Author's Note:
Next chapter in two weeks because I don't want to lose the momentum for this part. The end of the Second Arc is like pulling teeth. I'm not satisfied with whatever I'm writing. Let's hope I'll get past this annoying hump soon.
'-
55 Les explosions à l'école I
Dexter is in the infirmary visiting Hermione once more—he's starting to get tired of this crap too. Hermione in a Hogwarts Corridor. Several unfavourable encounters. The prefects are very not amused at the state of things. Orion is very proud of himself. Alphard has the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. The week unfolds at a measured pace. Philippe has Plans.
'-
Hermione had relented to Nurse Edelstein's persuasion that it's better for her to stay in the infirmary overnight. What was one more day to her?
At the very least, she had Blackbeard with her and was thus less bored than usual. An unexpected brunette also dropped in to visit, sometime after the great hall's supper schedule. At first, she only stepped a little past the doorway and awkwardly looking around there.
Hermione waved at her from her bed. "Julia! Over here!"
"Ah, there you are!" Julia waved back. What had been unexpected was the book bag the prefect carried with her.
Julia took pains to drop in with most of Hermione's homework. Not that the sixth-year didn't stay over for around an hour, sheepish expression and her own arithmancy homework in tow. Since Hermione had some arithmancy stuff she needed to go over as well, she only smiled with amusement and welcomed her to take a seat next to the bed. The amused smile resurfaced again and again every time Julia tried to convince her to move up to Advanced Arithmancy II. It seemed that other Ravenclaw just couldn't help trying even if she knew the odds of success were small.
'-
Sunday morning brought an unexpected surprise.
Hermione hadn't gone far into the arithmancy chapter she was reading when the infirmary door opened. The familiar thud of the door being closed caught her attention and she looked up.
It was her Head of House who was making his way through the infirmary. Without anyone else in the beds, it was hard to doubt who he was visiting.
"Professor Dexter?" The surprise was clear in her voice.
He brandished a fruit basket in front of him, almost like a shield.
"There's grapes and I think almost all berries I know is here, and probably several more I don't even know," he began. Her baffled expression hadn't changed much. He was scrutinising her with an intensity that was worrying, only to cough sheepishly when Hermione met his gaze and raised a pointed eyebrow. She thought the shadows under his eyes looked even darker today.
"Thanks for the fruits, Professor, but you really don't need to do this. I'll probably be out today."
"I'm glad that you don't seem to suffer from anything too severe. Phyllida, Albus and Horace had been worried too—she insisted that I carry all this. It's from Hogwarts's greenhouses." He placed the basket on the side table to her right with the explanation. Her inner Daphne was already making a mental note to send all of them thank you cards.
She couldn't help feeling awkward at the attention, though. Four heads of houses? What had she done to deserve it? Her hands fiddled with her cuffs.
"Um, I'm fine? Really, Professor—"
"Albus spoke with Nurse Edelstein," Dexter spoke casually as he stepped to the other side of the bed, his attention caught by the yellow and white flowers in their vase (Tom brought them earlier this morning—who else?). He was still gazing at it as he spoke. "Did you know that as a master in transfiguration and alchemy, he has a rather solid grounding in pathology?"
"Ah, no. I have no idea."
"He enlightened me on what a dementor actually does to people."
Hermione nodded at that and tried to head off his possible concern.
"Oh, yes. I was happy to stuff myself with food once I woke up. Not that the nurses hadn't done that to me before, but that was it, really."
He turned his head to look at her, his smile somehow looking sad. "But your condition could've easily been worse than what most people suffer, isn't it? Much worse."
She didn't exactly know what to say and lowered her gaze instead. Just how much Dumbledore knew, and what had he said to Dexter? There was that melancholic edge to him right now that reminded her of Remus.
"I know I could survive worse, Professor. Don't worry, I'll live."
The words were not the slightest bit cheerful, but what remains of her old memories was all she had to go on. She had survived worse. To her chagrin, his shoulders actually sagged at that.
"Yet you shouldn't have. That you had to experience all this showed just how much I had faltered as your Head of House—"
"Professor!"
"—for that I'm truly sorry."
"It wasn't your fault!" Hermione had snapped out before she knew it.
She bit her lip, but he smiled instead, a light chuckle escaping for a moment. It had all the warmth of a lifegiving star once more, instead of the faded embers of a dying sun. He kindly patted her arm, but the shadow that had hung in his eyes before were still there.
"You're still young. You'll have a different opinion once you're the head of your own house, Hermione. To tell the truth, I'm not here to flog that dead horse. I'm here to assure you that it would never happen again."
"We don't know what the future holds." The brunette disagreed before she could help it.
It wasn't that she enjoyed being contrary, but she always had a problem when people avoided the truth with her. She preferred to know even when the reality was unpleasant.
"Oh, I know." He seemed genuinely amused now as he glanced sideways, to her surprise. "I'm aware of how much the future escapes us, considering what I can and cannot read from the heavens."
Hermione's cheeks warmed. How could she have forgotten his field? She walked right into that one, didn't she?
"But we can make plans and do our best. I'm here to promise you that that man will never trouble you again."
He turned to face her completely now, the flowers easily put aside. She saw that regardless of his pallor, his slightly disordered braid, his eyes were clear. There was a hard, crystalline focus in them.
"He's an Auror," she stated.
"I know. It does not mean that I cannot report him, detail his mistakes and his prejudice. Had the situation deteriorated farther, if he brought those creatures too near after leaving you for too long…you could have lost your life in that room."
His voice was soft but it carried the weight of worlds.
Dexter's expression reminded her of the time she saw him when she lifted the Sorting Hat from her head. He was so proud then, beaming at every other professor who lost out to him with such a bright cheer that it could easily grate to his colleagues. He was clearly less joyful now, but his gaze was just as deep. She'd realised now that he truly considered her as part of his flock.
"It might not be immediate, but I do have friends in the Ministry who could point me to the right channels to go through as well as all the possible papers required. Albus has people he knows too. I'm sure between the two of us, Blakeshaw would never see anything more than the top of a desk as long as he is an Auror."
One of these days, Hermione thought, she really needed to find out what the background of every other Hogwarts staff was. Right now, all she wanted to do was smile.
"Thank you."
He shook his head. "It's no problem at all. Of course, I'd prefer that he is nowhere near the DMLE anymore, but we both know how the world works for purebloods and those with more admixture in their ancestry. Better to not hope at all and be slightly surprised if things turn out well than hold excessive expectations—only to be disappointed when they're dashed."
It was then that Hermione thought she hadn't been completely right. The shadows in his eyes weren't just regret or guilt—the was protective streak in him hid a rather sharp edge.
Another Hogwarts student would be grateful and happy. Hermione, however, had her flashes of memories. Glimpses of several new, bright-eyed Unspeakables she had guided, however limited. The bright feeling of having imparted a particular skill or magical theory into someone else, to be part of a long chain of knowledge—of masters and apprentices, teachers and students—that stretched back to Dee, to Paracelsus, to Morgana and to Merlin. It gave her a partial insight, a notion she wanted to confirm with him.
"Professor Dexter?"
"Yes?"
"I know this is rather unconnected, but I'm just, um, curious? If you don't mind indulging my curiosity a little?"
She could see the corner of his lips rising a little. "What do you want to ask about?"
"Do you have any children?"
"Why do you ask?" He asked back, but his smile was wider.
"It's hard to describe. It's just…a feeling? I have this passing feeling. I'm sometimes reminded of my father when we talk—like just now." Hermione shook her head to head his concern off. "No, don't worry, it's not such a bad thing. I don't cry every time I remember my parents."
Her tone was a little dry in the end.
It was true—she simply didn't tell him the whole truth. Impressions of her parents only come fleetingly and gave her a feeling of fondness; the memories of her youth were more well preserved than the latter years. What she certainly didn't want to mention was how the parts of their interactions echoed hers with the younger Unspeakables she'd mentored for who knows how brief. Asking out loud about who exactly have become his apprentices and what specialisations they took was an even nosier question.
"I just…wanted to know, I guess." She finished lamely.
"I have three daughters and two sons," Dexter answered with much more ease than she expected. "They've all grown up, of course. The few grandkids I already have are cute ankle-biters, but I can't get them to argue about astronomy yet. In the meantime, I have the entire Ravenclaw House to watch over."
He tapped her temple lightly when she didn't answer for a while, surprised and a little carried away in thinking. Dexter, having passed on the assurance he wanted to give her, said his goodbye soon enough and reminded her to have enough rest.
"Take care of yourself, Hermione."
"Of course, Professor. See you in class soon."
Hermione smiled was more relaxed now that her guess was proven to be at least partly correct.
The brunette still couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Dexter had grandkids. He didn't look at all like a grandfather. Even if he had kids, she'd thought that they would be in the younger years in Hogwarts. She was reminded yet again of how magic altered the flow of age for people of the wizarding world compared to the non-magicals.
She shook her head again. Grandkids. Who would have thought?
'-
Hermione did not really understand why most Hogwarts students seem to underestimate Care of Magical Creatures—you'd never know when you need to escape from a particular location with only a rare magical creature nearby to assist you. Knowing how to show that you mean them no harm and just wish for a ride out is of utmost importance.
Yet as Harry had once put it to her, "Hermione, not everyone spends their spare time trying to come up with 1001 bizarre and obscure situation you need to escape from and how to overcome it."
"How long have you been here, again? More than a day? Time to pack up and go home, Hermione. You won't be able to make heads or tails of mysteries without enough rest." He had said.
She had finally figured out sometime after the War that not everyone was as intensely curious as she was, or whose worry turned into a boundless drive to prepare. And that was fine, really.
(Her memory could recall that particular scene well.
"And what about you, Harry? What are those red and yellow books you're carrying?" Hermione asked back, "I'm not the one who keeps sneaking into the DMLE archives to bring home case reports from more than a century ago."
She had just realised that her office, deep inside the Department of Mysteries, was in no way near his. There was another reason he'd be passing by—
"Heck, did you just walk out of our classified cases directory?"
Harry shrugged without guilt even as she gave him the stink eye. He had made no effort to hide the bound reports he had parked at her table momentarily.
"I'll return them once I'm done, I promise Hermione. I like to stay alive. I want everyone to stay alive. I also like to find more ways to screw up the possible plans of anyone trying to kill us."
"You're doing almost the same thing as I do!"
He grinned. It was rather roguish when combined with his eyepatch "I didn't say I was good at following my own advice.")
This was why she was walking down Hogwarts corridor on Monday morning with her nose buried deep in a supplemental tome.
It was a book she'd found only because it was listed on the bibliography of their textbook. All of this was part of her effort to pack even more information about thestrals into her head. Yes, she knew there was a less-used rule of Hogwarts that forbid students from reading while walking, and she could even give you its precise number. Yet she considered that rule mutable since she'd honed her peripheral awareness for years.
She was half-muttering things as she walked, "…the lack of thestral presence in warm climes has led some people to conclude that they dislike the tropics and anywhere not temperate in clime. This is not true, as there has been sightings of them traversing deserts at night as recent as the memoirs of the wizards undercover in Napoleon's army can tell us. There are also reports from…"
Hermione sidestepped left, her wand swished out in condensed movements. A shield sprung up to her right. Lime green and orange sparks crashed on it and fizzled away.
"Written records of this can be found as far back—"
Wand lowered down and the shield flickered out. The same quick movements again and another shield was raised to her left.
"—as Hecataeus of Miletus' notes on the monsters and wondrous creatures of Egypt, not too far from his description of the Firebird of Sun City—"
The hairs on the back of almost all her skin tingled. She ducked with annoyance, casting Protego Maxima as she did so. A transparent dome—visible only from its occasional shimmer—covered her now. Her left hand closed the book with a loud slam as she turned around to see what had been such a bother.
"Alright, who had been casting in my direction just now?"
It was younger students from a variety of houses, mostly Hufflepuff and…Slytherin? That was unusual. They had frozen at the strict tone she'd just used, in various attacking poses (most of them had their wand out and was aiming at some other student).
"Well? None of you will tell me, then?" She raised her voice slightly.
A few of them shuffled their feet.
"Milliphutt sent the flock of sparrows towards you." A sharp-nosed Slytherin said this calmly, with only the slightest smirk on her face. She cocked her head towards a witch with Hufflepuff tie.
"I didn't! I was sending them to you!" The Hufflepuff hotly denied.
Another young Slytherin smiled wider at the self-incrimination; it was as sharp as Daphne's, sending an unexpected jolt of familiarity through Hermione.
"Yes, you were only attacking us, weren't you?" The second witch drawled.
The accusations, counter-accusations as well as unthinking words started to flow out as the younger students tried to deflect the blame, excuse themselves or drag someone else down.
The Ravenclaw sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Hermione could just warn them to never disturb her after chewing them off. It would be enough once she'd managed to put the fear of her into them. Yet the prefects would have to face the same problem again if they haven't learned the lesson yet and get into another scuffle somewhere else.
She can't exactly ignore that—her sense of responsibility wouldn't allow her. Hermione took a deep breath and approached them.
"Give me all your names. Yes, all of you, starting from the wizard trying to slink away near the suit of armour. After that, each house is going to choose one student to represent them, and they're going to come with me to the nearest prefect." Hermione said.
"We were only playing," one of them blurted out.
"Well, just tell that to the prefects then. I'm sure you'd have no problem with that, right?"
Little did she realise that it would not be the last of such ruckus that she encountered that week.
'-
The younger students glaring at each other across hallways and the mutterings were something Hermione barely noticed on Monday, the first scuffle she had to break up notwithstanding. She was too busy with either her Care for Magical Creatures reading or the beginnings of her arithmantic calculations. It wasn't as if Hogwarts was a stranger to inter-house tension and rivalry. The school was rife with it the first time she went and she wasn't surprised that it also had this problem in the 1940s.
The problems of her time must have roots within this period too.
Come Tuesday, she had to break up several more arguments and fights as she made her way around Hogwarts. Usually, where a loud 'stop' fail to get them to disengage, a determined witch between them who had cast a large dome of Protego Maxima would do the job. With her and her shield right in the middle of them, they can't exactly continue the fight either.
She felt responsible enough to march them yet again to the nearest prefect afterwards instead of just telling them to scatter—it must be old memories of being a prefect that got her. If they went willingly, good. If they tried to run, she'd just wrap them in ropes and float them in front of her until she found the nearest prefect.
On Monday, that had been the nice Ethel Macmillan, who thanked her effusively for her help, to Hermione's confusion. On Tuesday, one of the closest prefects she'd found was Andrew and Amelia during the evening, who were both kind and professional in taking over the remaining children. The prefect she met on Wednesday afternoon was Alvis Boot. He had an air of faint disapproval, even if his words were still polite.
"I see." He said.
The fifth-year stared the younger kids down severely that they started to fidget. He didn't say anything else even as awkwardness began to stretch.
"Err, and?" Hermione asked.
"They will be dealt with." He said slowly, still with that severe expression. "You may go."
With that, he turned around and seemed to have stopped accounting for her whereabouts altogether. Hermione gave up and left.
She might've thought it was reserved for the kids she was herding, but he had this way of looking down his nose that she couldn't chalk up to a native surliness (she swore Terry wasn't as much of a stick-in-the-mud as his grandfather or father seemed to be). Hermione may have slightly regretted not going along with Tom to ADADA class. At least he would've been able to interact with the other prefects better.
The arguments and fights had really exploded in the last day or so among the lower years, after the simmering tension earlier. On Thursday, she was now more careful in where she walked—she kept herself to one side of any hallways to prevent accidental or not-so-accidental crashes. It did not matter if, like now, she was in one of the wider hallways.
Then, she saw that long mane of sleek blond hair entering on the other end.
Ah, what's-her-name, the Head Stooge.
The Ravenclaw only glanced once to ensure that yes, she did get the witch's identity right, before continuing to read the arithmancy book she was checking.
(She knew it was silly, but a part of the old student Hermione felt positively reckless for breaking the rules. Look at Hermione, reading while walking! Someone, stop her!)
Hermione thought that seeing her friends getting beaten would've made this particular Slytherin heiress more careful. Apparently not. She'd just registered the invasion into her personal space, but the distance was already too close for her to avoid the impact.
That was how Hermione crashed into the Slytherin witch.
BANG!
She staggered, but with her well-practised footwork and boots to stabilise her footing, she stood upright once more after bracing herself with the crash. She supposed she can throw herself sideways so the other witch (what was her name again?) would escape unscathed even as Hermione stumbled against the wall. But why would she take such pains to save the twit from a crash of her own making?
Hermione might still care about saving the world; it didn't mean she was a pushover.
Some quick juggling had been necessary to prevent her arithmancy tome from falling, but that was it. Even her book bag was still slung over her shoulder. In contrast, her counterpart was sprawled on the floor with a disbelieving expression, her bag on the floor with at least a book or two spilled.
She didn't give a damn about what the blonde thought.
"Are you alright?" Hermione asked. Sure, her tone was too flat to perfectly convey sympathy, but she tried.
"Are you out of your mind?" The Slytherin snapped.
There goes all my sympathy. Her expression didn't change at hearing that.
"Excuse me?"
"You did that on purpose!"
"I was walking on purpose. On this side. If you still happen to crash into me when you can see me coming some distance away, well, I don't think I know of any potion that can help with your sense of balance and direction." She said blandly.
"You didn't avoid me, on purpose! That's just so rough and déclassée of you."
"You didn't avoid me either, so I suppose we're even there."
Her answer still seemed to be not what the blonde wanted or even expected. There was this odd expression of disappointment that was at odds with her pretty face, her rosy lips stuck in a moue. She kept staring at her as if she was expecting more…more of whatever it was. Hermione had no idea what the other witch was aiming for and she wasn't inclined to fulfil her unknown imaginings.
"I thought I could be generous to you, to give you the opportunity to start anew," she began.
Uh, what?
"To make amends, and then you can start your work life with a clean slate." The witch pointed at Hermione with a pearly lavender nail.
Hermione was half-tempted to ask her if she was high. It was what she would do if she happened to bump into any of the people Harry or Ron had dragged in for flying while under the influence.
"Thanks, but no thanks." Hermione chirped.
This time, she was sarcastic even as she smiled.
The blonde narrowed her eyes as she picked herself up.
"You—" she cut herself off with a shake of her head. "Never mind. I thought I can be liberal to you, on account of Tom. Well, I tried. He can't blame me if you fail to get any job after Hogwarts."
With a toss of her head and shiny mane of hair, she walked away in a huff.
Hermione merely shook her head in confusion. What was that about?
'-
"Do you know any nice spots to bring a girl to in Hogwarts?"
Melchior asked Tom this question on Tuesday, during Advanced Charms. As Hermione usually sat with her dormmates in that class, the Nott heir was free to monopolise Tom's attention then.
"I find it hard to believe that you don't have your preferred dating spots." Tom answered, "the ladies in general love you, Melchior."
The phrase would have been a salute from anyone else, a congratulatory remark. On the other hand, Tom had his way of tilting his tone just the slightest bit that gave a hint of something else to those paying attention.
Melchior sighed.
"Yes, well, I want to know the places you find interesting. It's not guaranteed to match with the places I favour, is it? And you know I'm looking for something outside my usual repertoire."
"I suppose I should congratulate the lucky lady, then." He said, unusually friendly.
That only made Melchior groan. "Tom, please. I need a place that is a good date material without going out to eat at Hogsmeade or London. I need a place in Hogwarts."
He tapped a finger at his chin for a moment. "Alright, let me think about it."
Tom eliminated the greenhouse immediately, as he was not looking forward to sharing the place with anyone else. The astronomy tower was one possibility, but a number of people already knew about it. One cannot say it was particularly unique.
"Try the Hogwarts kitchen. The house elfs actually provide tables for anyone who visits the kitchens and wishes to eat there. The dishes they're prepared to serve are also more adventurous than the ones that end up at the house tables." Tom finally answered.
Melchior perked up. "Truly?"
"Yes. Do remember to inform me of your plans beforehand. It would be inconvenient if Hermione and I were to intrude on your date."
The other Slytherin nodded. "True. I'll send a message once the plans are set."
"Very well."
"Oh, and Tom?"
"What is it, Melchior?"
"That book I borrowed last Friday? I'll need to borrow it again. For verisimilitude." He said, a slight discomfort showing on his face. Since Tom was beginning to be mildly entertained, he affected a pondering expression, complete with a hand on his chin.
"Ah, which book was that? I do have many books, you know?"
"That…that German book! You know which one!" Melchior hissed the words, just a hair above a whisper. He might not be fidgeting, but his eyes were darting this way and that, as if Flitwick would suddenly jump on their necks just for chatting.
"Ah, was it the German translation of Agricola's De Natura Fossilium? Or was it Goclenius' Wiederaufbau zur Verteidigung des Traktats über magnetische Wundheilung?"
He could see Melchior's left eyelid twitching at this point as his pent-up annoyance warred with his unwillingness to cross his liege.
"You know perfectly well which one it was, Tom, your memory's better than an elephant! You remember an insult on your honour from four years ago up to the date!"
"I appreciate the compliment," he nodded with appreciation. "It still does not inform me of which book it was."
"It was the one Herr Doktor wrote!"
"Who, Paracelsus? He was renowned as a physician too." Tom's answer was guileless.
"No, this one had, had—diagrams." Melchior stuttered out. "That's it. It had descriptions of certain diagrams and how to…to draw them. Even on skin—"
"And how to contact spirits to do work?"
"Yes!"
"Ah, that sounds like Johannes Trithemius' Steganographia, though I'm quite sure my copy is the original Latin version, not German."
Melchior's eyes were opened too wide at this point, jaws clenched too tight.
"Alright, it was the Blood book! It's definitely the Faust's Blood Book!" He said all this in a frantic whisper.
Really, must the slightest mention of a little blood magic push people to come unglued so easily? Well, there goes his amusement. He had a sudden intense appreciation for Hermione's level-headedness, an unexpected wish that she didn't have to sit away from him in Advanced Charms and he could sneak commentaries about blood spells between their actual classroom discussions and no one would be the wiser. It would even be worth her annoyed looks, since her concern for anyone overhearing them never overruled her urge to out-argue him, particularly if she was certain he was wrong.
If Melchior kept acting like someone had lit a fire under his seat, Flitwick was going to drop in sooner or later, curious.
"Very well, then," he said with a sigh. "I mentioned it in passing when I was talking to Rainer—"
"Von Regenstein?"
"Yes. He hadn't seen a copy outside of that one time he visited a private library in Bavaria and he was very enthusiastic to borrow it. Just tell him that you need it for tonight and that you've asked me for it."
Melchior let out a long sigh, culminating with his head falling bonelessly on the table with a pathetic thump.
"Thank you."
'-
During Wednesday's dinner, Hermione had passed a message to Tom through Hattie (whom she assumed would pass it to young Jonah). They had been dining with their respective house-mates then. This was why she wasn't surprised to see him sitting down across the table in the particular study carrell she'd chosen in the library. She cast Lumos wordlessly and raised her wand near his eye. Tom was amused but said nothing.
She let out a relieved huff when she saw the ring of indigo around his pupils, particularly as the black spots contracted from the bright light. His eyes were ultramarine instead of being a pool of darkness.
"I'm not that careless, Hermione."
"I had to be sure."
"I'm not sure how well a bezoar works against something that's technically not a poison and not at lethal doses either, but Abraxas does happen to have a unicorn horn at hand."
"That would work," she nodded, "but that's only for liquids. I'm not sure how effective it would be for food."
"Which is why I'll leave the rest up to you."
He pulled up his book bag and summoned several things from its depths. The clink of glassware gave away what it was; soon a row of small stoppered vials lay on the table. The labels were attached to the cork stopper, meticulously detailed in a smooth cursive she'd come to recognise as Tom's handwriting (she was not petty enough to deny that they were much better than hers—she wasn't a child of the mid-20th century).
They were food and drink samples. Not only the material was described, but also the time of collection (dinner, Tuesday, or breakfast, Wednesday).
Tom unrolled a new scroll and opened his diary on the table. Even upside down, she could see the scheduled meetings there and who was present. Even Hermione's agenda in the 21st century was not that systematically detailed. She was inadvertently reminded of the fact that most denizens of Downing Street or cabinet members keep diaries, to assist them in writing their memoir when their time in office was done—not that she knew anyone who did that from her own time.
It really was the little things that reminded her that Tom came from a different generation than hers. He cast a modified Geminio to copy the text of several pages to the new scroll.
"That would be enough, I think." He said.
She nodded. gathered them into her bag.
"Yes. Maybe now we'll figure out who's responsible."
After that, their respective activities generally kept them apart. Hermione was scarcely surprised when Lakshmi asked to partner with her in Advanced Potions yet again. Since Tom seems to be occupied with his minions, she simply shrugged and agreed. It was a slight surprise to see Tom conversing with his fifth-year prefect partner, the Head Stooge. His smile might even be mistaken for pleasant by the uninitiated. Common sense dictated that he needed to communicate with her from time-to-time for prefect coordination, but she'd never managed to truly understand why he chose to keep an amiable façade.
There but for the grace of God go I, Hermione mused. If she was him, she certainly wouldn't be able to keep her annoyance from her face.
'-
The prefect meeting on Thursday afternoon was…interesting, to say the least.
"The corridors are starting to turn chaotic. We can't let this be. We have to do something about it even if it meant changing our approach." Agatha Abbott, Head Girl and Hufflepuff, stated from the head of the table. Her sentence was both sympathetic and determined.
"It's mostly the younger years," Daedalus commented.
He was sitting on the spindly and overly baroque gothic revival chair most disliked due to spiky hand rests. Yet with his long legs, most of the shorter seats weren't exactly comfortable for him.
"But we're still having a record number of fights! I've checked. I certainly don't remember last year being like this, nor the previous one, and if we go even further…" Agatha turned her blonde head to halfway down the table.
Emma Eccleston stopped casting a modified Geminio on a few sheets of paper (she was copying their contents) and looked up. She smoothed the stack of copies she had in front of her.
"I can confirm that it's the worst in at least five years. I've compared it to our records." She stated.
"So, what's the plan?" Philippe asked.
"The plan?" Emmerich asked back.
"The plan." The Gryffindor threw his hands up at Emmerich's denseness. "Yes, it's pretty annoying. You know it, I know it, so all that's left is deciding what to do about it. If there's none, we might as well break up this meeting right now."
Andrew laid a hand on Emmerich's shoulder, holding back his sixth-year housemate before he could stand up from his seat and throw out what would undoubtedly be strong words back.
"That's what we're here to discuss." The Head Boy calmly answered.
"We have to be more active in patrolling the corridors?" Casimir hazarded a random guess.
Tom shook his head as he gazed at the Hufflepuffs.
"Considering the number of classes proceeding in Hogwarts during the day at any given time, that's not going to work. We don't have the number of prefects needed. On the other hand, why the Board hasn't updated our numbers to reflect the growing student body is a pertinent issue but a different topic altogether."
"If the point-taking for all Houses keeps going at this rate, we're all going to start at zero again around Christmas," Augusta said acerbically.
"We might as well start assigning them to detentions with teachers." Raj added, two seats down from Delagardie. He didn't seem to notice the looks of surprise and unease sent his way.
"That's…a little too much, isn't it?" Julia asked. Her year mate disagreed.
"If that's what it takes," Verrault said this with a nod of agreement along with what Tom considered as the Ravenclaw's usual wooden expression.
"Merlin and Morgane," Philippe interrupted with a loud harrumph. "Everyone, it's not going to work, but you know what it would get you? Being accused as fascists."
"What's a fascist?" Andrew asked Oswin in low tones, but Tom's hearing could still catch their words from his right. Oswin shook his head.
"I have no idea, unfortunately."
"Is it something French?" Andrew asked back to his Slytherin year-mate.
Tom spoke up at that point before the two seventh-year purebloods started speculating even farther.
"Being fascist generally meant being autocratic. In our case, imagine if the Praetorian Guards were to try to usurp control of the Roman Empire from the Senate—that would illustrate our equivalent position well, according to Bernadotte's viewpoint."
But really, Bernadotte, the muggle side of your ancestry is showing too much, he remarked in his head. How many people here even cared, much less kept up with muggle politics?
Julia and Casimir nodded in thoughtful agreement.
"That…analogy works." Julia said.
"Do you have a better idea, then?" Emmerich shot back at Philippe.
"Let the teachers sort it out?" Was Philippe's too-casual answer. Tom could see it only pricked Emmerich's temper further; somehow, he didn't believe that Bernadotte was actually stating his opinion there.
"We'll try to cover all the corridors when the classes ended." Andrew replied. Bernadotte dropped his head back and groaned.
"That's impossible!"
"It's very possible." The Head Boy insisted, his voice a steadying influence. "We have enough time if we plan the routes well. Thank the Founders that they allowed enough time between classes for a first-year to get lost three times from one end to another before getting to class. It's manageable, particularly for people who'd known the changing paths of Hogwarts well."
Bernadotte was shaking his head as he leaned forward, his left hand was fiddling with the end of his braid in agitation.
"Yes, but we'd be doing it at marching speed. It doesn't remove the possibility that the lower years are going to get in trouble after we've passed."
"We can eliminate the advanced classes from the route." Verrault said suddenly, hands steepled in front of his face in thought.
His eyes were fixed on the compiled report that he had received from Emma and he didn't even lift it to any of the other prefects, his forehead creased with thinking frowns.
"After all, it's not the upper years that are giving any trouble." Verrault finished.
Emma was distributing copies of her compilation of everyone's reports around the table. Bernadotte glanced at his Ravenclaw countryman.
"That's just going to give them an excuse to make trouble later when they realise that we're reducing patrols around their classes." Philippe said.
"Which would give us the excuse to go after them by then, but based on what actually happened, we can disregard them for now. One trouble at a time, Bernadotte. Don't go borrowing trouble when you don't need to." Verrault said, unaffected by the flicker of annoyance in Philippe's expression by the use of his last name.
"And that would nicely reduce the amount of areas we need to cover by around a fifth." Emma concluded.
"So, we can make this new patrol schedule work. Can't we, Philippe?" Andrew asked from almost the other end of the table, his focus on one person only. The other prefects had started to read Emma's compilation, now that Verrault had found interesting things in it.
Bernadotte's sigh was obvious to anyone.
"Let's try it. If it isn't as effective as we thought it would be, I'll promise you that I'd be trying something else."
'-
Tom found Thursday supper to be mildly interesting.
"Did you hear about the Gryffindor coming to the defence of a Slytherin?"
The fire in Orion's eyes belied the cool tone of his voice, as did the shadow of a smirk on his face. Tom barely raised an eyebrow, only glancing at him once to acknowledge the greeting before returning his attention to the selection of desserts in front of him.
"Considering that I'm a prefect, I've certainly heard of them. This contretemps in inter-house relations took two prefects to separate. It is rather unexpected in the way the pieces fall on the board, yes." He answered diplomatically.
"Tell me, how is the relations between the Heads with the rest of the prefects?"
Tom didn't blink at the hint of glee of all things in the fourth-year's tone. He had a better poker face than Orion's slightly weirded out underlings. At least they knew well enough to keep their mouth shut. This observation was made while he took a slice or two of autumn fruit terrine.
He allowed himself a flash of a smile before putting on a more concerned expression.
"Well, all-in-all, we're trying to put duty first and stop this mess from spreading further." At Orion's cool gaze, unsatisfied with such bland pronouncements, he went further. "But of course, the Gryffindors are loudly unsatisfied with the ongoing news of Andrew's singular candidate as an Order of Merlin recipient."
There was a loud snort from across the table. Tom didn't need to look up to know who it was—Orion's freezing look in that direction informed him enough. It was just too bad that his Black cousin's hide was thicker than a mammoth's.
"I heard the entire thing from Alauda herself." Alphard started, munching through his pie under Orion's frown, with an undisturbed lack of grace or self-awareness that many came to envy. "I asked her the moment I heard the news, mind you. It's not such a surprise to hear the Gryffindor witch defend her. Alauda and her friends have been arguing against the 'Puffs about how the two Gryff prefects deserve the Order of Merlin better than Abbott."
He shook his head, his hair sitting messily on his head. Conversations fell away near them as other Slytherins began to actively listen.
"I have no idea why they'd do that. Not that I have anything against the Gryff prefects—I don't even know them! But so, these third-years have been defending our rivals in red, arguing for them and," he shrugged, amiable, "well, Alauda has been very polite with me, but I suspect she hasn't been very polite about Abbott's, hmm, shall we say, yellow-bellied attitude of making Daddy Dearest win him that award over everyone else?"
Laughter spread and he smiled, ridiculous, wide and infectious. Even if Alphard was not always in the thick of schemes like his cousins, or even his sister Walburga and her gossip network, he could still work a crowd solely by instinct.
There was always a certain level of cunning in all the Blacks. It would explain how for a family that rose with the House of Wessex, they weathered the change in kings so adroitly with nary a decrease in ranks when William of Normandy came and won. The centre of power, the entire court had changed under their feet and yet there they are among the first ranks once more. All the way to the present.
Alphard scratched the back of his head.
"Don't know why the third-years did that, though. I'm just happy with the outcome."
There were sounds of agreements or comments expressing displeasure with Abbott. Tom made no move to defend the other prefect, his expression as calm as still water.
"Yes, because Slytherins defending Gryffindors could somehow happen by accident," Orion spoke under his breath.
"What was that, Orion?" Alphard loudly asked.
"Merlin, don't speak while you eat!" Fintan Gambol groaned from his right as he leaned away. From the way he pointed his fork, Tom suspected he was seconds away from stabbing Alphard with it. On Tom's left, Pendleton merely looked up for a second before dismissing the scene and returning to his food and ancient runes doodles.
"Sorry!"
That, thankfully, was said a few seconds later. Next to Tom, Orion was pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, weird incident, isn't it?" Alphard said again, uncaringly loud. "Nice to know that things are conveniently lining up for us Slytherins. Don't worry, Tom, I believe you deserve it most!"
"It was not an accident." Orion softly said.
As he observed from the corner of his eye, Tom was unsure whether Orion even realised he'd said that out loud.
"Our house has the damnedest luck sometimes. It's great, isn't it?" Alphard commented, raising his cup.
"TO SLYTHERIN!" He toasted loudly, proudly. Others followed him easily and with varying degrees of vigour.
"To Slytherin!"
Tom raised his goblet too, a pleasant smile on his face as he followed suit. To people who provide the herd for the shepherds to find and lead, for the wolves to chase down and consume, he thought silently.
For the sheep.
When the cheers and furore had started to die down, Alphard turned to his cousin.
"Our luck is great, right, Orion?"
Tom was certain he'd heard a growl that was conveniently turned into a throat clearing just now. He hid his grin with his drink.
"I wouldn't know. Success requires preparation. It does not happen just by accident." Orion's answer was frosty, though with almost no trace of the annoyance Tom had heard.
"Argh, success this, success that. Really, Orion, you sound too much like Uncle Arcturus. You need to relax sometime before you get a permanent frown on your forehead! See, even without you doing much, our House can take care of itself. I'm glad there are a lot of smartass here, not just in Ravenclaw."
Orion's smile was stiff—not that Alphard seemed to even notice that.
"Smartass," Orion enunciated slowly. His cousin shrugged.
"Well, y'know what I mean. It's a good thing, really."
Two cousins with the striking bones of the Blacks, from very similar upbringing. Yet they could not be more different. Pendleton made a polite cough to break the tension.
Tom decided that he could afford to be diplomatic just then—Orion would thank him and owe him a favour for this.
"Alphard, I see that you're done with your dinner." Tom stated, his voice a breeze.
Alphard glanced at his plate. "Ah, yes. Mostly. Why?"
"You asked me to introduce you to Hermione earlier, didn't you?"
His eyes lit up. If he had a tail, he would be wagging it right now. "Truly?"
Tom humoured him. "I'm sure we can walk over to her table right now. She'd always taken dinner early."
Alphard stood up suddenly, his elbow almost knocking another fifth year who cursed him out loud for it. Fintan loudly told him to watch it. Alphard seemed unconcerned even as he vaulted out of his seat, his movement frankly acrobatic. There was little wonder as to why he was the Slytherin Seeker.
Tom had been out of his seat in half the time and was just waiting for him to be done. Pendleton had stood up as well without a word.
"Great! Let's go!"
'-
On Friday morning, as Hermione headed to her Advanced Transfigurations class from Herbology, it was not difficult to notice the free-for-all melee currently taking place in front of her.
A few students already down were trying to escape the frenzied exchange of spells going around by skulking down or even outright crawling. A few prefects were trying hard to separate the kids. There was a much put-upon Daedalus who had resorted to physically placing himself between two students with a Protego in front of him. Not far from him was a Slytherin witch whose name escaped her who raised her voice and yet still wasn't listened to—the younger students were busier dodging or attacking their rivals (or both). At most, they treated her as another barrier to hide behind or circle around. Round and round they go.
The witch reached her limit and threw a limb-locking charm at one and was trying to do the same to the second. The girl dodged easily and avoided the spell by ducking under the prefect's arms.
"Why, you little—!"
More still were currently beyond the attention of any prefect.
Hermione saw the entire mess, from walls dripping with ooze and slime pools at random points of the hallway to errant snakes, all thanks to the pack of children running amok.
She didn't hesitate.
"Aguamenti Maxima."
The Ravenclaw cast it out loud. She did the full, complete wand movement instead of the shortened one she had adapted to and routinely used. She pushed all her focus and visualisation on a flood. All this increased the spell's power.
A wall of water did descend upon the corridor.
Screams were heard—people certainly did not expect to be suddenly wet. The Slytherin prefect in particular sent Hermione a death glare even if she was half a corridor away, as her beautifully coiffed hair was now a dripping mess. Yet even as the children spluttered and spat water, they've stopped fighting.
In contrast, Daedalus simply walked to her, drenched robes and all, and then dropped a cold, wet hand (and soggy sleeve) on her shoulder.
"Thank you for your assistance, Hermione."
His smile was a little too wide to be genuine and the water was trickling uncomfortably down her back. It's not as if she could complain about all the water…
"Aren't you going to collect all of them now?" She asked instead.
"Oh, certainly. I could use an extra wand hand to help dry them too." If his side-eye was any more pointed, his eyeball was going to slip out.
Hermione sighed. "Yes, of course I'll assist Daedalus."
"Thank you."
She walked in the same direction, following him back toward the mess. If the Slytherin witch was a gorgon, Hermione would have been turned to stone from the force of her cold glare.
"Ah, Clytemnestra! Look who's assisting us today!" Daedalus greeted his current patrol partner with excessive cheer. Her death glare was now transferred to him.
"It's her fault in the first place, Daedalus." She bit out.
Hermione was content to ignore Gamp (sixth-year prefect, she reminded herself before the name slipped away yet again). It was similar to the way the Slytherin hadn't bothered to greet her beyond the glare. After drying her own shoulder, she set off finding a few of the lower-year brats. It wasn't long before both prefects were doing much the same thing, starting with their own clothes first.
'-
"Are you alright, Hermione?"
She paused, the question taking her by surprise and she turned around again.
"Alright? Of course, I am. Why wouldn't I be?"
Daedalus didn't immediately answer, tilting his head slightly to the right as he continued thinking. His gaze never wavered from hers. "You just came out of St. Mungo's last Saturday, and you weren't discharged from the infirmary until Sunday afternoon."
Ah, yes, that happened, didn't it? She shrugged, even though she knew he had a point. "Well, I'm fine."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Would Madame Edelstein say the same thing if I asked her?" He asked back, his tone wry.
Hermione sent him a pointed look at his not-so-subtle threat to snitch on her. "She admitted that I'm clear to attend class on Sunday, thought I still have to drop in at the infirmary every other day or so, just to be sure."
"Good, then." Surprisingly, he actually looked more relaxed after that. "Take care of yourself, Hermione."
"You too, Daedalus."
'-
Hermione spent the first half hour of her lunch break in one of the smaller potions lab that were open for the upper-years to use (as long as you fill the appointment book and get in line). A series of empty glass vials rested on the long table behind her. Instead of working with one primary cauldron, she had five smaller ones, small enough that they were all placed on the table, with small oil burners right below them instead of good old firewood.
She couldn't help her snort the first time she saw it.
Anyone thinking that the wizarding world was completely separate from the non-magical one was delusional. She'd found mentions of whale oil usage in some of the older potions journals she'd read (she was checking the alternative methods for a particular potion). Seeing the oil burners and sniffing at their contents, there was no doubt that the oil inside was no longer whale oil. It was a petroleum by-product. She'd eat her hat if anyone could show her that the wizarding world has their own oil refinery.
Odds are, whoever is responsible for Hogwarts' purchasing went to various markets with a list of things to buy, and chose the cheapest object they could get that still fulfils the requirements. Regardless of whether they liked to think about it or not, their economy was inextricable from the non-magical one.
But that was neither here nor there. What was here, was several testing potions made in smaller batches, all designed to detect the different aspects of Amortentia. She certainly didn't remember it out of hand—this was why the back table was filled with open books she'd borrowed from the library, all open on a particular potion formula and recipe.
She'd ground the food portions with mortar and pestle to ensure a more homogenous consistency. Then, she carefully split each sample into equal weights. After that was allocating them to their own small saucer and she set to work.
Almost half an hour later, none of the food or drink changed.
"What? Impossible!"
Maybe she made a mistake? Mis-brewed? No, the colours of the potions were correct. The scent was correct. The consistency was still within what the books asked for. And yet nothing in the food or drink reacted with them. Nothing changed. Too long a time had passed? No, not really. A stasis spell can easily last for a day for something that small.
Maybe that was the result? That the poison didn't come from the food he took at meals? She snorted.
As if.
Hermione sighed. She set out writing a report on it, just for reference. Several of her coloured inkpots lay on the long table with books, allowing her to record the colours of the potions and experiments as closely as possible. A polaroid camera would really come handy, she thought, and then shelved it for later.
After all this, the only thing left was to find Tom.
'-
Hermione didn't really think much about approaching the Slytherin table in the middle of lunch, ignoring the curious, confused and surprised looks sent her way easily. She had seen his black hair from afar, the dignified way he held himself. Tom was dining with the Knights and that meant that she can certainly approach him with ease. Pendleton didn't blink at seeing her walk their way. Ves took a second glance but that was it. Most of the others she knew were too focused on their food or did not react much. Tom turned towards her when she was almost next to him.
"I have the results from the, hmm, potions experiment I said I'd do." She began.
"You don't look happy," Tom observed as he stood up. He made space for her and Abraxas stood up while telling other people to his right to move farther. Melchior was doing more-or-less the same from Tom's left.
She exhaled a breath, taking the moment to gather her thoughts. "I get no answers, of course I'm not happy."
"Did you fail the brewing?" He asked.
Of all the things Hermione would fail, it was not following instructions from several books. She gave him a warning gaze. Based on the slight grin he had, she knew he was baiting her. She accepted his offered hand and sat down next to him.
"The potions were great. I bottled the reminder and you can test them yourselves if you don't believe me."
He nodded, accepting her point.
"But…?"
"But nothing!"
Tom mulled over the answer she gave him without a word as he sat back down again. As Abraxas shifted his plate's and Tom, there was enough space for another between the two placements. True enough, a new plate had just manifested right there along with the accompanying silverware. Tom wordlessly picked two jugs and offered them; Hermione chose the one containing grape juice.
"It plausible that it's still a valid result." Tom said.
"Well, only in the sense that we still have no idea which samples were adulterated." She replied.
The Ravenclaw easily ignored Starkey's expression, as he seemed dying to know which potions that they were talking about but had enough good sense to hold back from butting in when Tom hadn't given his say so. The other Knight's curiosity was less burning than his, but Abraxas's gaze did flick in her direction more than once.
"Consider, Hermione, the curious incident of the dog in the night time." Tom calmly replied.
She had only started opening her mouth to speak before closing it up immediately, being rather familiar with that particular case of Sherlock Holmes.
"That's…" she abruptly turned to him. "What did you do? What are all the things you did after the infirmary and before you started collecting those samples?"
He didn't answer her immediately, pointing out various dishes on the table and everyone else's opinions on them. Ves chimed in and vigorously agreed on the glazed ham. Gallus recommended the soup. Hermione might thank them for the recommendation or give a reply or two, but half her attention was still on Tom, watching his reactions. When her plate was filled with food and she was beginning to despair of ever hearing the answer, he replied, though it certainly wasn't what she was looking for.
"I think this is the point where I say you've done enough and you can let it go."
Undeterred, she stared him down. "We are going to talk about this later. In the library."
'-
Two Gryffindor prefects were walking down a corridor near their tower. One was a tall witch with a forbidding expression and the other was a wizard with an easy grin whose long braid trailed behind him as he walked. Where she was all curves, he was mostly lines and elbows. They were a study of contrasts. It was clear from their body language that he was trying to expound his idea while from the way she was closed off from him, she was having many doubts about it.
"But—" she began.
Philippe raised a hand to forestall her complaints, his hands were animated and open, a plea for her listen. His red-and-gold tie was barely knotted already. "Look, at the very least you can agree with me that what we're doing is not working, right? I don't think we actually managed to keep order in Hogwarts in the last few days!"
Augusta Delagardie's fist tightened around her wand before relaxing again.
"No, it's not working. We might as well jump straight to the detentions with teachers."
"Considering that it would be recorded, I'd rather not. I don't want to burden the students with more marks against them than necessary."
She folded her arms in front of her chest, her eyes darkening. All she needed to do was start tapping her pointy boots and she'd be the exact picture of displeasure.
"What, then? Did you look for me only to whine?"
Philippe snorted. "Of course not. I have a plan."
"And the reason you're telling me this instead of Ceres is because she always knows when you're up to no good." Her left eyebrow rose up as she asked this. His grin was slightly more rueful then as he admitted to her suspicion.
"She'd think it was a crazy idea."
"What makes you think I'd be down with your crazy idea if she isn't?"
"Because it might just work." His answer was firm, the voice of a man sure of his own mind. "And I know you don't care about being too nice like Andrew and Agatha care about if we can actually get something done."
"You're going behind them," she accused.
"I'm thinking that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission."
Her dead-eye stare could probably rival several vultures in inducing terror, but Philippe held his ground even if his jaw muscles tightened for a moment. After a while, Augusta shrugged.
"Very well. Let's hear this plan of yours, then."
His speed picked up at her answer, excitement bleeding through.
"First, we'll have to check Emma's data first. It's even better if she had already updated them based on the more recent fracas."
"What for?"
"The scene of the crime, of course. That, and I suspect some places are more prone to fights than not—the corridors near any double classes between Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, you get the idea."
"Ah, I see. And?"
He rubbed his hands with undisguised glee. "After we get the reports comes the fun part…"
'-
Emma Eccleston barely blinked when the two Gryffindor prefects approached her in the Prefect Room, asking whether she had any information on the fracas and fights the prefects have had to break up and report in the last few days.
"And you're curious about all these now because…?"
"We need to update the information you've given us before," the French wizard with the too-wide grin cheerfully waved the parchment he was holding in his left hand. Augusta only sat beside him and vaguely nodded her agreement.
Emma watched the Gryffindors across the table even as she found the reports that she'd just written from the pile of papers in front of her.
"I've only finished this now and I'm about to hand these to Andrew and Agatha so they can see how much of a difference our new patrol routes and schedule makes." She pushed her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose, her gaze measuring. "Yet why would either of you need it immediately?"
"Because we need it to plan things?" Bernadotte answered.
Augusta was rubbing her forehead at his straightforward answer.
"I don't know what you're planning." Emma bluntly replied even as she copied her reports, rolled the parchment and then handed the scroll to them.
"Oh, I can tell you about it. It's pretty simple actually; it's about—"
Bernadotte missed Emma's widening eyes and her subtle shake of head. Augusta, though, didn't. They've met each other in different pureblood gatherings. Even if their families weren't exactly of the same circle, they knew each other enough.
This was why she stomped hard on Bernadotte's foot.
"OWW! What the hell was that for, Augusta?" He yelled.
"You're talking over poor Emma, you idiot. She said she didn't know what you're planning, and we're going to make sure it stays that way."
"It's good of you to understand. I appreciate that." Emma nodded.
Philippe was wincing, but he could see what Augusta was saying, now that he was observing the Slytherin across them carefully enough to see the unquiet in her eyes. "Ah, I see. Pardon me, then. If we succeed—"
"I'm sure you'll know." Augusta finished.
"By the sounds of the explosions, Gryffindor?" Emma's tone was dry.
Augusta grinned, "What else, Slytherin?"
'-
.
.
.
End Notes:
List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:
Hecataeus of Miletus: (History, Greek history) (Greek: Ἑκαταῖος ὁ Μιλήσιος; c. 550 BC – c. 476 BC), an early Greek historian and geographer. He wrote many works of which only two are known today since those few are the ones whose fragments have survived to the present day. One is "Journey round the Earth" / "World Survey" and "Genealogy" / "History".
Paracelsus: (History, philosophy) The honorary name of Theophrastus von Hohenheim*, Swiss physician, alchemist and astrologer of the German Renaissance. He's one of the first medical professors to recognise that physicians needed to have a solid academic knowledge of the natural sciences, especially chemistry. He's a good candidate to be a wizard because he's recorded historically as an alchemist.
*To FMA fans, yes, this historical guy is probably the spark that begun the idea for the character Hohenheim.
Sun City: (History) I swear I was trying be droll here, but ignore it if I failed completely. I was trying for a direct translation of the Greek name of the Ancient Egyptian city of Heliopolis. I didn't even come up with the idea first—picked it up from Neil Gaiman. The surface of the ancient city is actually located several metres underground of modern Cairo. Heliopolis venerated the Bennu bird, a deity linked with sun and rebirth (might even be the bird that inspired the Greek's phoenix mythology). Taking that into account, the sunbird mentioned in-text is obviously the phoenix.
'-
Additional Notes:
Goclenius' Wiederaufbau zur Verteidigung des Traktats über magnetische Wundheilung: A real book written by a physician and professor of medicine among other subjects at the Philipps University of Marburg. He's famous for his miraculous cure with the Powder of Sympathy* and published proposition of using "magnetic" cure to heal wounds. Powder of Sympathy is a remedy that is applied to the weapon that caused the wound, with the purpose being to heal the injury it had made. Yeah, weird…
Johannes Trithemius' Steganographia: This is also a real book, I assure you, on steganography (among other things) written by a Benedictine abbot. Steganography is the knowledge on how to incorporate a hidden message inside a plaintext (obvious and uncoded) one. He writes large parts of it as a mystic text (with mentions of sending messages through spirits), and as such got his book handily banned by many anti-witchcraft movements. One of Hohenheim/Paracelsus' teachers. In a world where magic actually exists, well…
*If you're still interested to know more about more random trivia about Powder of Sympathy, Sir Kenelm Digby was a proponent of using the powder to solve the longitude problem in navigation by synchronising the effects of the powder (because presumably, you can get something close to a regular clock that would help with navigation if you have a wounded person/creature on board that shows reaction from the application of Powder of Sympathy to the weapon that harms it no matter how far you are across the ocean—comparing that to the current night sky and a star chart would give you your current longitude). He even wrote a leaflet on this. This is also one of the weird plot points in Umberto Eco's The Island of the Day Before; somebody was trying to circumnavigate the world with a wounded dog as their clock. (I read that book more than five years ago. Can't believe I still remember that).
'-
Jan Verrault (OC): Sixth-year Ravenclaw, a stickler for the rules. He's (rightly) suspicious of Tom and rather annoyed at what seemed to be the Slytherin prefect's Teflon reputation (you can throw practically any accusation at him and it wouldn't stick). Julia's prefect partner, though she's frequently exasperated at his obsession with enacting all the rules, no matter how trivial it seemed.
Jan is the Dutch version of John (and also the version of John in Swedish, Norwegian, Danish, Czech… the list goes on, but he's of Dutch descent). Basically, I picked it because a) it's a really common name and b) together with his last name, tangentially echoed a different character that inspired him (not a HP character).
'-