"Jealous lad in sixth or seventh year, I'm willing to bet!" Lockhart declared. "I bet the poor lad wishes he had an ounce of the admiration I receive and that's why he wrote the article."
You couldn't be further from the truth... Severus thought while Kettleburn insisted they were primarily concerned with the mistreatment of the pixies.
"Say," Kettleburn abandoned his usual scowl. "Isn't your daughter into magical creatures' rights? Seemed keen to ask me and Hagrid about the pixies."
Severus opened his mouth to argue for Hermione's sake, but, for once, was grateful when the great prat Lockhart spoke first.
"Little Hermione?" he chuckled. "I can hardly see that sweet little girl saying any of this nonsense. 'to put it lightly, fucked'? I can't see a twelve-year-old, especially not her, writing that. Yes, it was definitely a boy from the upper years."
Oh, you haven't the measure of that girl, at all. Though he wondered why he had such a high opinion of her.
It'd been a couple weeks now, and to hear him tell it, almost every day he came to classes more potted plants on his desk than in the greenhouses. Of all the things Severus expected the students to cling to, the potted plant remark was not it. However, offering potted flowers worked better, he imagined then the students sending him mirrors and combs. The ones sending plants could pretend it was for sympathy or adoration then laugh at his reception behind his back.
Flitwick made sympathetic noises but everyone else remained silent. Severus turned his thoughts to the conversation he was going to have with Hermione. He was happy to teach her beyond level in DADA, and growing up tasked with prepping ingredients, he didn't see her suffering in potions either. He'd rather she'd attempt spells beyond level with supervision anyway. Perhaps...it'd be fine. And she was terribly keen about learning magic, maybe she'd be happy about it.
Frankly, he'd much rather think about that than about Hermione's fate being entangled with Potter's. He had to focus on what he had control over. He would step up their DADA supplementary classes, perhaps move it to twice a week, keep an eye on her and perhaps equip her with a sneakoscope or some other artifact. Though he wondered if Fred and George Weasleys' schemes would be severe enough to set off such artifacts. That was easy enough to suss out if he placed it on his desk next time he had to chastise a student. He could ask the houseelves to keep an eye on her, and he knew a spell to look through his owl's eyes...No, that would be unnecessary. Outside of Hermione's brief interest in journalism, the year was shaping up to be like most, which meant he could give her the space to operate independently without worrying about her welfare. At least, not more than usual. Where the hell was she anyway? He had sent her Archimedes with a request to see her before classes, but Potter instead collected the letter along with the four other birds she'd received.
Severus combed his eyes over the Gryffindor table again to find the Weasleys clustered together in the centre of the table, Potter between the youngest Weasley boy and Longbottom, all enraptured in a conversation while the Weasley girl stared off into the distance. Perhaps Hermione wasn't an anomaly for living deep inside her own head so often.
The library. Of course that's where she'd be. Well, if he wanted the chance to tell her before he suspected McGonagall would, he'd have to make his move now. Or I could ask her not to tell her...but I doubt I'd be listened to. He excused himself and made his way to the library.
He went into the library, Madam Pince leaning over the front desk and tearing her vulture-like gaze from the thick volume she had previously been engrossed in. Upon seeing it was him rather than a student, she buried her nose back in the book, it was one of those days neither could be bothered beyond a nod for pleasantries. He combed over the empty library until he heard the murmuring of hushed voices. Was she not alone? Last year, if Hermione had been in the library, she would have been alone outside a handful of occasions. This was good, he told himself, he wanted her to make more friends. Perhaps if he had been more attentive when she was little-and not just regarding her health- he wouldn't be so damn nostalgic for it...
He found her tucked away in a far corner of the library, sitting crossed legged on the floor as part of a rather unlikely trio clustered in the corner among stacks of books.
"I don't know why you always wear your hair like that," Lovegood beamed pulling the bushy locks out of Hermione's face. "You're quite pretty!"
"You're hilarious!" Hermione rolled her eyes brushing her hair back into her face and returning to her book. "If you're done making fun of me, can you pass me the Magical Madness and Mental Maladies? I want to cross reference something."
"Sure,"said Lovegood, looking a bit dejected for half a second before returning to normal, nodded and passed her the book.
The tall red-haired boy who sat on Hermione's side gave an amused smirk at Lovegood. "What are you looking at anyway?" O'Malley whispered. "More evidence against Lockhart?"
When the hell did you two start hanging out? I get Lovegood, but...him? And am I the only one you didn't tell?!
Hermione shook her head. "Unless I can get access to witness accounts going back a decade in seven different countries, I've hit a dead end," she sighed. "This is for an independent project of mine. I'll have something for you two tonight for the next issue, so don't worry about it!"
Was it a team effort, then?
"You could always join me in writing on club meetings," O'Malley muttered. "It's simply fascinating."
Hermione sighed and but kept her eyes on the book. "You helped me with the Lockhart case, I can hand it over to you if you think you'll have better luck."
"Mam only had tracked Hannagan," he sighed before casting a look to Lovegood. "I could always make something up."
That either went over Lovegood's head or she couldn't be bothered as she returned to her own reading.
"Awfully early to be studying, isn't it?" he said stepping out from behind a bookcase. "Especially while hiding in a far corner of an empty library. One might think you're hiding something."
The three tore their eyes from their perspective books and looked at him with different expressions. O'Malley paled and attempted to subtly shift further away from Hermione, his blue eyes fixed on him. Lovegood simply looked up from her book with an easy smile, as if trying to communicate that they were doing nothing wrong and welcomed the scrutiny of a teacher.
Hermione, on the other hand, found her way to her feet, with her book clasped to her chest and scrutinized his face. She was trying to figure out how much he'd heard, and she bit her lip and the nails digging in to her wrist over the book told him she feared he heard something more incriminating than what he'd actually heard. She looked back at the two of them, swept the immediate area with her eyes and approached whispering in French.
"Tout va O.K?"
She thinks something else is wrong? "I want a word," he said not bothering to switch from English. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble," he looked over her head to see Lovegood and O'Malley still staring at him. "Yet."
In the interest of time, he opted to have the conversation with her in a nearby empty classroom rather than his office. Hermione stood opposite him clutching her book for dear life the way she had once done with a blanket, quite like she didn't believe she wasn't in trouble. Or perhaps she was still worried he had some kind of bad news?
"Will you calm down?" he spat. "I already said you weren't in trouble and I simply have no interest in what you think I've overheard."
"Yessir," she nodded but failed to do so.
"You're such a high strung child," he sighed placing his hand on her head. "The headmaster, Professor McGonagall and I had a little chat last night about you," he started and realised those were the exact wrong words as she looked up at him in horror. "Everything is fine, love," he said. "You might even think it's good news. But however you receive it, I wanted to be the one to tell you."
Hermione nodded, silent, and still looking like she didn't expect his news to be positive in the slightest. Perhaps she could tell from his expression? She was better than most at reading his mood, and he could read the concern on her face just as easily.
"Between having grown up with more or less unrestricted access to the Hogwarts library, and the summers in Mahoukatoro, combined with your performance," he kept his voice even. "We've decided that it would be best for you if we advanced you two years."
"W-w-what?!" she gasped, her already large eyes growing from doll-like in proportion to bulging. "Why?"
"And that is precisely why I wanted to tell you rather than Professor McGonagall," he sighed. "I knew you might not agree with the decision and take it rather poorly. I was hesitant too, but trust me, love, this is for the best."
"But I can't, Dad," she squeaked. "My bogie hexes and summonings are pathetic! I haven't taken any of the electives yet, and-"
"Calm down," he said tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Very young wizards such as yourself use quite a lot of energy to perform powerful magic. At your age while you're exhausted, I wouldn't be surprised if you immediately improved once you put a pause on your 'independent projects'. And if you already know the summoning charm, I daresay you are quite ready. When did you learn that one anyway?"
Hermione bit her lip and looked down, wringing her hands nervously. "Erm," she squeaked. "December."
December of your first year, that's impressive...but you're lucky you didn't collapse! "I see," he sighed. "I'm certain we've talked about the risk to your health practising spells beyond level unsupervised, did we not? What possessed you to disregard it at that time?"
"L-" Hermione started after a period of silence now quite pink. "Someone made off with my clothes in the baths back then. I learned it after that."
"Brown did what?" he said. "Hermione, you should have told me."
"Even if I wasn't preoccupied with more important things at the time," she admitted, and he remembered how deep into the investigation she had been.
That might have also been when she started avoiding me...
"I don't think I would have," she continued. "It would have made things worse anyway. How did you know-"
"You think I'm not familiar with your tormentors?" he asked neglecting to remind her she started the name. "Now, the issue at hand...we've never done this before, so we're still working out the details. For now I am tutoring you twice a week to ensure you are ready for the leap when the time comes. Do you have any questions?"
"Erm," Hermione bit her lip and looked down again digging her nails into her hands again. "No, sir."
"Very well, then," he sighed. "You know where to find me when you decide I'm safe to trust again. You best get to class."
Hermione nodded silently and turned to leave.
"Come take a seat and join my class
Though I might be admiring the form in the glass
I want you all to gather around and see
The wonderful, the magical, me! me! me!
Watch me admire the pert shape of my ass!"
A copy of Lockhart's bibliography sang open on his desk, as he tried to silence the book, looking quite pink and flustered. Hermione had an idea of who the limerick's poet might be, and felt a twinge of regret when she decided that he wouldn't get to see or hear his handy work. Though whatever class came first, some student would've taken pity on Lockhart and tried to silence the book. Sorry, O'Malley.
Amidst the bursts of laughter, even from Lavender and Pavarti, who seemed to fancy him, Hermione brandished her wand and silenced the volume. "It's still cursed, Professor, it's just silent." She closed the book. "Perhaps avoid opening it again-erm-sir!"
"Thank you, dear," Lockhart beamed patting her on the head.
Why, Hermione thought tucking her wand back in her robes. Does every teacher think they can pat me on the head or pinch my cheeks? I really do think I hate grown-ups. But instead she smiled and said. "Oh, it's no problem at all, Professor."
Shit! the laughter was now directed at her. Hermione should have been used to it, but she stalked to her desk and shrank between Harry and Neville. "Why," she whispered to Harry. "Did I do that?"
"Search me," Harry shrugged.
"Because you're not as cruel as your father," Neville whispered.
"Neville!" Hermione hissed.
"He's right, Hermione," Ron leaned in over Harry's desk to whisper. "Snape would've let that sing all term."
No, my father would have silenced it and then make some cheeky remark about how the great Gilderoy Lockhart can't undo a simple charm from a child. I can see it now...
"Speaking of," Harry said. "You got an owl from him at breakfast, but we couldn't find you in the library when we were done."
"He tracked me down," she whispered."Did I get any letters from Hiro or Kaori?"
"You got four letters with two ravens and two owls with letters," Harry explained. "What did he want?"
"I'll tell you after the Deathday party," she whispered back.
"I reckon we know what it is anyway, mate," Ron whispered before lowering his pitch. " 'I don't want you anywhere near that depraved Potter boy, you stupid little girl'. Close?"
Hermione rolled her eyes and chose not to disclose just how many conversations she'd had like that since she was sorted into Gryffindor. She turned to Neville's worksheet. "Want help with that?"
"You came!" the Gryffindor ghost, Sir Nicolas, more affectionately known as Nearly Headless Nick, beamed.
The ghost didn't seem so sullen now, his white wispy form glided along the corridor to greet them and his eyes crinkled found a way to gleam without eye fluid. He spoke over the ghostly orchestra 's discordant melody with fervour.
"Of course," Harry shivered with a nervous smile and elbowed Ron.
"Wouldn't want to be anywhere else, would we?" Ron forced a smile.
"Everything seems absolutely lovely, Sir Nicolas," she said looking around the drab, freezing dungeon, filled with rotted food and half-engaged ghostly guests. "Do you mind if I write on it? If you promise not to tell anyone, I'll tell you why."
Nick swore to secrecy and Hermione whispered it was for the school paper, but reporters were supposed to be anonymous.
Once again, his eyes had that inexplicable gleam. "That would be lovely, Hermione! Bet no one will be writing on the Headless Hunt! More like the Brainless Hunt if you ask me!"
Hermione gave a nervous chuckle. She had no clue what everyone else was writing about, but she gave a nod and took out her note book and quill. Juggling her inkwell next, she did wonder how she was to conduct interviews on foot. She didn't know what she expected, but it was nothing of the sort. Ghosts milled about talking about their unlives, a cluster stayed by the buffet, and it occurred to Hermione that this was everything she was had imagined a grown-up party looked like. Dull, with a couple of characters to keep things interesting. Nick threw himself in every conversation he could, where Peeves made trouble everywhere he could, throwing rotted food at-through-guests and telling very bad jokes.
"Is it insensitive to say I expected it to be livelier?" Harry asked.
"Probably," Hermione whispered back, though she had felt the same.
"I wonder if ghosts can get drunk. I'm dead certain that's the only way living grown-ups have fun at these things," Ron muttered.
Hermione, again, had been thinking the exact same thing. She had expected games, and rituals, like she read about in Lives of the Unliving or Kaidon Nihon,but she instead found herself listening to all of Nick's conversations, hoping he could impart something worth publishing.
"At least there's food," Ron grumbled dragging them to the buffet table.
Can you not smell that?
Ron noticed once he reached the table, a massive grey cake stood centre with black icing Hermione doubted achieved its colouring with food-dye, surrounded it were furry tarts, cheeses, cauldron cakes, and to Hermione's horror a whole bodied trout with maggots crawling about its decomposing carcass. Her stomach churned and she noticed Ron's pale freckled skin take on a green cast as she tried to subtly back away from it.
Don't you dare vomit...Hermione told herself, knowing that it'd be disrespectful.
"What was that?" Ron gagged.
Hermione, now safely away from the table, took in a deep breath. "Ghosts can't really taste food unless it's in a state of decay. I read about it in Lives of the Unliving." she gasped. "I meant to warn you-erm-sorry."
"We'll have to leave early so we can eat before bed," Ron decided.
Yes! Hermione didn't need to come up with an excuse to leave early. They'd follow Ron up, Hermione would say she felt ill, and she could go from the Great Hall to Gryffindor Tower and snoop while Ginny was at the feast. Ron Weasley, thank you for your bottomless stomach!
"Agreed," Harry whispered back.
Hermione fished out her notebook, her quill and capped inkwell suddenly wondering how she was supposed to interview Nick's guests if she were to juggle all three, and she didn't exactly want to employ the already miserable Harry and Ron as retainers. If clock gears worked in Hogwarts, she should be able to make a simple fountain pen work. It was far too late for this event, but if Hermione stuck around, this would be most helpful. "I'm going to interview some of the guests before interviewing Sir Nicolas," Hermione said before noticing a familiar figure. "You guys have fun. Shit! I have to wait!"
The wispy blue-white form of a squat fifteen-year-old girl with lank hair draped over her sullen face, barely covering her pearly spectacles, glided over the food table where many ghosts had congregated. She felt bad for being a bit of bitch avoiding Myrtle, but even with their similar experiences with being alienated for the crime of being born ugly, Myrtle could never be made happy, and Hermione felt her energy and patience leave her with every conversation with the teenaged ghost. Though her death had been tragic, gone to have a sob alone in the toilets and died at the tender age of fifteen, possibly due to whatever creature Dippet had written about. Hermione should have been much more sympathetic. But...
"What are you doing, Hermione!" Harry hissed as she hid behind Ron.
"It's Moaning Myrtle," Hermione whispered. "I know this makes me a horrible bitch, but I can't talk to her."
"Moaning what?" Ron said.
"Myrtle," she whispered. "She haunts the girls' toilet on the second floor."
"She haunts a toilet?" Ron scoffed.
"Yes. She's...let's just say she's hard to talk to, yeah?" Hermione gulped.
"Oi, what's this Potty Potter and his ickle friends are saying about poor Myrtle?" Peeves, who had apparently taken a break from throwing rotted food, appeared behind them.
"Erm," Hermione squeaked. "Just that I wanted to make sure I interviewed the guest of honour first, but I definitely want to interview her as the only student ghost." Fuck...
"Well, ickle kitten (Hermione hadn't seemed to shed the nickname given both a comment from a teacher the previous year and certain rumours of her origins having to do with being found among cats), it does seem like Not Headless Enough for the Hunt Nick is quite preoccupied, so I can call Myrtle over."
"That's not necessary, Peeves," Hermione squeaked. "I-"
"Oi, Myrtle! I think Hermione here wants to interview you!"
Myrtle drifted over to the three of them and Hermione saw her evening disappear before her. If she did want to interview anyone else, she would be there all bloody night. Myrtle still looked quite sullen and sniffed as she'd been crying. She stared at Harry, Ron and Hermione wiping her eyes. "You just want to make fun of me, don't you?"
"No, Myrtle," Hermione said in her gentlest voice. "You're the only ghost here the age of Hogwarts students, so I wanted to make sure I got your view on the party. Do you have a minute?"
Myrtle's silver tears vanished without a trace, and her eyes shone like Nick's had with a wide grin on her face. "Do I?" she squealed.
Hermione followed Myrtle to a far corner of the dungeon, away from the buffet as Hermione insisted to a "Hmph!" from Myrtle. She let Myrtle prattle on about how lonely the party was, and how no one said anything nice about her and how she suspected Nick only invited her to be nice, he probably did. She found that she had been writing on Myrtle's musings so long that her hand began to hurt. Worse, she had seen Nick talking to Harry and Ron in the corner of her eye. She needed to get him before his speech started.
"I-erm-I'm writing this for someone else, Myrtle," Hermione explained when Myrtle finished her last most recent rant against Olive Hornby. "They will want interviews with other ghosts, and I have to catch Nick before his speech. I have to write on that too. But it was-erm-lovely speaking with you."
Myrtle howled and a torrent of silver ghostly tears reappeared in her eyes, falling like droplets of mercury to the floor. "Sure, that's it!" Myrtle wailed. "Nobody wants to talk to Moaning Myrtle, Ugly Myrtle, Stupid, Piggy, Myrtle!"
"Myrtle," Hermione thanked every higher power in existence that she had more patience than her father. "You were the first ghost I interviewed, doesn't that mean-"
"That you wanted to get it out of the way!" she moaned. "Best get Moaning Myrtle's interview out of the way so I can talk to the real important people! You mean-spirited, bushy haired, buck-toothed pipsqueak!"
Myrtle's fragile, leave it..."That's not it at all, Myrtle!" Hermione scrambled trying to hide her mounting anger. "You're brilliant, really! It's just there's other people too. I mean this party really is about Nick, isn't it?"
"Because nothing's about me!" she cried attracting attention from all the guests. "Let's just forget stupid, ugly, piggy Moaning Myrtle exists!"
"And spotty!" Peeves howled, this time with laughter as he threw cakes through Myrtle, who now only sobbed harder under his chants of 'spotty'.
"Don't you have a defenceless caretaker to torment?" Hermione snapped.
"It's just a spot of fun, ickle kitty," he offered.
"I have to interview Nick," she sighed collecting her things. "If you don't leave her alone I will summon the Bloody Baron."
"But she called you-"
"Don't you dare pretend her torment has anything to do with me!" Hermione hissed. "Don't test me, Peeves."
"You're right, Spotty," he grumbled to the wailing ghost. "She is a mean-spirited, bushy haired, buck-toothed pipsqueak."
"Don't forget heartless bitch," Hermione sighed wanting to either scream or cry. "We're done here. Hey, Sir Nicolas, a word?!"
Hermione got her interview with Nick who raved about the turn out, name dropping some of the more famous ghosts, and even introduced her, Harry and Ron to a couple of them. The Wailing Widow of Kent sent chills down Hermione's spine and she suddenly felt faint staring into her vacant silver eyes as she carelessly glided past them, while Sir Patrick- who carried his head and grinned-was as open to an interview as Lockhart was to a photo-op. Though he spared jabs to poor Nick every now and then, even disregarding Harry's attempts to make him sound scary.
Finally, the time for Nick's speech came, and Hermione felt nauseous, weak, cold, and tired, while her emotional state from the sheer number of ghosts wavered from despair, to a strange mixture of guilt and anger over Myrtle's interview. Should I have done more to defend her...no, she said awful things about me, I can prove her right for all I care...She might be right... Hermione wrote sat and wrote what she could on Nick's speech until Ron spoke up.
"I can't stand much more of this," Ron admitted with wispy puffs of breath.
"Let's go," Harry agreed helping Hermione to her feet.
Hermione hadn't realised she needed the help until she wobbled on her feet. She capped her ink and placed her things back in her bag. "What will we tell-"
"That you looked sick," Harry shrugged. "I'd buy it."
Hermione rolled her eyes but followed the boys nonetheless, and her teeth chattering long after Harry and Ron's stopped as they made their way through the corridors lit with floating black candles. Ron pondered on what might be left in the feast, his stomach audibly grumbling while Hermione (and she imagined Harry too by his expression) wondered how he could possibly ever want to look at food again. Not that it mattered, Hermione had to figure out what was wrong with Ginny, so she could leave them to it.
"Do you hear that?" Harry whispered as they nearly reached the Entrance Hall.
Hermione closed her eyes and clenched her jaw to stop the chattering and listened. She heard nothing. "Is it the same voice?" she whispered in Harry's voice.
"Yeah," he said grimly. "Saying the same things. You didn't figure it out in your research did you?"
Hermione shook her head. "Sorry, Harry."
"This way," he said leading Ron and Hermione up the stairs.
Harry crept along the wall with his ear to the wall, Hermione mimicked him hoping she might hear it to no avail. The two followed Harry until up another flight of steps as he moved with more urgency.
"I think it's going to kill someone!" he gasped.
Hermione exchanged a bewildered look with Ron and the two joined in the urgent chase. The climbed to the second floor, the corridor completely flooded, reflecting the floating candle light, and glinting in the orange glow, she spied something on the stone wall. They were letters, written perhaps about thirty centimetres in a dark, thick crimson ink-no blood. It read:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED: ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE
"L-Look!" Hermione pointed and gasped.
Harry and Ron followed her finger and their faces paled as well as they saw the letters in blood. Then Hermione followed Ron's gaze to find who had given the blood for the grim message.
Mrs. Norris, the skeletal grey cat hung underneath the message, her blood dripping into the water, completely still, and lamp-yellow eyes wide open in terror while her little mouth hung open as if to let out a yowl. She just hung there, by a string on her tail, skewered in her stomach. Hermione's leg shook staring at the cat. Who could have done this? Mrs. Norris was by no means popular, but this was...it was beyond cruel. She knew Mrs Norris her whole life, and though she wasn't close to her, some part of her mourned her, especially given the gruesomeness of her death. No one and nothing deserved this...
Hermione's stomach churned and the weakness that had been plaguing her for the past hour took over as she collapsed to her hands and knees and began to wretch.
"HERMIONE!" Harry and Ron shouted.
Everyone left the Great Hall well-fed and engaging in cheerful chatter. Severus scanned each group of students leaving, still he found no sign of Hermione, Potter or Weasley. His mind took him back to the previous year's Hallowe'en and he felt a tightness form in his chest. Were those three out looking for trouble? He wasn't able shake the feeling Hermione had been dragged into something dire. Or else willingly followed them. If it wasn't for the boys' notable absence, especially given how Potter ate like a street urchin who didn't know where his next meal was coming from, he might have assumed Hermione was at the library. He felt a twinge of guilt as he imagined that there may have been some truth behind that statement. He did not imagine Petunia Dursley cared much for the boy at all.
She has other friends now, she might be with them... A theory disproven when he saw Luna Lovegood skipping out of the hall clutching a copy of the Quibbler to her chest. He later found O'Malley, skulking out of the hall alone, trying to avoid the gaze of his peers. So she had to be with Potter and Weasley. He'd have to go look for her. This was going to be a normal year, no monsters, no dark wizards, Hermione would be fine...If she's missing from the feast again next year, I'm immediately leaving to look for her...I should have this time...No, Hermione is fine, she's fine.
He and the other professors followed the mass of chittering students up the stairs to make their way to their perspective living quarters. When his assertion that everything was fine was proven wrong.
"HERMIONE!" Potter and Weasley's voices shouted with urgency.
Severus's heart started beating in his ears rather than his chest, and he found himself clutching his wand in a deathgrip as he charged up the stairs. Silence ended the chatter, the only other voices he heard were that of gasps. He needed to know what caused that, which drove him to push his way through students picturing her injured or worse. 'I'll have something for you tonight' ...Oh, no, love, what were you writing on?
Draco Malfoy's voice was the next he heard shouting "Enemies of the heir beware, you'll be next mudbloods!"
Malfoy, you little shit! Did he somehow find out Hermione wasn't his biological child and attack her? If he harmed her in anyway...
"You vile little monsters! What have you done!" Filched cried.
Severus finally broke through the crowd to see Hermione on her hands and knees in about ten or twelve centimetres of water, her body shaking while the bewildered boys looked from a very red and shaking Filch, to a pink smirking Malfoy, to Hermione, to the wall. He knelt next to Hermione, and noticed that she had simply been sick, not cursed or injured. Staying by her side, he looked at the wall and suddenly everything made sense.
In large capital letters he read the grim warning that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. It was written in blood, specifically the blood of a petrified skeletal grey cat, Filch's cat.
"I'll kill you!" Filch hissed at Potter. "I'll-"
"You'll do no such thing!" McGonagall snapped. "What on earth happened here?"
"They-" Filch pointed to the boys and Hermione. "killed Mrs. Norris!"
"Are you fucking serious, Filch?!" Severus snapped gesturing toward his daughter. "Does this seem like the reaction of a guilty party?"
"Severus," McGonagall hissed. "The students."
"I know he did it!" Filch jabbed a finger at Potter.
"Doubtful. That would require Potter to know some incredibly powerful magic, and that would require him to be inclined to pick up a book once in a while." Severus turned his attention to Hermione. "Can you hear me?"
Hermione nodded, still supporting herself on shaking limbs. She didn't seem to trust herself to speak, perhaps either afraid she'd be sick again or start crying. She wasn't particularly fond of the miserable cat, but he recognized that she had been there since Hermione could remember, and that had to have some effect on the poor girl. He lifted her from the flooded floor and cradled the girl in his arms, her eyes now transfixed on the cat.
"I'm telling you he did it!" Filch cried.
"Innocent until proven guilty, Argus," Dumbledore said coming through the crowd.
"But, headmaster!"
"Perhaps we should conduct this conversation in private?" Dumbledore suggested.
"My office is closest," Lockhart offered with an irrationally calm smile.
"Thank you, Gilderoy," Dumbledore nodded. "Come along."
"Do you need the hospital?" he whispered. "You're freezing."
"No," she said in a detached voice, her eyes on Dumbledore removing the cat. "I can walk."
She hadn't been able to peel herself off the floor moments before, but as he reluctantly set her back on her feet, she stood as solidly as she had earlier that day. True to her word, she could walk just fine, though she had indulged her nasty habit of digging her nails into her hands as they made their way to Lockhart's office. Once satisfied she wouldn't collapse, he caught up to McGonagall and Dumbledore. Filch had still been howling about Potter's guilt while Lockhart, looking very uncomfortable, tried to console him.
"Harry, Ron, Hermione," Dumbledore said upon their entry. "Why don't you take a seat?"
The three obeyed silent as the grave.
Severus, McGonagall and Dumbledore examined the cat while Lockhart asserted he knew what killed her. Severus closed the gash in her abdomen as he noticed it was still bleeding. The cat was alive.
"A very powerful hex indeed, old boy," Lockhart said. "It's too bad I wasn't there. Poor Mrs. Norris-"
"Is alive," Dumbledore said before he could. "She's been petrified."
Filch let out a sigh of relief, and Severus cast a glance to Hermione, Potter and Weasley. Two out of three looked surprised, while Hermione looked pensive, still very nervous and set to destroy her hands and lips, but she was now deep in thought nonetheless.
"Yes," Lockhart back-peddled. "As I said, petrified."
"I know he did it, Professors," Filch said, calmer, but tears still shone in his yellow eyes. "He knows. He figured out that I'm a-a squib."
"I don't think Harry cares about all that," Dumbledore said looking at Harry. "Do you?"
"I-erm-I don't even know what a squib is, sir," Potter admitted.
"It's a child born to two wizarding parents without magic," Weasley explained. "Like a muggle born but the other way around."
"That can happen?" Potter looked astonished and that should have sated Filch.
"I'm telling you," Filch insisted.
"That three second years could use a hex so powerful that I can't break it?" Dumbledore suggested. "Do you really think that's possible, Argus?"
Filch looked down ashamed.
"I might I suggest, Headmaster," Severus said casting a glance to Hermione and the boys.
The boys tensed up, but Hermione watched intently, as if hanging on to every syllable the five adults spoke, trying to piece something together, however, upon seeing his gaze waver she immediately owed her head, as if trying to avoid detection. At this stage he expected the three of them had more information than he and the other professors did, so Hermione would be sorely disappointed if she were looking for clues.
"That these three were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?" he continued.
Potter and Weasley exchanged bewildered looks but gave sighs of relief while Hermione's posture remained unchanged. He hadn't expected to ever be advocating for Potter's innocence, but he wanted the information that might save his daughter from suffering the cat's fate.
"However," he continued. "I don't recall seeing you three at the feast tonight. Why would that be?"
Hermione and the boys explained that they had been invited to Nicolas's Deathday party and left early due to the draining nature of ghostly functions. Suddenly, how he found Hermione, cold, shaking and pale, made sense. Between her decision that food and sleep were optional when she had a project to pursue, the energy of ghostly function and the shock of seeing the petrified cat and writing on the wall would not have combined in a helpful way.
"Without supper?" he mused. "I don't believe ghosts serve food suitable for living guests at their functions, or am I mistaken?"
"We weren't hungry," Weasley's stomach betrayed his lie with a comically timed gurgle.
Potter looked solemnly at Hermione, whispered "Sorry," before speaking. "Hermione wasn't feeling well, but insisted she just wanted to go to bed instead of the hospital. Nick even told me to only invite her if she felt up to it. We went with her to make sure she was fine, you know how frail she is."
Hermione's gaze left the floor to stare at Potter, this was apparently news to her, and the glare that followed on his last comment told him why Potter may not have chosen to disclose that part of the invitation. However, he felt something was missing, looking at the three only confirmed that, the nervous glances, Hermione's refusal to unclasp her hands, and something in Potter's eyes surveying the room. He was definitely hiding something, and both Hermione and Weasley were in on it.
"I'm aware of my daughter's condition, Potter!" Just don't ask me what it is. "I'm unconvinced you've been completely straightforward. I wonder if you are properly motivated to giving us the whole truth."
"We didn't do it!" Potter yelled.
"No one-" he looked at Filch "I am not accusing you of that which I don't believe you are remotely capable, Potter," he groaned. "But you are hiding something."
Dumbledore cut him off before he could suggest McGonagall threaten his Quidditch privileges looking quite irritated, though his voice spoke evenly. "Innocent until proven, guilty, Severus. Perhaps you three could do with a little sleep?"
He thought about recalling Hermione, but though he wasn't sure if Potter's early departure had anything to do with her, she didn't look well and he could pry in the morning. No danger should have been able to befall her in her dormitory.
"Harry," Dumbledore said as stood to leave. "Is there anything you wish to tell me? Anything at all?"
Potter hesitated, looking from Weasley to Hermione then making eye-contact with Dumbledore. "No, sir."
What a little liar...
"Very well, then," Dumbledore nodded, looking disappointed. "You three should go to bed."
"You know that boy was withholding information!" Severus hissed as they left the office.
"I do," Dumbledore sighed. "I was so hoping that Harry would trust me by now."
"You didn't exactly make it easy for them, did you?" McGonagall observed. " 'I'm aware of my daughter's condition, Potter. I wonder if you are properly motivated, Potter. You're hiding something' does any of that sound like the boy can expect fair treatment?"
"Fair?" he scoffed. "Life's not fair, and I doubt pretending it is is good for the boy's development at all. Or are you suggesting we coddle the boy?"
"Will you two give it a rest?" Dumbledore sighed. "And I would be careful who you accuse of over-sheltering, Severus. I don't believe Hermione is half as frail as you've convinced everyone in this castle, including yourself, she is."
"Excuse me?" he coughed. "I did not imagine my child's ailments!"
How many times had the girl nearly died on him? Hell, the first three years of her life were spent in and out of hospital, and several times what should have been a simple child's ailment came with severe complications. By time she was four, she nearly shook it, but she still nearly died, multiple times. Even now, she had a frail sickly disposition. Dumbledore was acting like Hermione's frailty was convenient for him. He didn't want Hermione to be sick...Though it does give you an excuse to hover over her, doesn't it?
The three traveled in silence, everyone content to leave the subject alone. Before Severus separated from the two at the staircase and pondered aloud:
"I wonder what sort of trouble those three will find themselves in next Hallowe'en?"