lix. leaves of green
When Friday finally arrived, Hermione—for all her love of lectures and learning—was looking forward to the weekend.
Their first week back had been…trying. Not for any specific reason, but rather an annoying culmination of many small, frustrating reasons. Elara, dealing with an influx of legal letters concerning the House of Black estate, stayed awake late into the night at her carrell in the dorm and was noticeably shorter with the rest of them—mostly Pansy, who had recently taken to wearing floral perfumes that triggered the Black heir's allergies. Katherine had acquired a new cat who did not get along with Millicent's, prompting several arguments between the two witches, and more than once they ended up with Prefect Farley in their dorm, chastising them for acting like naughty children.
Draco had taken to continuing his summer behavior, namely irritating and nagging Hermione until she felt very near hexing him just for a moment of silence. He harped on and on about the new brooms his father had ordered, the ones that would be arriving just in time for the tryouts next week, his unveiled enthusiasm pestering not only Hermione, but several of their upperclassmen and their unfortunate peers. Somehow, he always seemed to be there, trailing along behind her in the corridors with Gregory and Vincent, the two larger boys long since inured to Malfoy theatrics. His voice grated on her nerves.
Harriet was especially annoyed by Draco, and each time he started in on another meandering "my father did this, my father did that" spiel, she made an inconspicuous exit from whatever room the Malfoy heir and his goons were inhabiting. Hermione knew Harriet wanted to play Quidditch and didn't think it even remotely fair she would probably be denied trying out simply because Lucius Malfoy could throw away gold on racing brooms for the whole team. It wasn't fair, and yet the insidious social hierarchy in Slytherin House they'd thus far been spared from couldn't be bucked, and Hermione imagined they'd run into problems with it again and again as they grew older.
Elara was aware of the silent hierarchy as well. That was why both Hermione and the severe witch would subtly turn themselves and Harriet away from certain couches in the common room, away from places at Slytherin's table, why they paused and let specific students walk before them in the halls. There was an unspoken rule in their House about showing respect to your betters, and for all that Hermione fumed at the notion of having betters, she picked her battles and kept her head down.
The philosophers knew change did not occur overnight, even with magic. The most potent potions brewed for months or years, and they always had the best results.
The Slytherins left Defense on Friday eager to reach the greenhouses out on the grounds for Herbology. The first breath of fresh afternoon air invigorated Hermione after spending the last hour trapped in the dark classroom with Professor Slytherin and their surly Gryffindor peers. Harriet mumbled invectives as they walked from the castle into the warm sunshine, and even Hermione didn't have the heart to chastise her language after watching the girl be put upon by their cold professor.
Hermione was aware the bespectacled witch had seen their Head of House over the summer in Diagon Alley, and while Harriet had insisted nothing had happened in their meeting, whatever had occurred had shifted Professor Slytherin's behavior from indifferent to almost malicious. He pushed Harriet harder than any of them, and Hermione couldn't say why. He never incanted aloud during their lessons, but she knew he changed his shields from the basic Protego form simply to throw Harriet off—or to literally throw her, as was the case today.
"He's a foul git," Harriet whispered so others wouldn't overhear, one hand rubbing the small of her back. She uttered these words without the same begrudging admiration she held for Snape, who was also often denounced as a 'bloody git' for his sarcastic tongue and keenness for detention. "He almost squished Kevin."
"Aren't you supposed to leave him in the dorm?"
"No, I'm supposed to leave Livi in the dorm. Kevin is harmless." She lifted her other hand from her pocket, revealing the Transfigured golem wrapped about her fingers, his tiny fangs sinking into her knuckle. Hermione lifted a brow and Harriet blushed. "Well, he's upset because he almost got squashed, Hermione! He's usually harmless—ow, Kevin!" Her voice curtailed into intelligible hisses.
Hermione just shook her head and pondered Professor Slytherin's curious behavior as they crossed the courtyard and came upon the section of grounds given over to the greenhouses and Hogwarts' other agricultural pursuits. Plump Professor Sprout waited for them there with a box of earmuffs under her arm, and she smiled at the mingling Slytherins and Ravenclaws as they approached. "Good afternoon, lads and lasses! First class of the year, and I've something exciting lined up for us."
Next to Harriet, Elara paled, her face decidedly pinched.
"We're in Greenhouse Three today. This way!"
They trailed after her like ducklings, Harriet snickering as she poked Elara's arm. "Don't murder anything too rare today, Elara."
"Be quiet, brat. I just need gloves."
Hermione shook her head again and rolled her eyes as they entered the humid greenhouse, the smell of flowers and earth filling her nose. Several tables with barren pots encumbered the middle of the space, and Professor Sprout took Elara by the arm without a word, positioning her away from what looked like a valuable Venomous Tentacula. Elara flushed but didn't protest the move, Hermione and Harriet coming to stand with her.
"Oh, hello Terry, Anthony!"
The two Ravenclaws found places across from them at the table, and both greeted the three Slytherin witches with pleasant grins. "Hi, Hermione. How's your first week back treating you?" Terry asked as he pulled on a pair of gardening gloves.
"Well enough," she replied, hesitating. "Defense has been a bit…."
Anthony snorted. "Brutal?" Hermione nodded, and he and Terry exchanged knowing looks. "We've heard from a few upper years that Professor Slytherin's classes grow more intense with every year you matriculate."
You mean it's worse than it is now?
Next to her, Harriet frowned as she adjusted her glasses, her gaze unusually intent upon the empty pots before them. "He told us he wouldn't be teaching us dueling. Does he ever teach dueling?"
"No," Terry responded, shrugging. He accepted the bag of mixed soil for their table from Professor Sprout, wrinkling his nose at the odor. "He was adamant on that point in our class."
"Why though?" Harriet asked with exasperation. In truth, Hermione was curious as well; she'd thought dueling a significant part of defense, if a bit specialized, but Slytherin restricted them to theory and relative application in his classroom. He'd claimed he did 'not waste his time with ineptitude,' but that was hardly an excuse in Hermione's opinion. All students were inept until taught!
"It's obvious, isn't it?" Anthony said with a raised brow, showing a hint of that Ravenclaw shrewdness. It wasn't obvious to Hermione—a fact that rankled to no end—and so she barely stopped herself from pouting when Elara, spilling manure into her pot, answered.
"He doesn't want others to observe and disseminate his weaknesses. Students often share the strengths and weaknesses of their masters in any subject; in dueling, learning the soft spots in an apprentice's skill can reveal soft spots in their master's."
"Quite right." Anthony grinned, but then quickly sobered. "My great-aunt told me he's the reason that Dumbledore, you know—." He waggled his right arm—indicating the Headmaster's lack of said limb. "And that's Dumbledore, the wizard who fought and took down Grindelwald! Old Slytherin probably has enough enemies, you know? Doesn't want them getting the drop on him."
"That's preposterous," Hermione snapped. "If he was the one who—who mutilated the Headmaster, I highly doubt Professor Slytherin would be teaching here!"
"I'm just telling you what I was told. My great-uncle's good friends with Dumbledore—Newt Scamander, he is. He was there when Dumbledore dueled Grindelwald, and he says he can't imagine the kind of skill or power that could best the man."
Hermione couldn't imagine it either. For all his dotty ways, Professor Dumbledore radiated competency, and was quick as a whip with his wand—even while using his left hand. No one truly knows what happened to his arm. The rumors say he lost it seven or eight years ago now, but if he HAD lost it in a duel with Professor Slytherin, he wouldn't have allowed the man to teach here, would he? Or did the Board override him? No, no, Hermione, that's…that's mad. Highly improbable.
She refused the thought of how 'highly improbable' she found most of the wizarding world.
"That's enough chatter now, quiet down! Take a pair of earmuffs from the box coming around." The box in question landed on their table last of all, and the two boys quickly dove in to avoid the pink, furry pair floating near the top. Elara ended up with that pair, much to her apparent displeasure. Next came the smocks, which they shrugged on over their arms to protect their robes from whatever activity they'd be doing today.
"Now," Professor Sprout said, flicking her wand, bringing forward a grubby cart burdened with heavy clay pots. Hermione studied the spiked tops of the plants inside those pots—and suddenly the earmuffs made much more sense. Mandrakes. Of course! "Can anyone tell me what we have here?"
Hermione's hand shot up, as did a few of the Ravenclaws', and Professor Sprout nodded to Hermione with an indulgent smile. "Mandrakes," Hermione said, feeling smug. "Specifically Mandragora Offininarum, as evidenced by the curvature in the leaves, not to be confused with Mandragora autumnalis, or Podophyllum pataltum, an American variant."
"Excellent response, Miss Granger! Take five points for Slytherin."
Hermione smiled—until she heard Draco hiss at the table next to theirs, his mouth twisted in mockery, though the sentiment fell flat, as ridiculous as he looked in his overlarge gloves and stained smock. "Do you have to regurgitate a textbook every time you open your mouth, Granger?"
"Bugger off, Malfoy," Harriet snarled too low for Professor Sprout to hear, the witch carefully placing mandrakes before everyone with stern warnings not to touch them yet. "Anything's better than listening to the shite that comes out of yours."
"How crass. You'd best watch yourself, Potter."
"Or what? Are you going to tell Crabbe and Goyle to punch a girl?"
"I'm not gonna punch a girl," Crabbe grunted.
"My mum would box my ears," Goyle added.
Malfoy glowered. "You two are worthless."
Professor Sprout reached their side of the greenhouse and set out more mandrakes. Going by the chastising glint in her eye, Hermione guessed she'd heard some of what had been said. "No mucking about today, am I understood? You're second years, and that means we'll be dealing with finickier flora from now on, and my plants deserve your full attention. Understood?"
A low chorus of "Yes, Professor Sprout," echoed from the accrued students.
"Miss Granger, can you tell us why we'll be needing our earmuffs today?"
"Because the cry of a mandrake is fatal to any who hears it." The class took perceptible steps back from their tables and the waiting plants. "The cry of a full-grown mandrake is fatal, I should say. Sorry, Professor."
"Very good, Miss Granger. Take another two points for Slytherin. Now!" She clapped her hands together, bits of dry clay flaking from her worn gloves. "These mandrakes here are still toddlers, but they've outgrown their current pots and need to be replanted. Their cries won't kill you, but they will put you out for a good few hours, so when I give the word, I want you all to put your earmuffs on and make sure they're snug. I'll demonstrate with this first one, and then you'll be working with your own—gloves on, Miss Black."
"Yes, Professor Sprout."
The older witch nodded, then gestured for them to don their earmuffs, Hermione fussing with her hair until the padding lay flush against her skin. A Dampening Charm on the earmuffs further reduced noise, until all she could hear was the thump of her own heart and the faint whistle of her breath. Professor Sprout grasped the base of the green stalk, and then yanked upward.
Hermione had seen the illustrations before, but nothing could have quite prepared her for the reality of seeing a squalling, lumpy, hideous and infant-like root being pulled from the dirt.
Professor Sprout plopped the displeased mandrake down into the larger pot already partly filled with soil, then used what was left in the sack to pour more around the mandrake until it disappeared underneath. She gave the class a wave, then took off her earmuffs, signaling for the others to do the same.
"There! Not so hard, right? Once earmuffs go on again, no removing them until I give the signal. Everyone ready? Okay! Earmuffs on!"
The next forty minutes of class passed in silence as the second-years fought and struggled with their temperamental mandrakes. Truly, Professor Sprout made it look easy, when the planting in actuality proved much more difficult. The mandrakes flailed, kicking and punching, tiny, toothless mouths biting hard through their padded gloves. Roger Malone's plant put up such a fight, it knocked his earmuffs askew and he ended up sprawled on the greenhouse floor, out cold. Professor Sprout hurried over, gesturing for the rest of them to continue their tasks.
With half of her mandrake submerged, Hermione paused to wipe sweat off her brow—and happened to glance up just as Elara nipped off a few of her own mandrake's leaves, carefully folding them into a piece of parchment before sticking that parchment into her robes. Their eyes met, and Hermione mouthed, "What are you doing?"
Frowning, Elara shrugged, then pretended she didn't see Hermione's questioning stare.
What is she up to? Hermione wondered—though, she did have an inkling as to what the taller witch might want mandrake leaves for. But she wouldn't do THAT, would she? Oh, she could get in so much trouble!
Hermione's eyes flickered to Harriet—Harriet, who kept a magical snake as large as a python under her bed, and sometimes under her shirt.
Hermione was not reassured.
When class ended, they stripped off their gloves and grubby smocks, sweaty and tired and more than ready for dinner to commence in the Great Hall. "What are you on about?" Hermione demanded of Elara, careful not to be overheard. Draco made as if to follow them—but one look from Professor Sprout had him, Crabbe, and Goyle going on ahead, leaving Hermione, Elara, and Harriet to trail along behind the departing students. The sun shone warm and golden still, though evening was not far off.
"Nothing."
"Don't nothing me, I'm not thick." Hermione pointed at the pocket Elara usually kept her old, worn journal in. "You're not thinking about—about doing that, are you?"
"And if I was?"
"Well, I'd have to say how utterly reckless it'd be! You could get arrested, or die, or be expelled—!"
They came to a stop when Elara raised her hand and pointed to Harriet, who'd stepped from the path and left the courtyard, walking down the grassy slope toward the lake. Unease pulled at Hermione's heart; of course, she knew it was silly to get worked up over such a simple diversion, but Harriet had nearly died several times over the last year alone, and seeing her suddenly stroll away from the castle where the professors dwelt had Hermione's pulse jumping. Where is she going?
They followed, and Harriet headed to the bottom of the hill, one hand on her bag, a familiar blonde standing barefoot at the water's edge.
"Hey, Luna!" Harriet called, drawing the attention of the new Ravenclaw witch. "Whatcha doing?"
Luna blinked, and looked first at Harriet, then at Hermione and Elara, before turning her gaze once more to rippling shallows. "Oh. I was looking for Plimpies."
"For what?"
"Plimpies. Little round fish with long legs and webbed feet."
Harriet looked in the water too, then shrugged. "I've never heard of those before. You should probably come back and look on the weekend. It's almost dinner time, and curfew for the first, second, and third years is just after that. We're not supposed to be on the grounds once it starts getting dark."
The grass crunched under approaching feet, and a burst of red appeared in the corner of Hermione's eye. "Luna!" Ginny Weasley shouted, relief evident in her voice. "Why'd you wander off without saying anything?"
"Hi, Ginny," Luna said, seeming oblivious to the other girl's distress. Ginny gave Harriet a considering look as she went to Luna's side—and Hermione wondered if it was because of their House, since she hadn't displayed the same reticence on the train. Gryffindors proved rather intolerant of Slytherins—and vice versa, typically. "They're quite nice, you know. Especially for Slytherins."
Hermione bristled. Elara didn't react, but a flash of hurt flickered through Harriet's face before her expression stilled.
"Yeah?" Ginny commented as if she didn't believe what Luna said. For Slytherins. "Well, c'mon, let's get to dinner…where are your shoes this time…?"
The pair moved off, and Harriet rejoined Hermione and Elara, her face blank, eyes on the bent blades of grass. She stuck her hand into her robes and brought out Kevin, fiddling with the Transfiguration golem until he was coiled about her fingers—shiny, freshly scabbed bite marks on her knuckles from his tiny fangs.
"Harriet…."
"We're going to miss dinner," the bespectacled witch said, speaking softly. "Let's go."
She set off at a fast clip before Hermione could say anything else. The breeze rustled in the forest's eaves, and the lake moved at their backs, the Giant Squid a distant spectator on the gleaming surface, basking in the late afternoon light.
"It bothers her," Elara spoke first.
"What does?"
They started walking again, one of Elara's hands in her robe pocket. "People's perceptions of Slytherins."
"I don't think Luna or Ginny meant anything by it, really. It—with people like Malfoy around, misconceptions are bound to arise."
"But it still bothers her."
Hermione pursed her lips, recalling the hurt in Harriet's eyes and her own irritation when hearing that qualifier, "For Slytherins."
She noted how Elara kept hold of the parchment concealing the mandrake leaves, and instead of broaching the subject again, Hermione bit her tongue. No, she wouldn't say anything. Friends supported one another—even in their most reckless ambitions.
If her friend wanted to dabble in Animagus transformation, who was Hermione to argue?