1945
.
.
For the better part of the last three years, the Defence Homework Club had been scheduled for once per fortnight, so the members were naturally surprised when Hermione called a meeting on the next Hogsmeade weekend. They were even more surprised when the meeting, which the message had claimed would be on the subject of "Duels", turned out not to be in the classroom they'd claimed in the Dungeons, but in the least popular business in the village, the Hog's Head.
"I'm aware that this is a bit irregular," Hermione said, as the members took their seats at the table in the back of the tavern. "And I am sorry for distracting you from the exam revision I'm sure you've all been busy with. But this is very important, possibly even more important than the N.E.W.T.s. Yes, shocking, I know!"
She cast her gaze over the attendees of the meeting: Travers, who had delivered messages on her behalf; Rosier, who sat behind her in Arithmancy and tried to peek over her shoulder at her probability diagrams; Lestrange and Avery, Tom's mealtime bookends who collected on unpaid favours, as it would look badly for the Head Boy to be seen shaking down Second Years himself; Black, a Sixth Year Prefect whose deference to courtly manners flustered her as much as it amused him; and Mulciber, a sturdy young man of gruff demeanour with a heavy brow and persistent stubble no matter the time of day. Tom and Nott were not present. Tom had apologised and explained that he had "important business", and Nott had simply scribbled "No" on the back of the message she'd written and dropped it in her lap on the way out of the classroom door.
Hermione squared her shoulders and wished she had some of Tom's magnetism, his ability to make up a speech in the Hogwarts Express Heads' compartment and have everyone hanging on to his every word. How did he do it? What did Tom have that she didn't? Tom looked people in the eyes (oh dear, the implications of that were awkward), his focus roved from person to person to reassure them that they had caught his notice, that he was listening; when he listened, he mirrored their words and posture with his own subtle touches of appreciation. And always maintained the superior position. He was the authority figure who doled out his divine wisdom, and they were the acolytes who came away grateful for getting anything at all.
Tom wasn't here, but she didn't want them to think of her as a Tom substitute. She didn't want to be regarded as if she had no inherent authority of her own, or that her first recourse was to run into Tom's arms and weep pitiful tears for being so poorly treated.
She drew her wand, and the boys sat up straighter, eyeing her with caution. Mulciber's hand drifted to his breast; bespoke robes had a narrow, rectangular breast pocket on the interior of the left or right side for holding wands, depending on one's dominant hand.
With a light flick, she cast a non-verbal Silencing Charm, muting the sighing and grunting of the customers a few tables over. Another flick, and she Levitated the glasses off a tray she'd organised earlier and directed one in front of each seat, followed by a generous pour from the bottle of Firewhisky; she chewed the inside of her lip while concentrating on not spilling the whisky or dropping the bottle. Travers had recommended she buy it from the bartender in the name of proper hospitality, mentioning that she had to follow a different protocol because she'd set the venue for Hogsmeade, and not their regular school classroom. If her invitation was accepted and she'd offered a drink, then the guests were expected to stay for at least as long as it took to finish. Travers hadn't elaborated on why that was. (Which was better than Nott at least, who would do the same thing, only with a rude insinuation or two.)
"This could be a matter of life and death," continued Hermione. "You've seen the Aurors about the castle. I've had tea with two of them. And I've come to the conclusion that the Ministry is aware of a danger to the public, even if they won't say what it is. They're so scared that they'll send Aurors to walk students, even adults like you and I—" she turned to each member of the club, hoping they couldn't see her nervous fingers gripping tightly to her wand—"to the Quidditch games in groups, as if they were expecting that someone who would brave the Hogwarts enchantments and attack students at the pitch could do it. I think we ought to be concerned about that. And I think we ought to be enterprising."
She paused, taking a sip of whisky from her glass and feeling it scorch her throat, filling her belly with a pleasant warmth. Summoning the conviction for which Tom had always praised her, she said, "If my life is in danger, I refuse to quietly sit down and be taken care of in the way the Ministry feels is best. But if you agree with the Ministry, then I won't insist you sacrifice the rest of your Hogsmeade visit for me. In that case, I will happily bid you a good day, with no ill feelings between us."
The Slytherin boys glanced around the table, then at her, but after each had taken his measure of the others, no one moved to leave. There was not even a single tentative chair scrape from someone attempting to bluff another into going first.
"Uh, Granger..." ventured Rosier, breaking the silence at last. "If what you said was true, what do you intend to do about it? Does Riddle know you're planning something?" He coughed and added, "Oh, and Quidditch dilettantes who think it's just a 'game', by the way, are wrong. It's not a game played for fun, because it's not about fun. It's about winning."
"Thank you, Rosier," said Hermione, giving him a polite nod. She wasn't sure if he'd personally called her a 'dilettante', but since it was related to Quidditch, she wasn't going to argue the point. "I intend to practice duelling. Not stage duelling from Professor Merrythought's club with the point tallies and penalty marks, but proper duelling to instill in ourselves the capacity to react and respond to real threats. Duelling with multiple partners against multiple opponents." Hermione remembered Tom teaching the others how to cast Shield Charms back in Fifth Year. "So far in Defence class, we've only been taught how to cast defensive shields for ourselves, and cast offensive spells at a practice dummy or one other student assigned as our class partner. That may well be appropriate for passing the standards set for the exams, but do you think this is how it would work in reality? Would any real opponent trying to catch you with a Diffindo stand still for you, because there are twenty other students in the room and he didn't want your spell to go flying off and hitting the person beside you? Would real enemies sort themselves into neat little age brackets to make sure it's fair?
"I've thought about it, and I'm sorry to say that as much as I like Professor Merrythought, the Defence classes aren't good enough. Even in our Homework Club lessons, once we'd mastered a spell in a controlled environment, we moved on to the next. It taught us little about our ability to use the spell when we really needed it, when we didn't have the time to think through our visualisations before casting."
"Oh," and Hermione said, as a brief afterthought, "Tom did tell me he approved, saying I was better suited to take the lead in this. He thinks that my patience is infinite relative to his own, and you would understand what he meant by that."
She refrained from quoting Tom's final words: And remember what I said about the chinless inbreds? If anyone should be putting them in their place, it's you. Trust me, Hermione, you'll have to learn to do it sooner or later.
At once, Hermione was assaulted by a volley of questions.
"Does this mean we can use spells outside the competition legal list?"
"How are we going to practice duelling in a classroom? It's too small for running around."
"Battlefield duellists use Unforgivables—are you and Riddle going to teach us?"
"Won't Riddle be sore if you get cursed in a duel?"
"One at a time, please," said Hermione. "I've decided that if we're to learn how to use area effect spells, the best place to do it is outside, on the grounds. The snow's melting, so we can go outside without having to choose between four layers of jumpers or freezing our toes off. I'll allow spells outside the student duelling list, and spells outside the Hogwarts curriculum. But you have to use sensible discretion; if you know your lack of experience with a spell will have a good chance of sending someone to the Hospital Wing, then the Hospital Wing must be able to fix it with no permanent harm done. Nothing that will send anyone to St. Mungo's—and definitely no Unforgivables!"
She sent a stern a glare around the table. "This practice is for our own benefit, so keep that in mind. It doesn't benefit you or me if we're expelled right before graduation for botching a spell that we didn't research before using it on another person. If an advanced spell needs that much control, then you should be practising your control before opening advanced-level spellbooks. Besides, if we're expelled, how will we take our N.E.W.T.s? We've been preparing for them for the past year and a half!"
"I don't mind missing my N.E.W.T.s," Avery offered.
"Well, I mind." To forestall any more arguments from that corner, Hermione said, "And so would Tom. He'd be very disappointed if he wasn't allowed to take his N.E.W.T.s because of something one of you did."
Before she answered more questions, Hermione took a roll of parchment out of her bag and presented it to the Slytherins. She'd written up a permission slip that laid out a few key points: that the members of the Homework Club who participated in "practical duelling" did so voluntarily, and entered with an understanding of the risks involved. If there were any unfortunate outcomes, then she and Tom couldn't be held liable for the damages. She'd remembered talking to Tom years ago about his writing essays for one of his dorm mates; back then, she'd worried that if one of them got caught, then Tom would be the one to face the consequences, because he'd lacked the name and standing to properly defend himself.
This permission slip was an assurance. Double insurance, since each signatory bore witness for the others, and there was a clearly delineated penalty clause. On the back of the page, in hidden runes, she'd marked out a variation of a compulsion enchantment she'd learned about when researching mind-control magic. If anyone knowingly broke the terms of the agreement, then the other signers would be compelled to shun him. Even if they dined together at a shared table, the oathbreaker would not be talked to or even looked at; he would be treated as worse than invisible.
"...I didn't want to do it," Hermione said apologetically, passing the parchment to Travers, who sat nearest to her. He signed, passed it to Rosier, then to Black, who took a few minutes to read the small print before signing his name with a flourish.
"Learning to duel is important, not just to me. And one of the fundamentals of team duelling is that we must be able to trust each other. We mightn't be at the same footing of blood-bound brothers—or blood sisters. Not today, or tomorrow. That's fine for now. But we should start somewhere, and I couldn't think of a more persuasive way to do it than a... a form of persuasion. Though the good news is," Hermione added, "you can leave the duelling practices and only come to the fortnightly meetings for textbook N.E.W.T. revision, and you won't be punished. So long as you hold to the terms of the agreement. If everyone keeps true to his word, then I'll destroy the parchment at the end of term."
Mulciber squinted at the parchment on the table in front of him. When Black prodded him and held out the inked quill, Mulciber studied Hermione with wary eyes. "What's your angle, Granger? What advantage to you get from this?"
"N.E.W.T. exams—"
"You want us to do stuff outside the textbooks. That's not on the exam, for any subject. If you want to think of yourself as my bound sister," Mulciber scoffed, "then have the grace to speak plainly to me, your favourite brother."
"I..." Hermione hesitated. Her plan had been to maintain the superior position, but her honest response was not that flattering. She knew that Tom would have found it easy to lie to retain his air of superiority. Hermione didn't want to. She had put that penalty in the contract, so if she was superior in some manner, then it wasn't moral superiority. "I think the world is a dangerous and unforgiving place. The quiet seclusion that Wizarding Britain has enjoyed for the past few decades has allowed people to forget something what once was, and should still be, a matter of common sense. If I should have to fight for my own survival, then I'll do it with the best chances I can, thank you."
"You take Arithmancy, that's like Divination but with squiggles and sums, isn't it?"
"Er, the 'squiggles' are Greek letters."
"Did you do a squiggle reading and foretell that Britain is going to war?" asked Mulciber.
"That's not how Arithmancy works," said Hermione. "But if I said yes, would you believe me?"
"I would, yeah."
"Then, yes, I believe there is a reasonable certainty that Britain's isolationist policy will reach a tipping point within the next year or so."
"Why didn't you just say so?" said Mulciber, finally taking the proffered quill from Orion Black. "You know, Granger, if any sister of mine was good at picking horses, then she'd be worth leaving on the tapestry, if you follow my lead."
"I'm pleased to hear it," Hermione awkwardly replied. "As a word of sisterly counsel: anyone with a consistent record of success at the races could make more money in other ways. The Daily Prophet's annual Grand Prize Draw or pound sterling-Galleon arbitrage, for instance. Um, not that I condone it or anything!"
Once she had finished the explanations and gotten the full set of signatures, the tension eased somewhat. It helped that the Firewhisky bottle had been passed around again, and Hermione, with a surreptitious peek around for the bartender, refilled it with a wave of her wand. It was impolite for guests at a drinking or dining establishment to magically duplicate their purchases, but the Firewhisky was rather dear. Although she had taken money out of her book budget to buy one bottle, Hermione hadn't accounted for how much the boys would put away, considering it was the middle of the day.
It wasn't a school day, she was informed, and that was the difference which mattered.
As the drink flowed, so did the conversation. Hermione took out a blank roll of parchment to jot down important ideas.
"My father told me that most wizards can't perform spells non-verbally to save their lives. If you Silence them before they can speak, you may have a chance to beat them even if they know more spells than you do," said Travers. "Even top wizards cast Unforgivables verbally. That's how they get convicted, witness testimonies from people who heard them."
"High level spells, or spells that require highly specific intents, are easier cast verbally," said Hermione. "If I wanted to Summon the bottle, I could say 'Accio Firewhisky' and it would work, because there's only one bottle. If I wanted a cup, then 'Accio cup' would be ambiguous, because there are seven of them here on the table. I would need to append the incantation with a direction or location, like 'Accio Rosier's cup'. Casting it silently requires a strong mental definition on who 'Rosier' is, and even more if his sister had joined us and there were two Rosiers."
Rosier said, "That would be hard to cast if you can't speak. Harder, even, if it was at night and you couldn't see..."
Black added his own contribution: "Anyone who can non-verbally cast Finite Incantatem is resistant to being Silenced."
"There are other ways to force a silence," Lestrange said. "My library at home has a book with pictures that shows you how to curse someone's mouth off. As in no mouth at all, just smooth skin, really eerie stuff. I wanted to try it out, but I couldn't make sense of the instructions—something about envisaging 'the malleability of Meissen dolls, wet in the mould'. Wet mould? What does that have anything to do with cursing off mouths?"
"Lestrange, you uncultured pig," Black said mockingly. "Meissen dolls are those expensive little chinaware figures old witches collect for their curio shelves. The best ones have had their animation charms going strong after two hundred years."
"How am I supposed to know that?" complained Lestrange. "My grandfather locked up the heirloom gallery years ago, after he caught me riding my broomstick in the house."
"I don't know," said Black with a shrug. "Try reading something other than a Quidditch magazine now and then; maybe you'll learn something."
"I do read things other than Quidditch magazines," Lestrange protested. "Actual books. You've seen me with a book, haven't you?" He turned around to Avery and Rosier, on either side of him.
"No," they both said.
"What about that book, the one I showed you?" asked Lestrange. In a lower voice, he added, "The one with the pictures."
"What book?" said Avery, looking confused.
"I don't know about any book," said Rosier, suddenly appearing very shifty.
"Oh, that book," said Avery, nodding sagely.
"Le Jardin Parfumé! The book with pictures of girls wearing barely a handkerchief to cover their bosoms—"
"I've never heard of such a disgusting book," Rosier announced loudly. "That sounds unspeakably vulgar and I definitely was not involved with it in any, way, shape, or form."
"Come off it, weren't you the one who asked to borrow it? When you gave it back a week later, I could tell by the spine how well-worn Chapter Nine was."
"That's slander, that is. Don't anyone hearken to the ramblings of a madman! Remember back in First Year, when Lestrange was convinced he was being cursed while he slept? Claimed someone had sneaked in and gave him that gimp leg of his, with all of us in the dormitory none the wiser. Mad, I tell you. Utter madness!"
The other boys watched the bickering with interest. Mulciber and Black, who had not been at Hogwarts when this "sleep curse" drama had apparently occurred, passed the whisky bottle with smirks on their faces.
"You need to take charge, if we're to ever get anything done," whispered Travers to Hermione. "Make them stop it."
"Why can't you do it?" she asked.
"I'd get pulled into it, too. But you won't; you're a girl," Travers muttered. "Riddle would have told them to sort themselves out or he'd sort it for them. Maybe you should do the same."
"Ahem," Hermione gave a light cough. When no one heeded her tactful cue, she drew her wand and non-verbally cast a Silencing Charm on the instigators of the quarrel. "Shall we return to the main subject? Theoretically, it should be possible to replicate the effect of cursing off an opponent's mouth with some form of partial human Transfiguration. As a Transfiguration, it's fully legal in exhibition duels, and like Lestrange's mouth curse, it takes more than a Finite to counteract it, because a completed Transfiguration is no longer bespelled. When the subject has finished its transformation, the spell is also finished.
"The really tricky part is that the target of the spell must perform the reverse Transfiguration non-verbally. Since that may be too advanced to start with, we'll have a trial practise of non-verbally countering a simple Silencing Charm and go on from there. Lestrange and Rosier," Hermione said, nodding at the two reddening faces glaring at each other, "you two can take the lead and demonstrate how it's done."
The meeting of the Homework Club continued on fairly smoothly. Hermione had noticed the existence of a natural competitiveness between the boys, which had emerged from its hibernation when it was noticed that there was no Tom Riddle to compete with. She tried to make use of it in teaching them how to take turns, because she couldn't think of any better means to motivate them. They weren't Ravenclaws; there was no inherent desire in them to seek knowledge for knowledge's sake. When Lestrange and Rosier had gotten their voices back, she allowed them to pick the next volunteers for non-verbal counterspelling and cast the Silencing Charms themselves, which they did with gleeful enthusiasm.
She even had a small competition where she Silenced all six of the boys and told them whoever annulled his spell first was the winner. And the winner's prize was the choice of who would get his mouth Transfigured off.
Hermione reminded herself that her instructional technique might have been unorthodox, but it wasn't cruel, because partial Transfigurations like this weren't painful. A bit itchy, a tad crawly, but not painful when performed by a competent caster, which she was. And while it was considered good form not to Transfigure other students against their will or as a punishment, the boys had signed the permission slip which stated they had joined the training without coercion or deception. As a preparation for the conditions of real combat, it would do them a disservice if they assumed anyone encountered on a magical battlefield believed in following the unspoken rules of good form and politeness. Let alone cared about handing around a permission form and performing the requisite ritual of bow and salute.
When lunchtime rolled around, one of the boys was sent to the Three Broomsticks to collect food for the group. When he came back with piping hot parcels of battered cod and chips wrapped in newspaper, Hermione posed another challenge: he who could not Conjure or Transfigure the paper wrappings into dishes and silverware for the meal must accede to eat with his hands off a greasy sheet of The Daily Prophet's society pages.
Eating vinegar-doused fried chips with one's fingers from a paper cone was a normal event in Muggle towns. The boys were horrified by the prospect; Hermione was amused that what she had thought of as a creative incentive, they saw as a monstrous punishment.
By the time the Aurors had arrived to escort the students back to Hogwarts, the group members had mastered the non-verbal counter to the Silencing Charm. Hermione encouraged them to practice non-verbal casting in their spare time, focusing on common household spells with Defence applications: Summoning, Banishing, Vanishing, and Switching.
"If you can't perform Mastery level extracurricular spells, it's alright. Try to think of other ways to replicate the effect. Conjuring a lifelike tiger to attack to your opponent is an example of highly advanced magic. As an alternative, you could Summon a branch, Transfigure it into a cat, Engorge the cat, then jinx it to attack at your direction. It's not as tidy or as spectacular as having a single specialised spell to do the job, but each of the components of the spell sequence is within reach for the N.E.W.T.-level student. If it works at saving your skin, then it hardly matters that it wasn't a dazzling piece of magic," Hermione said, twirling her wand to break the bubble of charmed Silence around the tavern table. "Oh, and next week, we shall begin our first field trials. If you insist on bringing the dazzle, however, that would be the appropriate opportunity to show off your skills. Perhaps if you do very well, you might even impress Tom."
On their return to the castle—where they were joined by Tom and Nott—they had their names ticked off a list by an Auror, before being sent to their dormitories to wash up for dinner. When Hermione and the Slytherins went their separate ways, she was treated with a few muttered 'Thanks, Granger's, with not even a hint of irony.
Ah, emotional growth. What sight could gladden the spirits quite like a heartfelt appreciation of learning?
.
.
At breakfast the next morning, the High Table was empty of Aurors, and the House tables were awash with owls.
Hermione's first notice of something odd was the clumps of students huddled in the corridors, whispering to each other as if the Hogwarts rumour mill had got its hands on some salacious news featuring a Slytherin Prefect and a Gryffindor Quidditch Captain having been caught in the Astronomy Tower past curfew. But as she neared the clusters and ordered them to move to the side and stop blocking the halls, she didn't hear the giggles and tittering that she'd expected. The general mood, she observed with curiosity, was one of trepidation and uncertainty.
The Ravenclaw dining table was quiet, which was not unusual, and occupied with students immersed in the day's newspaper, also not unusual. But this morning, it wasn't just the Ravenclaw table reading avidly, it was all four of the House tables, and the teachers, too.
"Don't you usually get the newspaper for the horoscope page?" Hermione remarked to her dorm mate, Twyla Ellerby, who was so intent on reading The Daily Prophet's cover story that her porridge had gone cold and grown a skin. "Did something happen yesterday? People normally aren't that interested in following current affairs."
"Oh, Hermione, it's dreadful news, really dreadful," Twyla replied excitedly. "I knew it was going to happen, naturally, after seeing the Grim in my tea leaves last week. The Grim!" The papers gave an exuberant rattle. "I'm going to write about it in this week's portents diary; I don't care that everyone else taking Divination is going to have the same entry."
"Write about 'it'?" Hermione said, trying to read through the shaking pages and animated photographs on the cover sheet of today's Daily Prophet. The jittering images and mismatched typefaces always gave her a headache; she preferred the London papers for a reason. "What exactly is 'it'?"
"The biggest news of the year!" said Siobhan Kilmuir, dropping into the bench on Hermione's other side, a wrinkled newspaper folded over her arm. "For my diary exercises, I kept drawing the Eight of Wands." At Hermione's blank stare, she elaborated: "That means important messages, swift changes, and depending on the moon phase, heeding the instincts of your inner eye. I didn't know what it meant until today, and then it struck me all at once! What else could it be? I ran to the Owlery this morning to tell Mum that my inner eye had opened, but there was a queue all the way down to the bottom of the stairs, so I couldn't get in. You'd think my Gift would warn me about that! Ah, but it can't be commanded; I am but its humble vessel in this mortal plane..."
"What's the news?" Hermione grabbed the newspaper off Siobhan's arm and read the headline. "Oh."
Under the masthead, the headline blared out in big black letters.
.
MINISTRY TAKEN BY STORM!
.
The animated feature photograph depicted a fantastical wintry landscape of falling snow under an evening sky, the snowdrifts lit by charming fairy lights that twinkled like lanterns in a cottage window. Then Hermione peered closer and noticed that the evening sky was, in fact, the dark tiles on the walls of the Ministry of Magic Atrium. And what she'd mistaken for fairy lights were distant spellbursts flying through the snow, taken from a photographer who hadn't dared to get too close to the action but nevertheless recognised the potential of a good composition.
.
The Ministry of Magic, London, 3PM.
Ministry officials detected the presence of two unidentified visitors yesterday afternoon, to which they immediately responded with an attempt at peaceful detainment. To the Ministry's dismay, these black-hooded visitors were disinclined to reveal their names or surrender their wands for weighing, and put up an energetic resistance to Atrium guards. A short verbal confrontation between the two parties resulted in a most impressive performance of the defensive arts within recent British history.
Madam Griselda Marchbanks, 79, Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority, described the event as "a magnificent demonstration of elemental magics raised to the pinnacle of their potential. This cannot be the capable handiwork of any workaday wizard, but one with a thorough understanding of magical principles combined with uncommon power and precision, considering the deliberate lack of human casualties. Simply beautiful charmwork; it would have been a great honour to have had this Charms Master as my student. Shame about the Atrium, though I have never liked the tile myself. It might be easy to keep scrubbed, but it is rather drab."
Mr. Sherwin Cutcheon, 47, Department Head of Magical Accidents of Catastrophes quoted, "Unfortunately, repairs for this incident will surpass the labour hours of routine assignments undertaken by the department. Because the individuals responsible charmed snow from a physical mist, unfreezing it resulted in an unavoidable cloud formation near the Atrium ceiling. Travellers, pleased be advised to carry umbrellas for the next week when commuting on Ministry business. We sincerely apologise for the inconvenience."
This feat of magic perhaps rivals the great wizarding duel of Godric's Hollow, which some readers may recall occurred during the summer of 1899 when...
.
Before Hermione could read the rest of the story under the fold line, the newspaper was snatched out of her hands.
"Hey!" said Siobhan. "You should get your own paper, I'm not finished reading it!"
Surveying the Ravenclaw table, Hermione saw that there were no abandoned newspapers; students who didn't have their own papers huddled in groups of two or three around someone who did have a Daily Prophet. She could have, in the name of the Head Girl, demanded a lower-year student surrender his paper, but she thought it a judicious decision not to encourage defiance to authority on the day when Authority had had a great blow struck against it. And it was also a misuse of her position, of course.
She looked across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, where it appeared that Tom hadn't any reservations about using his own authority to commandeer a newspaper from a fellow student. The Slytherins were more subdued in their reactions than the other Houses, and Tom's Slytherin group in particular seemed as if they were hanging on fretful tenterhooks for Tom to finish perusing the paper and divulge his personal opinion on the events. Tom himself was not visibly peturbed by the news; with one hand, he wandlessly stirred a spoon in lazy circles in his teacup, while the other turned the pages of his newspaper. The corner of his mouth was quirked in a small, self-satisfied smile, but that wasn't an unusual expression in Tom's limited range of publicly demonstrable emotions. From knowing him for so long, Hermione could only guess that Tom was amused; something in the paper had tickled his rather elusive and incomprehensible funny bone.
(Contrary to expectations, Tom did have a funny bone. Most of the time, she hardly noticed it because it had a habit of being annoyingly cryptic. But then when she did notice it, it often came with an equal helping of regret. Tom Riddle's sense of humour, like the rest of his unique attributes, was... "special".)
Well, thought Hermione, I don't suppose I have another choice.
She picked up her breakfast plate and marched over to the Slytherin table. When Tom noticed the shadow looming over his newspaper, he glanced up and saw it was Hermione.
To the large and ravenous forms of Lestrange and Avery at either elbow, Tom gave a single curt order.
"Move."
The occupants of the bench seats shifted down with a handful of suppressed grumbles, but soon there was room enough for Hermione to put down her plate of eggs on toast next to Tom's. Tom made sure he didn't sit on the hem of her skirt when she plopped herself in the spot next to his; Hermione ensured she wasn't sitting on his robes and pressing them into wrinkles—one of the rare crimes worthy of subtracting points from Tom's own House. Hermione Summoned a clean cup and saucer from the stack in the centre of the long table, and Tom poured perfectly steeped tea from his own pot, kept under a Stasis Charm, and the exact amount of milk she preferred, followed by a wandless stir. They didn't even need to speak to enact such a scene of easy domesticity, borne from years of habit.
"You must have been wondering what I make of all this," said Tom, gesturing at the open newspaper. "Oh, and good morning to you too, Hermione."
"It goes without saying that Britain, with bated breath, awaits what you of all people think about anything," said Hermione. "Good morning, Tom."
"See, Nott? This is what an exemplary minion looks like." Tom spoke over the table to Nott, who was glowering at his own newspaper. Then he turned to Hermione and said, "The Ministry couldn't keep itself from flailing frantically to avoid accusations of incompetence, and the reporting was so credulous it was like they had no other choice but to nod along. They're relying on outsider quotations to maintain the impression of even-handedness in praising the heroes along with the Ministry. I don't envy the editor in his effort to balance the tightrope between All Is Well from the Minister's office, and The Sky Is Falling headlines that sell out before noon."
Tom made a scoffing noise, then turned to the front page, pointing to the secondary story under the fold, entitled UNLIKELY HEROES?
"They should have led with the Prince," said Tom. "Everyone knows the Ministry's strategy with bad news is to deny and deny until it's forgotten by tomorrow's bad news. It's not news; it's the standard operating procedure. The Prince is the real news!"
The Prince, as it turned out, was the identity of one of the mysterious "visitors" to the Ministry, which was revealed in a shocking twist was not two people, but three. The third visitor was the true villain of the entire saga, a foreign saboteur who had not been known as anything but a quiet and unremarkable contract labourer. The story had not elaborated on what it meant by "foreign", but had briefly mentioned that the DMLE, under orders from the Minister's office, was planning to rush the foreign agent into a Wizengamot trial and a sentence of "The Kiss". The self-proclaimed Prince, who had taken it upon himself to perform an unconventional citizen's arrest, had written a letter to The Daily Prophet to defend his personal actions. This letter was printed on the second page.
.
To the Daily Prophet,
There are few who represent the best interests of the British public as admirably as you do. If it obliges you to overlook our presumption, then perhaps you may see us as equals in that regard.
As a token of this regard, from equal to equal, we present you with information that you may find unexpectedly illuminating. Enclosed below are a pair of extracted memories.
With fond hopes for a future co-operation,
The Prince of Charming
and
The Green Knight
P.S. The DMLE has received the same information. If their story is inconsistent, you will know.
P.P.S. This message has been imbued with an Anti-Tampering Jinx.
.
Beneath that was a lifelike sketch of the two Unlikely Heroes, the hooked and cloaked figures who called themselves Knight and Prince, wands upraised and veiled in swirling eddies of animated snowflakes. One was taller than the other, and his wand was of a lighter wood, which was a bit unusual, wasn't it? Most wands, like her own, were in some shade of brown. But it was hard to be certain, as the picture was an engraving shaded with black ink cross-hatching, and the only real information she could glean from it was that both were male adults. With their choice of names, that wasn't surprising.
.
The Prophet anticipates a formal investigation to be conducted by the DMLE at their earliest convenience. We shall relay faithfully to our readers official developments as they are brought to light, in the spirit of our unwavering service to the public interest. To the Prince and the Knight: we cordially impart our sincere intentions to represent your words and endeavours in the spirit in which they were expressed to us. We hope to maintain an amicable correspondence, and desire that one day, should you wish to claim your heroic dues, you may allow us to bear this news to the public for whom we both strive, most loyally, to be of use.
.
"Well?" Tom demanded, waiting for Hermione to finish reading. "What do you think?"
"Hmm," said Hermione, taking a drink of her tea. "I think that, without the evidence of extraordinary magical feats, most people would laugh at the prospect of a wizard calling himself a 'Prince'. Noble titles are a Muggle affectation, at least in Britain—although Mr. Pacek has said things are different in the territories of the former Holy Roman Empire, with their system of partible inheritance. Few wizards care for titles because it requires involvement in Muggle politics, and often swearing fealty to Muggle rulers. Even fewer self-respecting wizards would care to be at the beck and call of a Muggle who wants all his problems solved with magic—Chapter 23, A History of Magic. Historically, English wizards with noble titles were granted them by Muggles: Sir Nicholas was knighted by King Henry VII, the Bloody Baron was ennobled by William II, and Lady Luckless from The Fountain of Fair Fortune married a Muggle knight. The Hogwarts Founders didn't even use titles; they chose to let their abilities and accomplishments speak for themselves. And one of the lessons of the Merlin story is that he legitimised Arthur, a Muggle boy, as the rightful king instead of taking it for himself.
"The small group of British wizards who might be interested in perpetuating a hierarchy of fictional styles have very little in common with the group who would want to loudly announce their close relations with Muggles. And furthermore, in a post-Statute of Secrecy era where wizards are completely divorced from Muggle politics by necessity and interest, claiming lordly and princely titles is an act of tasteless pretension."
She heard Nott snicker into his breakfast, "As usual, more verbose than necessary. And as usual, she's right."
Tom stiffened and his dark eyes narrowed with displeasure. Nott's snickering fell silent.
"Are you saying that the Prince and the Knight are trying to ape Muggles, then?" asked Tom.
"If they had simply called themselves 'Prince' and 'Knight', I would believe so," said Hermione. "But they didn't choose the titles by themselves, they're one part of the total appellation. It's not so much a title as a literary reference: Prince Charming and the Green Knight! They're not exactly the type of names meant as a declaration of self-important grandiosity or to strike fear in the hearts of men. The names are meant to... to evoke whimsy, to intentionally draw reference to the themes and motives of the originals."
"It's 'The Prince of Charming'," Tom corrected her, with the grammatical pedantry of which Hermione was more frequently accused. "Not 'Prince Charming'!"
"Oh," said Hermione, "Yes, you're right. I wonder what that means. Why not go with the more famous literary pseudonym, Prince Charming? It's an odd choice, isn't it?"
"I don't think it's that odd," remarked Tom. "If we're talking about the structure of noble styles, the 'of' indicates a nobleman's fiefdom, his domain of ownership. The Prince of Charming isn't a charming prince prancing about at tourneys. He's the Princeps, the first and foremost, in Charms spellwork. It is quite obvious to anyone who stops and thinks about it!"
Hermione frowned. "You sound like you admire him."
"Anyone who embarrasses the Ministry, gets away with it, and is praised for it the next day by the papers sounds pretty admirable," said Tom. "What are your thoughts, Nott? Do you think the Green Knight wishes he had chosen a grander title for himself?"
Nott shrugged, jabbing his fork at the coddled egg perched atop his black pudding. "I think his story speaks for itself. 'Thou art confessed so clean; I holde thee polished of that plight, and pured as clean'. A man who confesses of his failures to the knight in green shall be purged of his sins. Given a reward of purification. It's an appropriate name for someone who obtains confessions at the point of a blade, or a wand, in his case. It's not meant to be a grand title, it's symbolic. Some of us, unlike others, can appreciate the merits of subtle symbolism."
"If it's too subtle, no one will understand it," said Tom. "They wrote to The Daily Prophet; the readers' understanding of subtlety barely surpasses that of the average household boggart. Any more than that, and it goes right over their heads. Did you understand it, Hermione?"
"I assumed it was a reference to the Arthurian tale about Sir Gawain," said Hermione. "I know the Arthurian romances are one of the few Muggle stories wizards enjoy, because the setting is magical. The Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts puts on a Camelot-themed production nearly every year because it brings in the rich patrons. In our Fifth Year, it was The Lake of Shining Waters, about Elaine of Shalott. In Sixth Year, they had... oh! Le Chevalier Vert. Perhaps the mysterious Green Knight is a patron of wizarding theatre. That explains making such a big scene in the Ministry, of all places. It's a show. And we, along with the British public, are to provide his audience and applause."
Tom's expression was thoughtful. "What's made you so cynical, Hermione? That's my job. Or was, if you've decided that it's a better fit for you."
"Having one's darkest suspicions granted a firm confirmation tends to do that," said Hermione. "Doesn't it make you the least bit discouraged to know that the largest employer in the country has had their duties upstaged by two anonymous wizards playing out their own folk hero fairy story? Then when they're asked about it, the government pretends nothing is wrong, and even if there are problems, we shouldn't be worried. Given the facts, we end up with two possible paths: rational cynicism and blissful ignorance. Neither of them are particularly enjoyable to walk."
Hermione took a deep breath, feeling a great weariness descend upon her, not far removed from how she'd felt standing over the unconscious body of Roger Tindall, on the floor of the Riddle family's billiards room. It was the uncomfortable cognizance that the life she wished she could have had—a quiet and peaceful existence of learning at her own pace, on subjects that she was personally interested in, rather than those that were selected for their necessity and practicality—was a fragile illusion. In Obliviating Roger that night, she had chosen to uphold the illusion of being removed from a war that had nothing to do with her.
The reason, she had discerned, was due to her own nature. She was not one who sought conflict; there was no honour to it by which she felt bound. Conflict was unpredictable. Messy and disorganised and painful, even for those on the sidelines. There was no glory to tempt her, only a burden to be shouldered.
And the news of the morning? This was conflict baring its face to the daylight. She could refuse to involve herself one time, but that was no permanent dismissal. It would come again, and again, and at one critical moment there would be no choices anymore.
Reading the newspaper, she felt that moment approaching, and some part of her wanted to retreat to her parents' arms and let them tell her it wasn't right, it wasn't fair, that their daughter should have to bear it when it was supposed to be someone else's task. Allow those with the proper accreditations and the correct jurisdictional authority to take charge. Wasn't that the most logical solution? Who was she to know better than those with credentials and expertise? Another part of her, the voice of pragmatism that had stopped complaining about Tom sneaking into her bed during summer holidays, reminded her that those same people were not worth depending on.
Under the table, Tom's hand drifted across to her side, and with the thin stocking separating her flesh from his hot palm, he gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. She turned to him with a question on her lips, and saw that while his expression on the surface appeared mild, his dark eyes were sharp as flint.
"No," said Tom firmly, "I've changed my mind. You're not suited for cynicism at all. I don't like it on you, and you don't enjoy it either, so I think it best that you dispense with it for good and leave it for others to whom it's more tolerable of a habit."
"You won't 'allow' me to be cynical?" said Hermione, with much incredulity. "For your information, Tom, I can be as cynical as I want to be."
"Yes, I know, the Head Girl can do as she pleases; that's the rule," said Tom patiently. His hand still lingered on her knee. "But just because she can, doesn't means she has to—is that not the emotional growth that you commended me for only yesterday? You shouldn't want to be cynical, that's the thrust of it. Other people can be cynical, but not you.
"Your father lent me books on Greek and Latin years ago," Tom said, turning in his seat to face her. "In one of them, Plato said in his Laws that honour was derived from wicked souls following the good counsel of their betters, because the soul's divine inclination is to bend toward virtue. Greek virtue, which meant the blessings of being just but gentle, wise and fair. Without the gentle souls, the wicked ones would be irredeemable." He lowered his voice, and with his eyes fixed so intently on hers that she couldn't bring herself to look away, he murmured, "Plato wrote that the wicked were of a self-serving nature. What if I've a wicked soul, Hermione? Without you, who would be my good counsel?"
"Tom," said Hermione, shaking her head, "life isn't a theoretical experiment like Plato's utopia. I can't help it if I don't feel blessed and fair every single day. It's an unreasonable expectation to have."
"Perhaps you can't help it," Tom replied. "But I can. You haven't forgotten that you're my foil, have you, Hermione? We're supposed to be of complementary natures, not one and the same."
"If only I could forget," Hermione sighed, refilling her cup from Tom's teapot. It was the perfect temperature of hot but not too hot, a reflection of Tom's insistence that everything had to follow a certain order, the way it was "supposed to be". That supposed ideal, of course, was decided by Tom himself.
Tom must have realised that the Slytherins sitting at their end of the table had been listening intently to their discussions, eager to hear an intelligent opinion on the news. The news discussion had wandered into personal waters, but that hadn't stopped them from listening. It was clear that the personal lives and feelings of the Head Boy and Head Girl were just as, if not more, fascinating than the news that Grindelwald had moved pieces on a chessboard that the Ministry had for the past decade declared did not exist.
"What, is the Hogwarts breakfast not up to par?" Tom snapped, glaring around the table.
With a clatter of silverware, breakfast resumed. For a short while, the illusion of normality was upheld. The background conversations resumed. Hermione finished her toast and drank her tea. Tom put aside his newspaper and talked about the research he was doing for his next published article. When the dishes disappeared, signalling that mealtime had drawn to its close, Tom offered her his arm and escorted Hermione to her next class, Muggle Studies, which he didn't share.
They discussed his latest subject of interest on the walk. "Wedding season is coming soon, and the editor wants me to focus on preparing for society weddings. Black and Prewett marry in August; that's the highlight of the season. It's also the season for blooming, and it's considered bad luck for brides to use Conjured bouquets for their arrangements. Cheap, too, but Witch Weekly's too tasteful to point that out directly, so we write 'Whatever will the neighbours think?' and let the readers fill in the blanks. Oh, and when I was looking for information in the library the other day, I happened upon the most diverting read: Magical Matrimonials. Have you read it?"
"No, I haven't," said Hermione, "But then again, I haven't poked around in the wizarding culture section since Second Year. I found that the information in the law and justice section was more concrete and useful. Did you find anything valuable?"
"Some interesting features on the nuances of wizarding marriages," said Tom casually, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "Did you know that when a wizard takes a wife, it's expected for his home to be hers? And that her happiness is to be his as well?"
"That does sound... interesting." Hermione was puzzled at the direction of the conversation. "It's not dissimilar to Muggle wedding vows, so I can't see why this is new information to you."
"The difference is that wizarding vows are made with magical intent," said Tom. "I didn't understand what their purpose was until this morning, and then it became clear. If a witch's happiness is her husband's delight, then it stands to reason that your unhappiness becomes my sorrow. I know I was a bit, well, officious about it at breakfast, but I don't like it when you're cynical because it's unpleasant for the both of us. You know about my inborn gift, how I can feel things from others without meaning to, when they're lying or truthful. I... Hermione, I felt your unhappiness, and in that moment, your unhappiness was my unhappiness."
He stopped, and Hermione, holding onto his arm, was jerked to a halt mid-stride. Tom leaned in close, and in a low voice, said, "I would wish for your happiness, Hermione. I've never put much by ancient tradition or dusty convention, but I see the heart beneath the rules and rituals—the true intent."
"O-oh," stuttered Hermione. "I should wish happiness for you in turn, Tom. Of course I would."
"I'm heartened to hear it," Tom said, giving her a toothy, gleeful smile he never showed in public, the one she saw when he'd talked his way into a blank Restricted Section pass and the librarian could do nothing about it. "And very glad that you know the words of the witch's vow without having read the book, which means you could skip the rehearsals if you wanted it. Ah, Hermione, I always knew, from the first time we met..." He trailed off, his voice soft and thoughtful. "Huh, so the book was right about the husband's delight. It is real."
"Tom," Hermione said, frowning. "I think this conversation has drifted away from the article you were writing."
"I'll keep it between us, don't worry. No one else deserves to hear about my feelings," Tom reassured her. He let go of her arm and with one hand, cupped her cheek in his palm. Looking closely into her eyes, he whispered, "Do you know what else I learned from the book?"
Hermione gazed up at him, his dark eyes and black pupils that wanted to swallow her up. She couldn't feel the tickling sensation in the back of her mind like the Occlumency book had described; he wasn't actively using Legilimency. She could only feel the tickle of her hair being swept gently aside by his fingers. "What did you learn, Tom?"
"If a witch's happiness is her husband's delight," he said, "then her pleasure is his satisfaction."
Tom pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, right beside her mouth, and withdrew his embrace, leaving Hermione flushed and trembling against the cold stone wall. She was short of breath, and her heart fluttered far too quickly, and she almost wanted to call Tom back—
To explain what he meant by such ambiguous words!
When he walked away, chuckling quietly to himself, Hermione remembered the time and stumbled to Muggle Studies in a daze. Clarence Fitzpatrick had reserved her a seat in the front row, and while moving his bookbag off the bench to make room, he noticed her pink cheeks and rumpled hair. Absent-mindedly, Hermione ran a hand through her fringe. Tom had stolen her hairclip, for some reason.
"Were you upset about the news this morning, too?" asked Clarence. "It was such a shock when I saw the papers..."
And in the span of a few seconds, the fragile illusion of relative normality wisped away into thin air.
.
.
Over the next few days, The Daily Prophet published more information on the Ministry investigation.
Mr. Vajkard Kozel was a genuine saboteur, and his target wasn't an empty threat to proliferate distrust and hysteria amongst the British public. The Department of Magical Games and Sports had called an indefinite postponement of the British Quidditch League season, to the great disappointment of sports enthusiasts who wrote many irate Letters to the Editor. (There were even a few transcribed Howler messages, with the swear words censored out for propriety's sake.)
A few details of Mr. Kozel's ward disruption scheme had been analysed by professionals, who had unanimously agreed that his idea of inserting his own enchantments within an existing enchantment structure were somewhat experimental. But as the experiment was based on established concepts of wardcrafting they were, in theory, achievable.
Hermione devoured the "ward within a ward" schematic explanations, and applied it to her personal project of preparing for the Homework Club's upcoming field practicals. She read that it was possible to define the boundaries of an independent ward contained within another ward created by someone else, if one ensured that the interior ward's definitions were carefully written without direct contradiction to the superior ward's fundamental intent. That was how the enchantments in the Headmaster's Office worked, she found out. The Common Room fireplaces couldn't be used to Floo elsewhere, but the Headmaster's could, because there was an inner layer in the Office that gave permission but didn't oppose the greater directive laid by the Founders, of protection.
With this in mind, she created a set of seven wooden stakes carved with runic incantations, to replicate the "inner layer" effect. This boundary, when spells were directed at it, would absorb the magical energy and disperse it into the outer layer. Anyone inside the boundary defined within the stakes casting Blasting Curses would not have his curse whizz out and hit random students walking to Herbology or Flying Class, an incident which would put paid to their extracurricular learning exercises. If a stray curse was not absorbed by another wizard's Shield Charm or Conjured physical barrier, then upon reaching the bounded line, it would be sucked in by the nearest stake and directed into the earth that it was pounded into, all of which was contained within the wards set over the Hogwarts grounds.
It was a rough idea, but it worked, with certain restrictions. Hermione needed level ground with a deep enough layer of earth, and a heptagonal area large enough for half a dozen adult wizards to run about without tripping over each other's robes. That wasn't so easy to find, and it forced Hermione to venture, rather regretfully, from her favourite library table and into the fresh air of the outdoors to find the right location. That was not an easy task in a school located in the highlands of Scotland; she hoped the Slytherins would appreciate her sacrifice.
So she rambled the heathered hills, as the Scottish poets described the miserable chore, homemade plumb bob in hand. On one morning, however, she couldn't help but notice Rosier walking the path from the castle to the Quidditch Pitch. He had a pair of opera glasses danging from a strap on his wrist, and wore his outdoor clothing of Slytherin scarf and winter-weight woollen cloak. It being the natural thing to do, she followed him and found him sitting in the Slytherin section of the stands, glumly watching the Hufflepuff Quidditch team fly laps around the perimeter of the field.
Sebastian Rosier was a young man of lean proportions, his hair an indeterminate shade from the patent leather-like slick of hair lotion applied with too liberal a hand. His skin was perpetually wind-chafed on the cheeks and nosebridge, and his eyes were a shrewd and searching dark blue that, when she faced him in a duel, leapt from face to wand to feet and back again with an alarming rapidity. He had better reflexes than most in their little group, almost as good as Tom (who cheated by reading his opponents' intentions with his special abilities).
She assumed that with those reflexes, Rosier knew someone had climbed up the creaky wooden steps to the top of the stands. She saw him twitch a little hearing her footsteps, and his head jerked to the side, but he didn't turn around to look.
"Good morning, Rosier," said Hermione.
"Granger," he said. "Not a day finer, I'll wager. Have you finally come around to studying the marriage of grace and beauty that is this peerless sport? Seventh Year is a bit late, but better late than never." In an unhappy grumble, he added, "So says the Department of Magical Games and Sports."
"Is that why you're here?" Hermione asked. "The beauty of the sport?"
There was a brief lull in their conversation as they observed the Hufflepuff Seeker attempt a low, stooping dive. He couldn't pull up his broomstick fast enough at the bottom of the dive, and was flung off the broom and into the sand at the base of the goalhoops. It looked painful; when one of the Chasers alighted to help the Seeker get up, he was walking bow-legged. Rosier gave a sympathetic wince.
"I'm absorbing as much Quidditch into my veins as I can, before the end of the term," said Rosier. He held his arms out, as if he was basking in the rosy glow of subatomic Quidditch particles emitted by the Hogwarts school pitch. "This year's British League Championship is dead. The Ministry killed it. Come July, there won't be any professional games to attend. No League Cup, and I had sixty Galleons riding on the winner. Probably no job for me at the DMG&S when I graduate, either."
Rosier continued to grumble, his voice growing louder and louder as he spoke. "The Minister's a useless bungler. That Kozel fellow is a loose-hafted knave, a fiend of the lowest order. A wretched cocklorel, is Grindelwald. How could he do this to me? Fuck him. Fuck Grindelwald. There, I said it! I'm not taking it back!" He was shouting by now. "FUCK GRINDELWALD!"
The Quidditch players stopped mid-air and stared at the Slytherin stands.
Rosier coughed lightly, and in his normal voice said, "Pardon my French, Granger." To the Hufflepuffs, he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "CARRY ON! BURROWES, DROP SPEED AND BRACE YOURSELF ON THE FOOTRESTS WHEN YOU PULL UP, DON'T LEAN ON THE NOSE!" At Hermione's reaction, Rosier shrugged. "If you can't dance on air as easily as you breathe it, you're not worthy of calling yourself a Quidditch player. Sometimes I don't know why I bother."
"Er, that makes sense," said Hermione, gingerly taking the spot on the bench beside him and casting a Warming Charm over her robes. She settled in to watch the Hufflepuffs engage in some basic flying drills. For a while neither she nor Rosier said anything.
After ten minutes of silent appreciation of amateur student athletes who were in every way better at flying than Hermione ever could be, she posed a question. "Why do you think he targeted Montrose? I looked it up in the almanac of wizarding geography, and Montrose is a tiny village. Not even a real village, just a satellite neighbourhood with a handful of streets attached to a Muggle town. It's not a true mixed town like Godric's Hollow, or an independent village like Hogsmeade."
"Were I the loyal minion of a Dark Lord, Montrose would be the place I'd go for," replied Rosier. "Looking at the recorded league standings, the Montrose Magpies are consistently at the top of the chart, placing in between first and fourth every year, depending on how hard the manager is willing to burn out the current crop of players. Year to year, they rival the Irish for the title of most Championship trophies in the league. This year, they were ranked number two, next to one of the Irish teams.
"If the league final wasn't cancelled by the Ministry, it'd most likely come down to the Magpies and the Ballycastle Bats. The DMG&S would have chosen Montrose as the stadium venue. They never pick the Irish stadiums, given the choice. It's a matter of logistics." Rosier glanced at Hermione's puzzled expression. "Come on, Granger, put yourself in the mind of a minion. You can figure it out!"
"Um," Hermione ventured, "Ballycastle's in Northern Ireland... Do they not want to deal with hordes of Republicans crossing the border to watch the game? No, wizards don't separate the island, it's just one Ireland to them."
"It's an island," Rosier said. "That's why. English, Scottish, and Welsh wizards can't Floo across the sea. Few wizards can Apparate across the sea either, especially not the parents with children to Side-Along. The families are the ones who buy all the souvenir pennants and toy miniatures, so the League knows it's best to keep them satisfied. To get the spectators over to Ireland, the Ministry would have to pay for and provide Portkeys, and that's too expensive for anything but a World Cup. So they'll pick the team stadium in Britain proper and make the Irish wizards ride the ferry.
"This year, if it was down to the Magpies versus the Bats, there would be five thousand wizards crammed into a stadium. A stadium attached to a Muggle town. Then once you dismantle the structural wards, the Muggle-repelling enchantments would go too, and the Muggles would bear witness to five thousand wizards trapped in a collapsing stadium. Imagine the chaos if you added a few Anti-Apparition Jinxes at the right places in the stands. Splinching galore." Rosier grimaced. "If your goal was to cause a rupture in the state of wizarding secrecy, then that would be a job done well, wouldn't it?"
Hermione blinked. "That's... a surprisingly insightful analysis."
"I may not spend all my recreational hours in the library, but I do read a book every now and then," said Rosier reproachfully. "Some of the books have big words and no pictures, even. I got an Exceeds Expectations for my Arithmancy O.W.L.s, so I must be doing something right."
"Oh, yes," said Hermione. "We're in Arithmancy together. You and Nott sit behind me and Tom in class. Since we're here, do you mind having a look at a personal project I'm working on? It's for the duelling practice I'm organising for next week."
From her bag, she pulled out the seven carved wooden stakes of her portable warding scheme. It was a little like the altered Poacher's Pall ward she'd written in the snow years ago, during the tentative first stages of her misadventures with Nott. Unlike typical household wards, the effect boundary created by the stakes wasn't permanently anchored and didn't require the enchantments to be broken to nullify the effects; all one had to do was pull up the stakes and pack them away.
She gave a short explanation of their purpose, skimming briefly over the admission that she'd been inspired by the work of the "loose-hafted knave" that Rosier had earlier derided. Rosier seemed to have understood the implication, for his eyebrows rose when she mentioned reading about the technique from the newspaper, but he didn't condemn her for it, or even offer more commentary than a shrugged, "Well, as needs must."
Rosier picked up a stake and inspected the carvings, rolling it over in his palms to inspect the handiwork. Seven stakes, each planed with seven flat sides that narrowed into a sharp point.
"If you need help with Ancient Runes, you should ask Nott," said Rosier. "My electives are Divination and Arithmancy. He does Runes and Arithmancy. I know the fundamentals of enchanting, but don't ask me to translate a runic Edda; I wouldn't know where to start."
"I wanted to ask about Arithmantic properties, actually," said Hermione. "Wenlock's Numerologia advises the use of seven, or multiples of seven, as a stable basis for applying enchantments. I used seven stakes, with seven sides, and seven runes per side. Is that the typical way wizards stabilise magic imbued into physical objects?"
"Not always," Rosier said. "There are other magical numbers in other syllabaries: three, five, eight, and nine. Magical times of the year, the high solstices and equinoxes. Intrinsically magical ingredients used as the medium, such as ink brewed from mandrake charcoal or dragon's blood, keystone tablets masoned from ancient menhirs—similar to Potions in that manner, where you could also draw power from a wizard's blood and bone, but we all pretend it's a hypothetical exercise and no one would really do it.
"And then there's my preference," he continued, and Hermione wished he would slow down so she could pull out her notebook and save his words for later study. "The use of numbers of personal significance to the subject. For an Arithmantic prediction meant to calculate the ebbs and flows of your own path, you'd use your own birthdate and the planets in your cosmic alignment. For an enchantment meant to be placed within the physical bounds of Hogwarts, you might draw on the number four for its magical significance, which in this specific context has more power than seven. Four Founders, associated with four elements of earth, water, air, and fire. Linked to the four cardinal directions." He rubbed the back of his neck and admitted, "This would have worked with four stakes instead of seven, you know. And saved you half the effort."
"Oh," said Hermione, "I copied the structure from the textbook, and the idea came from the newspaper article. I didn't know about the personalised magical significance; the book never mentioned it."
"It's a concept from advanced level Divination," Rosier explained. "Arithmancers and Diviners don't get on; they have a long-standing intellectual rivalry where Arithmancy claims to be an evidentiated science, but Divination is vague dream interpretations. While the Diviners say they're artists of reading the truth of the soul, and Arithmancers are wasting their time trying to calculate how many souls can fit on the head of a pin. Of course an Arithmancy textbook wouldn't mention Divination ideas; individual significance ruins the rule of replicability that Arithmancers revere."
Hermione found the conversation fascinating, though she had strong feelings about the importance of replicability. If everyone got a different answer each time, how would anyone be able to know who was wrong or right? You couldn't check someone's work if it was based purely on interpretation! That was worse than Tom's habit of calculating Arithmantic operations in his head instead of committing them to paper. At least he arrived on a consistent answer that followed a series of logical steps that he could explain and repeat.
Had she been discussing the subject with Tom, she didn't think Tom would have had as much esoteric knowledge as Rosier. Tom's electives were Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures, not Divination. She had no experience in Divination herself, and wasn't impressed by the "wooliness" that so intrigued her dorm mates, but she could with some accuracy predict that Tom's answer to the Arithmancer-Diviner rivalry fell squarely on which one would be most useful in serving his personal goals. He was a very single-minded thinker in that way.
(She could also divine why Tom and Rosier weren't truly "friends", despite Rosier's passion for certain aspects of magical theory. Maths was a rare interest among wizards, who were as a whole not particularly logically minded. But Rosier liked odds and algorithms because his goal was to gamble well. He didn't care much for their Arithmancy class projects because they had nothing to do with his sporting passions or lining his own pocket. This did not make him good "Foil" material, by anyone's estimation.)
"Knowing so much about Divination and Arithmancy, I'm surprised you got an Exceeds Expectations instead of Outstanding in your O.W.L.s," said Hermione.
"That's why I got an EE," said Rosier. "The Arithmancy examiners don't like when students wander outside the proofs and set theorems. They believe the result of diluting the purity of the discipline is a profane abomination of empiricalised soothsaying. Uncanny and untrustworthy. Given the existence of Quodpot, I hardly think they'd recognise a profane abomination if they saw one." His eyes narrowed, and then suddenly he dragged Hermione to the side and shoved her to the floor of the stands, his cloak falling over her face and his weight heavy on her back.
Hermione groaned. "What—"
A thunderous crack sounded above them, and Rosier hissed in pain.
The weight disappeared as Rosier leapt up. Drawing his wand, he bellowed at the Hufflepuff Quidditch players, "FOUL PLAY! THAT'S A FOUL, HURLEIGH, YOU DIRTY, DIRT-GRUBBING BADGER! TEN POINTS FROM HUFFLEPUFF!"
When Hermione picked herself up from the floor, she saw that the row of seats above theirs had a hole smashed into it from a poorly-aimed Bludger. Rosier's cloak was covered in wooden splinters. Down below, Hurleigh, the Hufflepuff Beater, was being lectured by his Captain.
"Is this the marriage of grace and beauty you were talking about earlier?" asked Hermione innocently, drawing her own wand to clean off Rosier's robes. "Turn around," she ordered, and began vacuuming splinters out of Rosier's shiny, brilliantined hair.
"Yes," said Rosier, bending down so Hermione could reach the top of his head, "but I didn't say 'peace and harmony', so I'm not wrong. It's a marriage, what did you expect?"
.
.
Note:
— On Slytherin characterisation: In the books, Slytherins aren't refined, super-aristocratic mini politicians, they're dumb kids who can be as mean, petty, stupid as any other Hogwarts House. Some are nice, some are selfish, but they're all human. This is how I write them here, with the added 1940's too-posh-to-live British boarding school flavour. There is no Lord Malfoy or Lord Black, that isn't canon. The only "Lord" from the books is Voldemort, and there's a reason why he chose a title: it's grandiose, rare, and breaks the norms of wizarding society. This is why BoaF Tom wants to be a "Prince", based on the Latin root "Princeps", meaning "first and foremost". He is addicted to Roman statue shitposting and Machiavelli (see Chapter 43).
— In a setting where every other pureblood was a powerful political mastermind "Lord" or "Heir", I don't see any justifiable reason why they would follow around Tom Riddle, random orphan half-blood claiming to be a Lord and Heir himself. It just doesn't make sense to me. I think the canon explanation makes more sense if the original Knights of Walpurgis were regular schoolboys who didn't really like each other and would never form a group organically, but met a Tom Riddle with a level of intelligence and charisma that makes him a natural leader. Without Tom, the Slytherins would have nothing in common but being Slytherins and move on with their separate lives after graduation.
"They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty." —HBP
— Slytherins have a "House Unity" policy where they stand united against the other Houses at Hogwarts. If students of other Houses get mad that First Year Tom Riddle gets first place in every subject and doesn't share his notes, Slytherin will back him in public even if they don't like Muggleborn street urchins. In private, it's fair game and every man for himself. It shows trust if someone like Hermione is allowed to see behind the curtain.