talk to each other, or?"

"No, it is, well, in a sense, but I wanted you to know I do not want to. I mean, I don't think you're… Look, what I'm getting at is, I might not be talking to you openly, but those letters the Prophet got 'extolling your virtues'? One was mine, and I meant what I wrote in it."

"But you won't tell your mum that?"

"I did. Honestly, I tried, but she's stubborn, and we can't all be Gryffindors, alright?"

Strange way of calling yourself out as a coward.

"Alright. I guess it beats you thinking I'm a rat-murdering snake whispering lady of darkness."

"When you put it that way, it sounds sort of cool."

"Spoken like someone who isn't having to put up with it," she snipped, crossing her arms.

"Right. So."

"So."

"See you around, I suppose," he muttered, soft footfalls signifying his departure.

"I suppose you will." Then, to avoid leaving it on bad terms, because she had enough negativity in her life already: "Oh, and Justin? If I do turn evil and take over the world, I shall require you to grovel at least thrice before I make you my dark lieutenant."

"I shall bear that in mind," he replied with near-convincing sincerity as his footsteps began to fade.

"Would you just leave it?" Ron shouted as he crossed the common room, Hermione hot on his heels. Harry put his book down; there was no point trying to read with those two at each-others' throats.

"No."

"Why not? Why can't you just quit?"

The twins appeared over the back of the couch, waving a bucket of popcorn under Harry's face. He rolled his eyes at their shit-eating grins and furious munching, but did take a few when he realised he'd never had popcorn before.

"Because, Ronald Weasley, I believe that when you cause someone an injury, you should put in the effort to make it right."

Hermione and Ron's spats were a different thing to behold now Harry knew the root cause behind them.

"Oh, I see. Back on this are we?"

"I only bring it up because you asked."

Ron scoffed. "There's a first."

"Excuse me? I will have you know-"

"Fuck off, Granger. Fuck right off, and take your stupid opinions with you."

"Fine. Fine, and fuck you too. And do you know what? I'm not even sorry I killed your mangy little rat; you don't deserve to be loved, not by anyone or anything!"

Ron stared at her, gaping as Harry was, and balled his hand into a fist several times, like he was thinking about using it. Harry slipped his wand into a ready grip, just in case, but Weasley never made the move. Instead, wordlessly, he turned and stormed out into the corridor, paying no heed to it being past curfew.

Hermione was left in the middle of a hushed common room, visibly trembling, until Harry went over to her. She sniffed the air and relaxed at once, turning to him with outstretched arms. He made a mental note, as he took her into a comforting embrace, to never change his soap or shampoo.

"I don't know why I said that," she sobbed into his neck. "I didn't mean it."

Harry had no idea what to say to calm her, so he resorted to hugging a little tighter; it seemed to work. Then he took her over to the couch he'd been using, shooing a stunned firstie from the other end to make room, and did his best to distract her with the contents of his book. It didn't take long before she was too busy correcting his understanding of gas-to-liquid transfiguration to cry any more. Then she had some idea he didn't quite follow about mass-conservation, or maybe pressure, and she was off inside her own head figuring out the ramifications. When she cursed it being past curfew, and hence the library not being available until the morning, he knew his work was done.

He also knew he'd have more work to do when Ron came back.

Only Ron didn't.

The next morning, with no sign of Ron, Percy received a letter at breakfast. All eyes in Gryffindor were on him as he walked on shaky legs up to the head table and handed it to Professor McGonagall. As she urgently discussed its contents with the headmaster, Percy returned to his seat and the grilling began. He said nothing to anyone who wasn't a Weasley; Harry heard it from Ginny not long after.

"Mum says Ron's clock hand is stuck on 'prison'. Dad checked at work, but there's no arrest record; he even went down to the DMLE holding cells himself, and Ron isn't there."

"What does that mean?" Harry asked.

"Black," Neville declared, before wilting a touch under the attention it earned him. "I mean, he broke in and went right for Ron didn't he? And now Ron's gone missing, imprisoned, and we know Black's in the area…"

"I think Nev's right," Hermione agreed. "Who else would want to kidnap Ron?"

"Kidnap?" Ginny squeaked.

"Why would Black want Ron?" Harry questioned, giving up on trying to eat; no big loss as breakfast that morning was mostly toast anyway.

"I don't know, but it seems he does. And now he has him."

"But if Black's got Ron," Neville wondered aloud, "why is he still alive?"

They all winced as Ginny choked back a distressed sob; Luna grabbed her hand.

"It is possible he doesn't want Ron," Hermione said.

"He wants something from him," Harry completed the thought.

"Like a ransom?" Ginny asked. "But we can't afford that!"

"More likely information," Hermione suggested, though she scratched her head at her own idea. "Or he's bait."

"Or he wants to turn him properly," Seamus butted into the conversation. "Moon's full soon."

"Trying to understand the mind of a madman is like hunting for snorkacks in the desert," Luna asserted before anyone could tell Seamus to shut up and piss off. "Interesting, but ultimately fruitless."

The conversation continued, but the longer it went on , the more Luna's words rang true; they got nowhere with it. As breakfast was wrapping up the Weasley lot were summoned to the headmaster's office, where their parents were waiting to see them. By lunch the ministry had descended upon the castle, with minister Fudge sending a toadish, garishly pink woman to speak to Dumbledore and subsequently tap her glass to make an announcement.

"Hem-hem," she said, her sickly sweet voice carrying across the hall. "Your attention, students of Hogwarts. In light of recent… unfortunate events, the ministry is taking extra precautions to ensure your safety within these hallowed halls. It is evident that headmaster Dumbledore's measures have not had the desired effect, and so, as of two o'clock today, the patrols of your school's ministry-appointed protectors will be expanded to cover the entirety of the grounds. The ministry thanks you for your cooperation in this matter, and wishes you all the best as you continue in your educational endeavours."

She appeared to be expecting applause, and most put out when none was forthcoming. The mood in the castle was too low for that sort of politeness, and it only declined when, at precisely two in the afternoon, dementors starting drifting by right outside rapidly icing-up windows.