ccliv. a lonely elf
Hermione noticed two things as soon as Professor Snape distributed the schedules the following Monday morning: firstly, Harriet did not receive one, and secondly, Elara hid hers.
Normally, she wouldn't begrudge her friend her privacy—thoughts of her own third year pinging in her brain—but it seemed such an odd thing to do, and even odder that Harriet hadn't received one at all, and yet she seemed unmoved. It was curious.
"Where's your schedule?" Hermione asked the shorter witch, who had her head ducked over a bowl of porridge, shoveling spoonfuls into her mouth.
"Slytherin gave it to me already," she replied.
"Really? When? Friday evening? You never did mention what he wished to speak about."
For some reason, Harriet's face burned with color, and she appeared vaguely ill. Her spoon fell into her bowl with a splatter. "It was nothing important."
Hermione highly doubted that, but she stopped questioning her. Without prompting, Elara sighed, folded her schedule in half, and idly handed it to Hermione, who took care not to flash it toward anyone as she read it. Elara's free period had been replaced with a slot simply labeled "Dr. Lane."
That's the Menslumancer, isn't it? She had said he planned on continuing her therapy.
"That's—good," Hermione said, passing the folded schedule back. "It should be helpful, shouldn't it? You enjoyed it before the—well, before the snake appeared."
Elara hummed.
"Are you—? Will it be held here? Or—?"
"Here," she explained. "It was initially proposed I would go off-campus, but Professor Dumbledore feels it best at this time for students to stay at Hogwarts."
Hermione thought that decision was made for Elara's benefit, as Gaunt's motives against them were plainly devious, though she couldn't deny the Minister and his Guardians posed a danger to the rest of the student body as well. He'd already bucked tradition when he'd hindered the yearly migration back to the school, and Hermione imagined he'd do much more through his poorly dressed minion posing as an inspector.
She wondered what Terry would have thought about all this.
He would probably tell me to keep my nose out of it. Or, he simply wouldn't understand my obsession in tracking Gaunt's decisions. Terry existed on the other extreme of magical society's spectrum, and though his family hadn't been radicalized, they still lived outside the reality of Gaunt's empire. Those at the top of the social pyramid didn't often give thought to what it must be like to struggle at the bottom, and even if they did, they couldn't fully grasp their situation.
Thinking of Terry made Hermione miserable, anxious sweat warming her palms. She glanced toward the Ravenclaw table and found most of them perfectly unbothered, enjoying their breakfasts. Hermione guessed the death of one of their own wouldn't be devastating, considering most of them hadn't been familiar with Terry. If, for instance, Liam Godfrid, a Slytherin second-year, were to be murdered tomorrow, Hermione would be aggrieved, but life would continue as normal for the most part.
How terrible to consider what little impact they had upon one another.
Studying what should have been Terry's year showed a different story. The fifth-year Ravenclaws appeared more subdued, and Anthony Goldstein wasn't eating anything. He stared off into space.
At the High Table, several seats remained empty, almost as if the staff had declined to join the meal. Umbridge was there, stirring sugar into her tea, a superior sort of smile upon her wide face, secretive and knowing.
The flutter of wings turned heads as the morning post arrived, owls swooping down through the rafters. Harriet barely looked around as letters for her dropped to the table—and Hermione suffered a sudden, staggering burst of terror when she thought of what the general public might send her, but then she remembered the house-elves screened Harriet's post. She recognized the crisp, floral smell of Narcissa Malfoy's scented missive, and the aged, sharply folded envelope from the Flamels. She wasn't sure of the others.
The usual litany of patronizing replies from voting families arrived for Hermione. She gave them a glance, then sighed.
"Granger."
She hadn't noticed Draco coming up to stand behind her until he was actually there, most likely because he lacked his stocky bookends. Goyle and Crabbe didn't walk particularly loudly, but they took up space.
"Yes?" she said.
"You're prefect, aren't you? We're supposed to show the first-years to their classes."
"Oh," Hermione replied. It had entirely slipped her mind. Perhaps she should give Elara her badge back because, so far, she'd proven less than satisfactory as a prefect. It'd been a secret hope of hers for years—ever since she'd come to Hogwarts, with the greater dream being her matriculation into Head Girl. Of course, that was before she recognized the reality of being a student under a watered-down version of the Dark Lord.
Exhaling, she pushed back from her seat and followed Draco to the far end of the table, where the nervous first-years sat clustered like a mushroom colony growing on a log.
Draco pointed a lazy finger at the closest one, and the dark-skinned girl froze like a deer in headlights, her hair a halo of inky curls. "All right, you lot. What's your name, then?"
"K-Karis Warren."
It wasn't a pure-blood name—probably not even a half-blood name, but to Draco's credit, he didn't blink or pause to comment. Hermione relaxed a fraction, her fingers unfurling from her fists.
They went down the lines quickly from there—Clay Conifer and Eden Prince, Aura Plums, Gerard Umdir, Elbres Weld, Tamira al-Rais, Hyr Elbridge, and Aeden Wildgarden. Hermione correctly assumed Draco forgot their names almost as soon as they uttered them, but her memory was considerably keener, and she took a moment to study each face turned toward her with their big, lamp-like eyes so she could remember who they were.
"We'll be showing you to your classrooms," she explained. "First-years have a set schedule of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology, History of Magic, Astronomy, and Potions. We'll have to get a leg on if we're to show you everything before first period, so follow me this way."
Hermione started with the dungeons, expecting the new students would be most used to the area after settling in over the weekend. Draco heaved a low, bored sigh, one that sounded far too reminiscent of his father, following next to Hermione.
"Do you really intend for us to go all the way to the Astronomy Tower?"'
"Of course! The path getting there is terribly confusing, and they'll get lost if we don't show them the way!"
"Merlin forbid," he mocked, and when Hermione glared, he smirked, hands raised in supplication. "What? You know our prefects were awful in our first year. Getting lost did us some good."
"Well, perhaps," Hermione allowed with a begrudging shrug. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure the younger students were still with them. "But things aren't the same anymore, are they? I don't think it's…safe for them to be lost and wandering on their own. Not after—."
"You have a point," he interrupted, stopping Hermione before she had to utter Terry's name. She convulsively swallowed once, twice, then cleared her throat, blinking away the sting in her eyes. Draco carefully watched her. "You should watch out for yourself more this year."
"How so?"
"Umbridge won't be the only one Gaunt's influenced in the castle. I simply think it'd be smart to keep your wits about you." He paused. "And I guess Potter as well. The poor Azkaban inmates don't deserve having that cursed upon them again."
"Oh, har har." Hermione elbowed him in the ribs with enough strength to wind him. Draco wheezed.
"Only joking…."
They led their peers through the dungeons, showing them where they'd have Potions, and where they could find Professor Snape during his office hours. It wasn't until they started climbing back up toward the Charms passage that Hermione noted a few of the younger students kept glancing at her expectantly, looking painfully like Hermione herself when she was their age, eager to ask questions she didn't know how to phrase.
The first one to muster up the courage and approach her was Hyr Elbridge, a tall boy with a brilliant shock of blond hair atop his head. He blurted out what the others wanted to say after Hermione finished explaining the best bridge to take between Charms and Transfiguration.
"Are you really friends with Harriet Potter? The girl from the papers?" he inquired.
Hermione stiffened and stopped walking.
Not again. Not more people demeaning Harriet. They've only just arrived here—.
The tension Draco's easy chatter and a nice walk around Hogwarts had leached from her spine returned, causing Hermione to lift her nose into the air and stare down it toward the boy.
"Yes? What of it?" she demanded.
He and a thinner, fine-boned boy—Aeden Wildgarden—shared an anticipative look. A rosy-cheeked girl—Aura Plums—clasped her hands together and leaned forward to whisper, "Did she really fight You-Know-Who? That's what they've been saying!"
Wildgarden said, "My cousin said she dueled all the seventh-years and won!"
Hermione blinked. What?
Umdir, black-haired with eyes like the backs of shiny beetles, peered out from under the fringe of his bowl cut. "Can she really talk to snakes?"
"Flourish says she fought a dragon! That can't be real, can it?"
Hermione blinked again. What?!
"You're an idiot, Conifer. He said she saved him from a dragon!"
"How else you gonna save someone from a dragon if you're not fighting it? That's the truth, innit?"
"Can she truly cast a Patronus?"
"What's that, then?"
"It's really difficult magic!"
"My uncle in the Wizengamot says she defeated a whole lot of Death Eaters—."
"—that she dueled You-Know-Who—."
"—youngest apprentice Hogwarts has ever seen—."
"—used to be the best Seeker the House has seen—."
"—outran a werewolf—."
"—fought a basilisk—."
A gentle tug on her sleeve turned Hermione's attention downward toward her side. The Muggle-born, Karis Warren, who'd so far had no comment on Harriet, asked, "Is it true she'll help with any class?" she inquired. "That she'll help anyone?"
That was a question Hermione had an easy answer for. "Yes," she replied. "She'll give help to anyone, so long as you ask."
xXx
It had never occurred to Hermione that, while she unsubtly plotted the downfall of their Minister for Magic and he picked away at Harriet's peace of mind, others would inevitably start championing Harriet's cause.
She wasn't like Hermione or Elara, the former too brusque and socially inept, the latter cold and unapproachable. Harriet touched people's lives like a summer breeze: warm, brief, missed. Yes, she could be loud and brash and sometimes uncouth, but she was always very thoughtful, always reaching out to congratulate people on their successes or to encourage them after a loss. She remembered birthdays or seemingly tiny, unnecessary facts Hermione couldn't be bothered with, but remembering these things helped Harriet make people feel seen. People liked her, and what Hermione hadn't counted on was these people hearing the slander against Harriet and not only rejecting the rubbish, but actively working against it.
Coming face-to-face with evidence of Harriet's mystifying popularity fairly boggled the mind.
She spent much of her afternoon considering this, barely taking in the words of her professors as they extolled the importance of passing their O. at the year's end. Naturally, Hermione had already started on the material and had her notes bound in a color-coded binder—but the urgency failed to grip her in the same manner it would have only months prior. O. did not seem important in the grander scheme of things.
She still wished to be the best she could be, to reach impossible milestones and prove there was no such thing as too much of a witch, and yet, Terry's death, Harriet's brief imprisonment, and the general lack of apathy in their country's voting body tarnished Hermione's enthusiasm. It made sinking into nihilism more appealing. What was the point in all she did—in being prefect, in passing O. , in writing pleading letters—if she would only ever amount to being a Mudblood in the eyes of her peers? What was the point in trying?
Of course, that was silly nonsense. Rome was not built in a day, as the Muggles said, and though Hermione's efforts hadn't reaped much so far, she knew they would. The world was yet full of surprises—surprises like a gaggle of incumbent first-years brimming with stories about her best friend, told to them by cousins and uncles, brothers and sisters, dormmates and neighbors, all of whom had nothing but good things to say about Harriet Potter. There was still hope, no matter Hermione's own difficulties persuading members of the Wizengamot to see it.
In a strange twist of fate, an unexpected windfall fell into her lap that very night.
Curfew had only just passed, and as such, it was time for the fifth-year prefects of their respective Houses to do their rounds before the sixth-years could take over. The seventh-years would finish out the evening, and only professors or the Head Boy or Girl were allowed beyond their common room after a certain hour.
Hogwarts had a sprawling—and frankly confusing—system of dungeons and sub-basements delving beneath the earth. The Hufflepuffs covered a third of it, the Slytherins a second third, and the final third was too dangerous or remote for anyone but Professors Snape or Slytherin to bother with. Hermione and Draco divvied their part of the area between them, not expecting to find anyone wandering on their own, especially not so early in the year and not when Slytherin's spell over the common room's entrance. He caught more errant students that way than any prefect ever would, but there was always the chance of a new Hufflepuff getting lost. Hermione wanted to ensure everyone found their way to their beds, especially with the likes of Umbridge on the prowl.
She paced a tad farther into the dungeons than she should have, muddled by her own tangled thoughts about the troublesome Wizengamot and Gaunt's aggravating interference. Her mind continued an inexorable loop wherein it kept cycling back to Lucius Malfoy and everything he'd said about the Ministry. He'd continued to scoff at her attempts to contact and convince members of the Wizengamot to vote against Gaunt in the coming election. He spent much of his time at Grimmauld deriding her choices and nitpicking her decisions.
"You have no leverage," he'd told her. "You're appealing to morals no one has the luxury of entertaining. Only children act in the name of what is good, because they do not comprehend all it is they stand to lose. You will need something else."
"You mean blackmail."
"That is exactly what I mean."
Hermione understood that. She did. But, even in trying to point out simple logical fallacies in their continued support of their asinine Minister, Hermione had been rebuffed, ignored, and ridiculed for doing nothing more than trying to highlight their misconceptions. These people thought giving in to Gaunt kept their families safe, and it did not.
"You have no leverage."
And no means of getting it.
She sighed aloud as she walked, footsteps scuffing in the almost pitch-black corridor. At this point, Hermione realized she'd gone too far, and she stopped at the next brazier to use the light offered to find her Atlas. A negligent flick of her wand opened it, blue light painting her face as she followed the map back toward familiar passages.
She'd nearly reached Hufflepuff territory when movement encroaching on her little dot piqued her attention. Hermione squinted, adjusting her grip—and almost dropped her Atlas when she recognized the names Accipto Lestrange and Mallory Vuharith headed in her direction.
They're not meant to be out! Hermione thought, nearly colliding with the wall in her rush to turn and rush in the other direction. Vuharith was their seventh-year prefect—and a terrible one at that, while Accipto had no excuse at all to be outside the common room when Cengor Pendarves was meant to be Vuharith's patrolling partner. Both should have been sequestered by the hearth in the Slytherin dorms.
Hermione had no desire to run into Lestrange alone.
Unfortunately, the final passage through the Hufflepuff side of the dungeons that Hermione and the two seventh-years needed to pass through was exceptionally long, and Lestrange would definitely see her. Hermione bit her lip as she drew short, inspecting the corridor for somewhere she could slip through or hide until they went past. Portraits covered the wall—almost all of them food-related. A familiar image of a fruit bowl with a ticklish pear caught her attention, and Hermione dashed for it.
A dozen house-elf heads swiveled toward the entrance. Hermione stopped and grasped for the back of the portrait to ensure it closed, not willing to risk getting into a confrontation with Lestrange in front of the elves. He would not hesitate to hurt them. He might do it for fun.
Breathless, Hermione leaned against the portrait's back and stared at the Atlas. Slowly, those two dots labeled Accipto and Mallory meandered closer.
What are they even doing? Hermione wondered. Then, she added for herself: No, I don't want to know.
"Miss Herme-ninny!"
Her heart made a valiant attempt to escape her throat when a tiny body collided with her knees, bulbous green eyes peering up at her.
"Dobby!" Hermione breathed. "Be quiet for a moment, please!"
"Of course, Miss Herme-ninny!"
Bracing herself, Hermione pushed her weight a little more firmly into the portrait, and it edged open an inch or so, letting in a gasp of colder, wetter air from the dungeon corridor beyond. Lestrange and Vuharith appeared as little more than shadowy smudges at first, but at the last moment, they crossed into the light outside the kitchen portrait, revealing Vuharith's mussed clothes and Lestrange's distant, closed expression. Even from a distance, their faces looked strange.
Potions, Hermione recalled, her eyes narrowing. Lestrange and his friends use illegal potions in the dungeons.
Gold glinted on his lapel, an eye encircled by a serpent pinned in place and polished to a shine.
"Umbridge won't be the only one Gaunt's influenced in the castle."
The top of a hat tickled under Hermione's chin as Dobby joined her at the portrait's opening, peeking into the corridor. She nudged him back, and shut it. She reverted the Atlas and slipped it into a pocket.
"Mr. Lestrange is a bad boy," Dobby imparted with a disappointed shake of his head. He had on several hats, and the topmost one jostled, threatening to fall. "He is doing things Headmaster Dumbly-dore would not approve of, no no."
Hermione thought that was putting it lightly. "Hm. You know, elves could make incredible spies. You can get into a room unseen, unheard. Can't you follow him around?" she asked. It occurred to her the house-elves moved through Hogwarts invisible, unnoticed, and could serve as an unrivaled surveillance system. "You could catch him when he's, ah, misbehaving? You could report him to the Headmaster."
"Oh, no, Miss!" Dobby squeaked. "House-elves is not to be telling stories on students, no, no! Students be needing their privacy. The things we knowing about them is not for us to go tattling."
"I guess that's true, and probably for the best," she acknowledged. After all, what would then stop Lestrange from having an elf follow her around? Or Harriet, or Elara? Not that Hermione believed he would consider the poor creatures. He suffered from the obnoxious pure-blood behavior of regarding the house-elves as moving furniture.
Dobby ushered Hermione into the kitchens, and elves plied her with cakes, sweets, and evening tea, promising her it was no bother or extra work. Hermione didn't fully believe them but dutifully thanked them for everything they placed before her. Dobby hummed a ditty as he helped fold snacks into napkins and placed them in a basket to be shared in the common room.
As she tucked in and sipped her chamomile tea, Hermione looked over the kitchen—lips pursed, forcing herself not to comment on the livelihood of the elves. In her inspection, she studied the main hearth, a massive structure equipped with ancient racks meant for bubbling pots or huge spits, leaving enough room for a grown man to pass through the Floo if needed. There, Hermione saw an elf huddled upon a tiny stool, surrounded by empty amber bottles.
"Dobby?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss Herme-ninny?"
"Who is that there?"
Dobby paused in his preparations to see who Hermione meant, and when he spotted the elf in question, his ears drooped.
"That's Winky, Miss. This is being her first year at Hogwarts."
"Oh? I didn't know a new elf had moved in. She looks…sad. Is she all right?"
He nodded as his long, skinny fingers fidgeted with a napkin. "Winky is being employed here after she is losing her family." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "The Crouches weren't being good wizards, Miss Herme-ninny. Dobby is thinking she is better off here!"
It hadn't occurred to Hermione to think about what happened to the Crouch family's assets after their extinction, no matter how it sickened her to acknowledge that house-elves were legally considered assets. She knew from her research that Hogwarts often opened itself to elves who'd lost their homes for one reason or another—even elves who'd once served a Death Eater and a corrupt government official.
"She is being sad because her Mr. Barty is gone, but Dobby is glad he's not here." Dobby slipped another sandwich into the basket, frowning. "Mr. Barty is being a bad wizard who hurt Miss Herme-ninny's friend Harry Potter. Dobby is liking Harry Potter very much. She is being a very brave witch."
"He was a very bad man," Hermione agreed, grimacing. "And Harriet is brave, yes. But, I imagine that doesn't matter much to Winky."
"Winky is missing having a family. She is feeling sad without a task." Dobby peered up into Hermione's face. "Not many elves is being like Dobby, wanting work, wanting to be free. Winky is lost without her family and drinks too much Butterbeer."
"Butterbeer?" Hermione peered at the elf again, realizing she was swaying ever so slightly. "But Butterbeer barely has more than a drop of alcohol in it."
"It is being enough for elves, Miss Herme-ninny."
He hopped off the bench and away from the table, nattering about finding a thermos for some hot chocolate Hermione could bring to her friends. As he went, Hermione finished her tea, and she studied the miserable little elf sitting by the fire.
Her thoughts continued to spiral and thump in her head like a boggart in a locked trunk.
"I told you how terribly naive you are. For Merlin's sake, girl."
Hermione gazed at the tea dregs spotting the bottom of her cup.
"Consider everything and everyone you love. If you aren't prepared to see them taken from you, you are not comprehending what it is Gaunt will take from you."
"I don't know what they've been telling you, darling, but we are not leaving England without you. If you want us to leave, you're coming with us."
She set the tea aside. Lucius Malfoy had no idea what Hermione was willing to give, what she was willing to lose. She was not naive.
"You have no leverage."
Swallowing her nerves, Hermione stood and carefully stepped from behind the bench, skirting the table. She left the basket for the moment to instead approach the hearth, the heat of the banked fire falling over her as she knelt at Winky's side. Bulbous, teary eyes turned in Hermione's direction.
"You know, elves could make incredible spies."
Lucius Malfoy's gray eyes glittered in the light of Grimmauld's grim parlor. "You have no leverage."
Hermione glowered in response. "You mean blackmail."
"That is exactly what I mean."
"Hello, Winky," Hermione said. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
She blinked, rubbed at her runny nose, and nodded. "Yes, Missy."
"I was hoping you'd be open to doing me a series of favors. I would pay you, if you'd like—." Winky's face scrunched, her breath hitching on a sob, and Hermione rushed to continue. "But if you…you don't want that, I promise—no, I swear—I will help you find a new family. I will do everything in my power to see you get what you want and need. I really will. Are you willing to help me?"
Gazing at her, Winky's eyes widened with hope.
A/N: Random note, September 1st in 1995 was a Friday, so I'm head-canoning they had a weekend of doing nothing but puttering about the common room or attending seminars.
Hermione: *has close encounter with the Potter fan club*
Hermione: "…."
Hermione: "Harriet, when did you become the next incarnation of Merlin and why didn't I notice?"