CW: internalized homophobia & closet-angst. Hermione is unusually open-minded for her age, but she *was* raised by hets in 1980s England, & has found nonconformity to be hazardous.
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Chapter XII
HERMIONE GRANGER & the HORRENDOUS HORMONES, PART I
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No wonder magical govts go to such lengths to control wand distribution. 7th-years of a school known for dangerous magic is one thing— but for four 4th-years with no real combat experience to slaughter Acromantulae by the dozen without serious injury?
Research : Reasons Hogwarts doesn't see multiple deaths & maimings per year from bullying, rows, reckless experimentation, etc.
- Wards?
- Elves?
- Pomfrey + cover-ups (for some reason)?
No wonder pureblood manifestos get too wrapped up in magical power to examine financial power; last they had any consistent contact with the wider world, mages must have seemed like demigods on the battlefield. Fertile ground for resentment of the Secrecy— & restricted from lashing out at actual witch-hunters, they targeted the unwitting ambassadors of muggle culture.
No wonder Riddle chose to exploit purebloods (his personal issues aside). Stirring up their fear, anger, & entitlement was probably the easy part— least once he had proof of his heritage.
Cannot take apparent youth of Diary-ghost at face value; could be misrepresentation crafted to make him seem more innately gifted— i.e. 'if he could do such magic at 16yo, what might he be capable of now?'
Then again, he did survive being violently disincorporated…
How successful 'Dark Lords' would be if they were viewed like the serial killers/warlords/demagogues they are instead of mystical superhuman conquerors? Why hasn't D publicized his knowledge of Riddle's true identity/origins? If he didn't know before the Chamber incident (unlikely), he certainly does now. The true zealots would discount anything that painted Riddle in an undignified light as misinformation, but surely the revelation would still be a blow to his cult of personality— and, more importantly, alter public perception of him. Every person not cowed by his reputation is one more wand that might be raised in resistance when he returns. Even world-class duelists can only fend off so many attackers at once.
Maybe publicizing his origins would tip D's hand somehow? Reveal to R & co that he knows something actionable & thus render it useless?
No— if I can deduce that he knows, so can Riddle. Has to be something else. Right?
- Ask Harry to ask D
- Disrupting &/or seizing control of the wand supply of a given country is a top priority for any group attempting to seize control of that country
December 10th, 1994
Harry and Ron sat in a cozy corner of the common room, playing chess. Hermione sat on the settee across from them with a quill in her hair and a book in her lap. She had not turned the page in several minutes. Parvati watched from the other end of the settee as she stared at the book. She watched her jaw clench and her face begin to flush as the boys laughed at some stupid joke. She watched her take deep, deliberate breaths, and shot a quick glance at the hearth-fire.
(Had it been that bright a moment ago? Surely she couldn't unintentionally affect flames from the opposite side of the room.
…could she?)
"Oi, 'Mione," said Ron, apparently blind to the sudden tightening of her grip on the book— "Have you done that thing for McGon—"
"Oh!" Parvati shot to her feet, opened her mouth, realized she had no lie prepared, and spoke in French: "Hermione, do you want to blow up in front of everyone, or would you prefer some privacy?"
Hermione closed her eyes, and took a very deep breath.
"Uh, 'Mione?"
"You're right," she said tightly. "I can't believe I forgot. Sorry, it's— for Arithmancy. Can't wait."
"I thought it was Padma taking that class with you," said Ron.
"Twin thing." Parvati linked arms with Hermione and dragged her up to the dorms. With the door locked and silenced behind them, she sat on her bed and watched Hermione pace for a minute, hair frizzing up, before erupting:
"I cannot believe him! How can he possibly be so— so—"
"Oblivious? Presumptuous? Inconsiderate?"
"All of it!" She cried. "And how dare he think he can just waltz back in as if he didn't completely abandon his supposed best friend? After weeks of loafing around while we worked our arses off to improve Harry's chances! How can Harry just accept it? It just— it makes no sense!"
"Doesn't it?" She asked carefully.
Hermione turned to face her like a hawk sighting prey. "What?
Parvati elected not to voice her theory as to the root of Ron's knobbery just yet. Poor self-esteem was no excuse for caddishness, no matter how impressive one's brothers were— and Hermione was in no place to hear it.
"I just mean… have you heard Harry mention any of his friends from before Hogwarts?"
Hermione hesitated, her frown becoming a bit less furious and a bit more pensive— which was a clear no, because she remembered bloody everything.
"Neither has Padma," Parv went on, "and you know he tells her things he's afraid other people would judge him for. She thinks he didn't have any friends before Hogwarts. that Ron was his first ever. I'd cling to that too, in his place."
It was, perhaps, a bit devious of her, but Hermione sometimes needed a little nudge to empathize with people even when she wasn't all worked up— and sure enough, a hint of uncertainty crept into her scowl.
"Especially with so much of the school set against him," Parv added. "Besides, all his other friends are hounding him like Auror trainers. Maybe he just wants someone to relax with."
"We're helping him," Hermione replied.
"Yes, and reminding him of the danger he's in. It's not exactly fun for him."
"Fun?" She looked affronted. "Quidditch and card games won't help him survive the tournament! Who cares about fun at a time like this?"
"Everyone needs some fun, Maia."
She crossed her arms, clearly doubtful.
"Come on," said Parv, "doesn't reading help you relax?"
"Only when it's not particularly interesting!"
"And do you not enjoy making things float around like one of those space-wizards from your pensieve-box?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed. "I know you know what both of those things are called. Stop trying to distract me."
"Why?" Parvati smiled slyly. "Is it working?"
"No! How are you so calm about this?"
She shrugged. "I suppose I was only ever friendly with Ron by association. Besides, is it really all that surprising after the firebolt incident?"
"...no," Hermione bit out. "No, you're right. Stupid of me, really, to not see this coming."
Oh, shite.
"No, don't—" Parvati leapt up and snagged her wrist before she could turn away. "Don't do that. There's nothing wrong with— with expecting your friends to act like friends. I'm the stupid one for putting it like that."
"There's nothing wrong with speaking your mind," Hermione replied, avoiding her gaze.
"Parkinson," said Parv, which elicited an adorable nose-scrunch. "Malfoy. Snape. Bulstrode—"
"Point taken."
"Good. Now stop beating yourself up for being a decent bloody person and relax for a minute."
…this brought back the scowl, for some reason.
"Why should I?"
Hermione tipped her chin to glare up Parvati. "Why shouldn't I be angry?"
"I…" Were they… still talking about Ron? "You've every right to be. Seems a bit tiring, is all."
Hermione scoffed, tugging her wrist; Parvati let go and stepped back, suddenly aware of how close she'd been standing.
"Telekinesis is tiring. Hunting Acromantulae is tiring. Anger gets things done."
Parvati had no idea how to respond to that. She wanted to dispute it, but wasn't sure she actually disagreed— which was, to be fair, her jerk reaction to most things Hermione said with such fierce conviction, even if she did end up disagreeing upon reflection—
"I've got some reading to do." Hermione half-turned towards her bed and the shelf beside it before hesitating, gnawing her lip. "Thank you for listening."
"…of course," Parvati managed. "Any time."
Hermione gave a curt nod, marched over to her bed, and bent over to pull the trunk out from under it, the pleats of her skirt spreading over her—
Parvati looked away.
"What are you reading?" She asked, and Hermione hesitated.
Even after two years of friendship, she didn't quite seem accustomed to honest, independent interest in her studies.
(Sometimes Parvati really wanted to hex some sense into those boys. How bloody hard was it to ask a girl about her interests every so often?)
"Reactive enchantments," said Hermione.
"Like the one we put on the bas—" Parvati glanced around the room to make sure they were alone, (which they were Crookshanks excluded). "The scale?"
"Yes, but more complex." Hermione retrieved her book and shut the trunk. "Simple protective effects are relatively easy, as they're essentially magical expressions of our fear instinct— which is what activates the enchantments on most amulets."
"First of the Prime Provocateurs," said Parvati. "I don't leave all the reading to Padma, you know."
Hermione's expression softened, and her shoulders sagged a bit. "I know. Sorry."
"Don't worry about it. I suspect that over-explanation may be a natural side-effect of Ronald Exposure."
Hermione's lips twitched into a small, precious smile that soothed Parvati's unease… but all too soon, it curved into a frown.
"What?" She asked. "What's wrong?"
A little formed between Hermione's brows. "You tell me."
"What?"
"You and Lavender…"
Ah.
"I don't know. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's wonderful to spend so much time with you, but… it's also… a bit odd? When was the last time you hung out with her? Two weeks ago? Three?"
Parvati shrugged. "I suppose it has been a while."
"It… usually doesn't take you two so long to make up after your fights," Hermione said carefully.
"Well." Parvati wet her lips, heart racing. "This… wasn't our usual sort of fight."
Shite. Why did she say that?
"Why not?"
Shite.
"Because…" Oh Gods, she wanted to tell her. Hermione had been so open and accepting and curious about so much… but so had Lavender, right up until she wasn't. The mere thought of Hermione's face pinching in unease and suspicion, of Hermione eyeing her like a threat—
No. Better not to risk it.
Thankfully that wasn't the only reason she didn't feel comfortable around Lavender anymore.
"She gave me skin-lightening cream," said Parvati—
"What."
"—because she'd read it was popular in muggle India."
"What?"
"She didn't even think twice about it, she just assumed, and when—" Parvati's voice wavered. Her eyes were hot. "…when I tried to explain why that's so— so vile, she acted like I was being inconsiderate. So."
Aaand there were the tears. Wonderful.
She shrugged. "Bit worse than a little tiff."
For a moment she stared at the floor between them, trying her best to clear her mind, to replace the pain with serenity.
Then she was being bear-hugged, firmly wrapped up in and slightly lifted by arms strong from carrying countless dense tomes and acutely aware of Hermione's time-turner-accelerated development in certain highly inconvenient areas. Inconvenient for Parvati, specifically, in that it was very difficult to not be acutely aware of them as she hugged back, to not to be tense enough for Hermione to notice and start wondering with that lightning-quick mind of hers because then it would only be a matter of time until she figured it out—
Hermione let go and stepped away, eyes agleam with the same righteous indignation that had made three dozen Gryffindors shut up and listen.
"Do you want me to talk to her?"
She pronounced talk like she meant something else entirely. Something that would probably end in many detentions, and permanent problems with House Brown and associates.
Parvati was still tempted to say yes, to point all that intensity and cleverness and power at the source of her hurt and watch the spells flare— but she couldn't.
"That's alright!" She blurted. "I… think it's best to just leave it, for now."
If Hermione confronted Lavender about their falling-out, Lavender would almost certainly let slip about the other reason for it. The one she wasn't sure was mendable.
"…if you're sure," said Hermione, looking like she would've been more comfortable casting some obscure hex than trying to read between the lines of Parvati's expression.
"I am," said Parvati, heart racing like she'd just blocked a curse. "Thank you, though."
"Of course!" Hermione fidgeted. "I-it's the least I can offer after nearly getting you eaten by Ac—"
"Yes," Parvati cut in. "I remember."
(No matter how much she tried not to. She was very grateful that the bed-curtains were wardable; Hermione was juggling far too much already to be guilting herself over Parvati's nightmares.)
"And you didn't drag me anywhere," she added. "I went willingly— and we got what we needed out of it."
Hermione regarded her for a moment, gaze worried and hesitant, but then nodded. "Alright. I am sorry, though. I'd assumed Ronald was exaggerating their numbers due to his Arachnophobia, but that doesn't excuse—"
"Hermione." Parvati had reached out and gently grasped her wrist, stilling her fidgeting. "It's alright. Really."
Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again, lips pursing, gaze searching.
"Alright," she said softly.
Parvati tried to neither let go too quickly nor hold on too long.
She wasn't sure she succeeded.
"Stay a moment, Miss Granger."
She paused in the middle of hefting her bookbag. Professor Babbling smiled from behind her desk, but there was something tense about the expression. Hermione's heart played a staccato against her ribs as she nodded to Harry and Parvati. They hesitated before filing after the others. When the door had shut behind them, Babbling cast something quick and wordless at it before pinning her with a long, inscrutable look.
"Is… there something I can help you with, Professor?"
Babbling's mouth twitched. "I imagine there are a number of tasks you could help me with quite aptly, Miss Granger— but I would be loath to keep you from however many independent studies you're currently balancing."
"I… appreciate the consideration, Ma'am," Hermione replied, crossing over to the Professor's desk— which Babbling patiently waited for her to do before reaching into a drawer and pulling out…
Ah.
Harry's basilisk-scale amulet gleamed dully in the lamplight, its smooth surface painstakingly engraved with concentric rings of Hebrew and Sanskrit around a faintly glowing Magen David.
"It's fine work," said the Professor, "which I see you recognize."
Merde.
It was very confusing to be proud and anxious at the same time.
"Madam Pomfrey came to me after the First Task, to consult on how best to treat the slight burn it left on Mister Potter's chest."
Hermione winced. She really should have foreseen that.
Babbling set the amulet atop her desk and leaned forward, clasping her hands beside it. "Miss Granger. The variety of magics that can render a nonmetallic object —even one as hardy as this— capable of repelling dragonfire is both very limited and very regulated."
Hermione channeled her inner Andromeda— chin up, shoulders back, show no fear…
"I suppose they would be," she replied. "Regulated, that is. Much like dragons themselves— or, for example, the sort of dangers underage magi are supposed to be exposed to."
Babbling looked very tired, all of a sudden.
"A fair comparison," she said, "if one overlooks the fact that those culpable for Mister Potter's current endangerment are shielded from repercussions by the influence they wield."
And you are not rang silently in the air between them.
Hermione had no response. She'd hardly been ignorant of it, but to hear it stated so plainly sent a rush of cold through her veins, made her itch for the feel of her wand in hand.
Thank G-d she convinced Padma to open the Snake-Bunker.
"I'm aware," she managed, staring at the amulet. "I've been careful."
Babbling just looked at her.
"I have. Madam Pomfrey didn't know who made it, did she? You only do because you're familiar with— what, my work? My magic itself? Surely I'm not the only student that might use Hebrew or Sanskrit for something like this. And most of the people that helped me prepare to make it know nothing about the finished product!"
"And the ritual itself? You had competent adult supervision, I assume?"
…shite.
The Professor peered over the rim of her glasses for a moment, then sighed.
"Hermione, I'll be frank: this is honestly some of the finest enchanting I've seen from a witch of your age. If one of my seventh-years submitted it as their NEWT project, I would be tempted to give them an Outstanding…"
The words made her want to beam. The tone in which they were said made her feel like she'd just been given detention.
"…but I would have to mark them down for endangerment of both themselves and anyone else involved in the crafting."
Hermione cringed.
"As you very well know, the more power and complexity involved in an enchantment, the higher the chances of even a small error having disastrous effects. I've seen more than one young prodigy end up in the hospital wing —or Saint Mungo's— because they attempted something ambitious without proper supervision."
Hermione recalled the electrifying pressure of her magic mixing with Ginny's and the Twins', straining against her metaphysical grasp despite the runes and salt and gems, heating the scale 'til the stone around it steamed and it stung her hands to engrave—
"I know," she said.
"Then ask for help next time," said Babbling. "The fact that you feel the need to take such risks to protect a fellow student… well. I suppose it's rather telling."
Hermione said nothing, and attempted to keep her expression fairly neutral. She wasn't sure if she managed it.
"If he hasn't already, Mister Potter should take the egg for a swim."
Hermione… just stared at her for a moment. Opening the egg in different environments was embarrassingly obvious, in hindsight, but…
"You— you can just tell us things like that? There aren't any spells enforcing secrecy about the Tasks?"
"No spells," said Professor Babbling, sitting back with a wry smile. "Just tradition. Dogma, really."
Right. Of course.
(Just like everything else in this bloody kakistocracy that wasn't a direct effect of magic.)
"Well," said Hermione. "I'll… be sure to relay that information to Harry."
"Good, good…" Babbling paused, tapping an ink-stained fingernail beside the amulet, then said: "Fifty… no. One hundred points to Gryffindor."
Despite the fear and anger that had been simmering in her for months, despite the knowledge of how very little House Points truly mattered, Hermione couldn't help but feel a bit pleased with herself. Her smile was only slightly forced.
"Thank you, Professor."
"Of course, kemferele." Babbling slid the amulet across the desk to her. "Please pass my compliments on to the Patils and Miss Weasley."
Oh, come on!
"We elders like to gossip about our charges, dear. And why would you seek out other ritualists when you've a suitable, familiar set near at hand?"
…she supposed it would be rather obvious to the school's best enchanter.
"Best run along now. The sooner Mister Potter has his clue, the sooner he can start preparing for the next task."
Right!
"Of course— thank you again!" Hermione shoved the amulet into her pocket and hurried toward the door. "See you Friday!"
"Miss Granger."
She paused, looking back over her shoulder to find the Professor's expression stern.
"Do try not to let it go to your head. I'll be expecting even better from you, now."
Right.
No pressure, then.
.
.:.
Hermione regarded Fleur Delacour much the same way she regarded dragons: with (envious) admiration of her beauty and power, and a general desire to continue that admiration from a safe distance.
This had been the case since Delacour first strutted into the castle, aura blooming around her like the ghost of some vast carnivorous flower, gossamer tendrils unfurling towards nearby magi and actively caressing the magic of any poor soul that so much as looked at her. Hermione had felt that phantom touch herself when the woman stopped by the Gryffindor table that night— a gentle yet potent compulsion to stare, to help her, to please her. If not for the kaleidoscopic nucleus about a foot below her stunning eyes, Hermione might have been completely mesmerized— and the aura itself was mesmerizing. The only way she could look at Delacour without losing her wits was to focus entirely on her physical form, which was both difficult and only slightly less distracting.
So. The shimmer of a psychic tendril at the edge of the privacy bubble she'd cast in her preferred corner of the Library wrenched her thoughts quite decisively away from study. She stiffened, fighting the urge to trace the tendril and risk catching the attention of its source.
How far from Delacour could they reach? Why hadn't she thought to measure their reach? How could she do so inconspicuously? Maybe if she measured the dimensions of the Great Hall, or at least the tables and the space between them, and then observed during meals…
"Hermione?"
"Hm?" She turned back to Colin, and the curiosity on his face. Across the table Parvati had looked up from her essay, dark eyes narrowed in concern.
"Alright?" Asked Colin.
"Yes— yes, of course. Sorry." Hermione forced her attention back to the book between them, trying her best to ignore the feeling of impending humiliation. "Just a thought. Where were we?"
"Er… the whole ambient magic thing? And what it's got to do with me being pants at runes?"
Oh, right.
"I mean, I can tell myself that 'carving is casting' all day, that doesn't help me actually do it."
"You've only been in the class a few months," she said. "You can't know if you're— bad at it, yet."
The steady rhythm of heels on hardwood rang in her ears like hex incantations.
"As for casting while carving… you do understand Flume Theory, right?"
"Er…"
"You know, about channeling magic from the environment rather than somehow creating it ourselves?"
"Oh! Yeah, of course I do— that's first-year stuff."
"Unfortunately it's also one of those things where knowing it intellectually is a lot different from understanding it experientially. Especially if your first experience of intentional magic was with a wand."
"Oh. Was yours… not?"
Another gossamer tendril shimmered by, brushing against the haze of her charms.
"…that's not important right now. The point is that wand-work can make magic feel like this very individual thing, as if it's a personal trait like your height or eye color— like something you possess instead of…"
Colin glanced away from her, eyes widening.
"…something you're borrowing from the world or being gifted by a divinity or however you choose to conceptualize it."
The phantom sensation of someone watching ghosted up her neck.
"Which is fine if you're just trying to cast basic charms—"
"Er, Hermione—"
"—because channeling ambient magic through ourselves is practically instinctual, but if you need to make something outside yourself channel—"
"Excusez-moi."
Merde.
Hermione took a deep breath, sat up straight, and turned.
Delacour stood a stone's throw from their study table, just as statuesque and stylish as ever, looking right through the notice-me-not and privacy charms like they were glass.
Hermione, taken by surprise, made the grave mistake of meeting her gaze. Her very blue, very piercing gaze, like twin sapphires in the lamplight…
"Are zese seats taken?"
Hermione repressed a shiver as the woman's aura washed over her, warm and electric.
Either Veela were resistant to mind-influencing magic, or Delacour had come looking for her specifically.
She arched one flawless platinum brow.
"Sorry," Hermione managed, tearing her eyes away with a shiver. "I— yes. I mean no! No, these seats aren't taken, that is."
Sweet Circe.
"Merci." Delacour sauntered through the veil of spellwork and sank gracefully into one of the unoccupied seats, as did the two companions that'd apparently been standing next— a svelte blonde boy and a raven-haired, olive-skinned girl who were probably both stunning when not adjacent to a woman descended from the inspiration for siren and succubus myths.
"Please," Delacour said melodically, "do not let us interrupt."
As if anyone could focus on studying with her sitting there looking like— like that, flexing her aura all over the place…
Hermione glanced at Colin, whose complexion was rapidly approaching that of a lobster as he glanced back and forth between his notes and the Veela.
"That's quite alright," she forced out. "Was there something you needed?"
"Need? Non." Delacour brushed a lock of golden hair behind her shoulder, and said in Français: "Though I did want to meet the witch who's supposedly responsible for Monsieur Potter's academic survival."
Maybe it was her casual, uninterested tone— as if she hadn't imposed upon their study space to say it. Maybe it was the revelation that even foreigners Hermione had never even spoken to knew how pathetically desperate she'd been for friends in her first year, and believed she still was. Maybe —probably— it was both.
All thoughts of avoiding Delacour's attention or keeping her voice down evaporated in a furious flash.
"Who told you that?" Hermione hissed.
"Does it matter?" The Veela mused.
"Of course!" She leaned forward and hissed: "It's a gross exaggeration, and completely unfair besides! Harry is near the top of the class in both Charms and Defense —which is really quite the achievement, given how woefully inconsistent the latter has been— and it's hardly his fault there's always some sort of egregious lapse in school security distracting him from his studies! Not to mention how unprofessionally biased our Potions instructor is against—"
Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of Delacour's dazzling grin.
"W-what are… why are you looking at me like that?"
"You speak my tongue as if born to it."
"Oh." Hermione cleared her throat to rid her voice of squeakiness. "Thank you. I mean, it is sort of my first language…"
"Really?" Delacour leaned forward, weight braced on her elbows, eyes bright with interest. The scent of sandalwood and honey filled Hermione's senses.
"Y-yeah, my mother's side of the family had to leave the Continent, but they refused to give up their culture, so…"
Delacour's smile shrank and softened— and the sadness Hermione felt at the mere thought of it disappearing entirely jolted her back to herself.
Is she doing that on purpose?
She wrenched her gaze away again, face on fire, and blurted: "A-are you going to introduce your companions?"
"Of course," Delacour said smoothly. "This is Sulian Sauveterre—"
—she idly waved one elegant, soft-looking hand at the boy—
"—and Maewenn Iraultza."
The dark haired girl gave a rather Quidditch-y jerk of a nod.
"That sounds Celtic," Padma interjected, mercifully drawing Delacour's attention away from Hermione, "and… Spanish?"
"Basque, actually," Iraultza replied. "As important a distinction, I imagine, as the one between 'Indian' and…?"
"Marathi," said Padma.
Iraultza hummed, tilting her head in a very neck-flaunting way. "Why choose this school if you speak Français?"
Padma hesitated before answering: "Our branch of the family manages the business on the Isles, which are dominated by purebloods who wouldn't take kindly to us getting friendly with Communalists."
"Fair," said Sauveterre. "We did kill a bunch of their cousins."
"Wait, really?" Hermione asked the Twins in English. "That's why your family doesn't do business in France?"
"We do on the muggle side," Parvati protested. "We had it hard enough trying to build the business here as Indians, let alone without cozying up to the Old Families. Openly cultivating alliances with Communalists would jeopardize many of our foundational contracts."
Hermione needed a moment to calm herself. Thankfully Parv took over the introductions— but all too soon Delacour's mesmerizing gaze was on her again.
"So," she said in Français, aura bright and hypnotic and impossible to not stare at— "Tell me, lionette…"
What.
"…what do you think of Monsieur Potter's entrance into the Tournament?"
Oh.
Of course that was what she was really after. Foolish to feel disappointed about it.
Hermione clenched her jaw, fighting to keep the embarrassment and anger off her face, and replied as evenly as she could: "I have a great many thoughts about this farce of a Tournament— the foremost being that if a veteran Auror suspects someone entered Harry's name with malicious intent, I'm inclined to believe him."
"So am I," said Delacour, a pleased little smile on her pink lips.
…wait, what?
Gryffindor was (with a few jealous exceptions) united behind Harry, but the other Houses had yet again been all too eager to see him as a villain— instead of someone with actual power to meddle, like all the useless Ministry stooges skulking about!
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Really?"
"Of course," said Delacour. "I saw him after his name came out of the Goblet, you know. The poor boy looked curse-shocked. He obviously didn't enter himself."
…was it obvious, though, if she was one of the only people in that room who'd noticed? And she'd hardly been the only one scrutinizing him…
Several pages from an old book on the magical beings of Europe flashed through Hermione's mind.
"Anyone who thinks he wanted this is either misinformed, oblivious, or just an idiot."
"Well," said Hermione, still feeling a bit off-balance, "welcome to Britain, Mademoiselle Delacour."
Sauveterre chuckled. "Oh, I like her."
"Please," Delacour propped her chin up on one elegant hand, and with an unfairly charming smile, said: "call me Fleur."
Hermione's traitorous, unhelpful heart gave a horrid little flutter, which rather delayed the process of forming a coherent response.
"Her—" swallowed, mouth dry. "Hermione. Is what you can call me, I mean."
"Well, Hermione…"
One of those phantom tendrils must have caressed Hermione's magic just as Fleur's voice caressed her name— it was the only explanation for the shiver that shot through her then.
( She wanted to hear it again )
"…would you mind doing me a favor?"
"That… would depend on the favor, I imagine."
Dela— Fleur's smile grew. "The Second Task will require us to retrieve something from the depths of the lake…"
Ah. Harry had been spending most of his free time in the Tower to avoid harassment, so she probably hadn't had any chances to tell him directly and discreetly…
"…and the merfolk will probably be involved somehow, given that the clue is in their language. I'd be grateful if you were to pass that along to Monsieur Potter."
"Oh," said Hermione. "Thank you, but… why?"
Fleur's eyes narrowed. "He already knows, doesn't he."
Hermione cringed a bit. "Since about a week ago."
Iraultza snickered, sitting back with a roguish grin. "All dramatic for nothing yet again, Songbird."
Fleur pursed her lips.
"You call meeting some of Hogwarts' most cultured students 'nothing'?" Asked Sauveterre, and then twitched in a trodden-foot sort of way.
"We'll tell him you told us nonetheless," said Padma.
Hermione belatedly realized this was odd, as Parvati was more often the talkative one, so she tore her gaze from Fleur again to glance at Parvati and found her looking… tense? Annoyed?
"If you wish," Fleur said with a dismissive flick of her slender, soft-looking fingers. "As long as things have been made a bit fairer for him, it doesn't matter."
"Really?" Asked Parvati, an odd edge to her voice. "Even after he outscored you in the First Task?"
Fleur tilted her head like a bemused cat.
"I can hardly control the prejudices of the clowns they've chosen as judges, can I?" A slight smirk tugged at her lips. "Well. Not without breaking a few of your silly British laws. Besides, the next task will be mine."
"Oh?" Hermione asked. "Is it just a myth, then, that Veela suffer Elemental Countervalence in cold, wet environments?"
Fleur stared at her for a moment before the smirk returned, and her eyes gleamed with lazy mischief as she asked: "Someone's well-read. Have you been studying me, Lionette?"
Hermione's cheeks began to heat again. "Must you call me that?"
"Oh, but it suits you so well."
"Really."
"Truly. You're so fierce when you're angry," Fleur drawled. "Like a little lioness to match that sigil on your robes. It's a good look for you."
And by the time that had sunk in enough for Hermione to even start scrambling for an appropriate response, the utter menace was already on to the next thing.
"We may just have to rescue you from this dreary place when we go."
What— what did that even mean?
Hermione clamped down on the urge to fidget or glance at the tendrils of Fleur's magic, which were getting awfully close—
"It must be quite useful," she blurted, half out of curiosity and half to break the silence, "to be able to tell what everyone is feeling."
Fleur blinked, then narrowed her eyes, almost too lovely to look at as her aura flared bright, ghostly tendrils curling close to her in a way that distinctly reminded Hermione of snakes preparing to lunge—
"I'm not sure what you mean."
Some distant, half-muffled part of Hermione's brain blared danger. "…oh. Well. I just… never mind, then."
"No," Fleur commanded, regal as Artemis on the hunt. One of her tendrils unfurled towards Hermione, and she tensed— only for it to falter halfway across the table, bobbing and rippling on an invisible current.
When she met Fleur's gaze again it had softened, less suspicious and more curious.
"No," she repeated, gentler this time, "don't censor yourself. I want to hear what you meant by that."
Oh. That was nice to hear. Very nice. Especially in Fleur's voice, her fluid accent…
"I—" Why on earth was her mouth so dry? "I didn't mean anything by it, I've just read that Veela have empathic abilities, so I assumed that was part of how you discerned the truth about Harry when everyone else is being so stupid about it— but it was only the one source that mentioned those abilities, and the author was a pre-Revolution Lestrange, so I really shouldn't have taken it at face value— a-and I haven't spread it around, if that's what you're worried about."
She was breathless by the end, heart racing as she watched Fleur's face for any sign of displeasure.
"What was this source?"
"'Our Fair Cousins' by Salomé Lestrange, published 1741; it's essentially a treatise on why Veela and Nymphs and Dwarves and Ophidians and such should be treated like people…"
"No wonder we haven't heard of it," said Iraultza. "Probably got banned and burned."
"Which just further begs the question of how a first-generation witch in Britain came across it," said Fleur— and the phrase rang through Hermione's mind like a bell.
…first-generation.
How had she not thought of that? She distinctly remembered thinking muggle and muggleborn sounded derogatory the first time she heard them— but McGonagall hadn't said them with any derision, and Hermione had been rather in awe of her…
"She has her sources," said Padma, voice flat, face a posh mask. "She also has very good reasons to not disclose them which you, as a newcomer to Britain, may not yet be able to fully appreciate."
Fleur's eyes narrowed further, but her aura began to shrink again.
"I suppose I wouldn't be," she conceded, "just as none of you are fully capable of understanding my position as a representative of my people."
…fair.
Some of the mistreatment and exploitation Lestrange had mentioned was more stomach-turning than Viking blood rituals.
"The less is known about what you can do," Hermione said, "the greater your freedom to do it."
Fleur stared at her for a pulse-pounding moment. Then her gaze softened. "You haven't had an easy time here, have you?"
Hermione fought the urge to duck her head or cross her arms, bristling at the horrid pity in those eyes.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she flatly replied.
Fleur hummed —a surprisingly deep, melodic sound— and finally aimed those mesmerizing eyes elsewhere. Elsewhere happened to be the Arithmancy text Hermione had been memorizing before Colin showed up for tutoring, which was open to a modified Venusian Pentagram.
"Planning on going into warding?"
"Among other things, yes."
"Such as enchanting?"
"…yes. Why?"
"Because you're clearly off to a strong start, if Monsieur Potter's amulet is any indication."
Caution and pride played tug-of-war in Hermione's chest.
Fleur smiled again. "Protective anger is quite distinct. Yours especially, for some reason."
"Good reason," said Parvati.
Fleur's gaze darted back and forth between them, and her smile grew, a ghostly rose-red blooming out across her aura. "Clearly," she said— and then, casual again: "You must sit with us at dinner. Some of our peers are in Professor Vector's seventh-year class; I'm sure you'll have all sorts of insightful questions for them, no? And they'll be happy to meet a clever British witch who doesn't think she's some kind of princess because her parents are cousins."
A sudden, appalling giggle slipped past Hermione's lips. She cleared her throat, face aflame. "I-I'll be there. At dinner, I mean. Thank you."
"Good." Fleur pushed her chair back and gracefully stood, mercilessly exposing Hermione to all six feet of leggy, stylish perfection, her aura rising like the sun over their table. "Until later, then. It was a pleasure to meet you all."
And with that she sauntered away between the shelves, long golden hair gleaming in the lamplight, hips swaying in her perfectly-fitted skirt—
"Bloody hell," Colin whispered. "Hermione, can you teach me French?"
She barely stopped herself from snapping No, and forced her gaze back to his textbook. "Runes first."
"What?" He asked dazedly.
Hermione buried her overheated face in her hands, and tried to regulate her breathing.
Bloody hell indeed.
It did occur to her, en route to the Great Hall after an afternoon of avoiding eye contact with the witnesses to her flusterment, that she'd stumbled upon an excellent opportunity to learn more about magical life and education in a region that had put all the blood purity nonsense behind it.
She brought Parvati along to the Ravenclaw table so that she'd have a Patil buffer between her and any tall, breath-stealing mages . The proximity of many others seemed to dilute the effects of Fleur's presence, so Hermione was able to focus on people that weren't Fleur enough to get some diverse answers about the l'Académie. It taught students from all over western Europe, after all— and even many of its French-born students were the children or grandchildren of emigrées from feudal states such as Castile, Holland, and the Italic Consortium (an alliance between the pureblood oligarchs of Genoa, Venice, Florence, Rome, and Naples, who collectively had the mages of the Mediterranean in an economic stranglehold).
Also Britain.
Apparently a few years of mid-70s Hogwarts had been enough to make Cyprien Moore's parents —both muggleborns— quit the Isles entirely; he had joined l'Academie's delegation out of morbid curiosity, and was therefore very interested in hearing about Hermione's experiences. Hermione did not particularly want to spend dinner recounting four years of harassment to perfect strangers. Fleur came to her rescue by deftly changing the subject to academics, which Hermione was grateful for until the menace met her gaze and winked.
Ugh.
It was as her questions about l'Academie's defense curriculum grew more detailed that they started looking at her oddly. By the time she realized how much extracurricular study she'd inadvertently hinted at, she was already being cross-examined on her knowledge of everything from battle-magic to basic warding. This quickly became rather fraught, given how much of that knowledge came from restricted literature she'd gained access to by aiding and abetting a fugitive from injustice. And she couldn't rely on ignorance of British law to shield her— not with Ravenclaws within earshot. If the Twins hadn't been there to cover for her, she might have incriminated herself.
Instead she left the Great Hall with an invitation to a dueling club the foreign students had apparently started up— which she had accepted without even a moment's hesitation or consideration, because Fleur Bloody Delacour.
In the brightly-lit Great Hall, where there'd been no hiding her blush.
Padma looked amused as they parted ways en route to their respective Towers, which made said blush return with a vengeance. Parvati looked… uncomfortable again, like something was bothering her— except she was never this quiet when something was bothering her. She was candid and direct and determined to be understood.
Oh God, Hermione thought, suddenly and acutely uneasy, heart racing, neck hot— How obvious was I?
She hadn't gaped or leered at Fleur like all those boys. Surely she hadn't— she would've noticed.
Wouldn't she have?
She climbed the stairs on autopilot, frantically reviewing the entire day and second-guessing her own recollection.
Did boys notice when they acted stupid over girls? Lavender certainly didn't seem very self-aware of her boy-obsession, and neither did Krum's fangirls… but this was different.
Abnormal.
Potentially ruinous.
She should have started researching wizarding attitudes on same-sex attraction months ago. Sure, she'd had far more pressing things to do in the days following the World Cup, but she could have easily made time afterwards. Instead she'd shied away from memory of those telltale feelings, from the awareness of the true nature of her awareness of girls and women, as if ignoring it all would make it go away. The very same sort of behavior she had scolded Harry for on multiple occasions. Granted, this wasn't life or death, but it was potentially career-ending— at least in the muggle world, which brought her right back to not having done the bloody research, and something told her that whatever the Library had on the topic would be far less informative than just asking people, but if it was similarly stigmatized she'd just be painting another target on her back!
Why this? She silently asked, not for the first time. Why this, on top of everything else?
Did she not have enough working against her already?
"Hermione?"
She twitched. Parvati definitely noticed, brows furrowing in concern before she grasped the crook of Hermione's arm to draw her up the girls' stairs.
It was early enough that their dorm was empty except for Crookshanks, who immediately leapt down off her bed and padded over to bump against her shins with a grumbly chirp. Sweet boy.
"Ndewo, nwa m dị oke ọnụ ahịa." She scooped him up and hugged him close, so that his purring could reverberate through her chest.
"Are you alright?" Parvati asked gently.
Hermione could tell her nod was a bit too jerky to be convincing— and her eyes were a bit too wet.
No no no. No crying. If she cried Parvati would want to talk about it even more, and Hermione wouldn't have the heart to deny her, and then she would know—
"Of course," she lied. "Just— a long day. You?"
"Yeah," Parvati averted her eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. I mean, I could've done without Delacour's—"
Hermione's heart skipped a beat.
"—entourage ragging on Hogwarts at every opportunity. Like, I get that it must seem a bit dreary compared to the repurposed bloody palais aquitain they're used to, but no one made them come here— they volunteered."
Oh.
Was that what had been bothering her?
"True…" Hermione cleared her throat. "And the Defense Curse is hardly our fault— nor is the school's failure to find workarounds."
"Exactly."
They stood there for a moment, not looking at each other. Crookshanks purred. Rain pattered the windows.
"Well," said Hermione. "I should— get started on reading for Snape. Not all of us were raised by potioneers."
"Right. Yes." Parvati nodded. "I've got that Astronomy essay."
"Let me know if you have any questions? I inadvertently absorbed a lot of information on greco-roman constellations over the summer, you know."
"Probably unavoidable," Parvati said with a slight smile. "Why did the Blacks start naming their kids like that, by the way? Being descended from Anglo-Saxons, I mean…"
"Well," said Hermione (instantly comforted by the familiarity of recitation), "they arrived only a few decades after Roman forces withdrew, when several Roman Houses were still around hoarding all the wealth and controlling the wand supply— which was why the Blacks eventually intermarried with them. Pagan houses only, of course."
"Of course."
Another moment of awkward standing ensued. Then Parvati huffed, grabbed Hermione by the sleeve, and pulled her into a hug. Crookshanks wiggled out from between them with a grumble.
After the day she'd had, of course, it was a bit difficult to focus on dry Potions texts. Her mind kept circling back to the problem of Fleur and all she made unavoidable; the hastily-accepted dueling club invitation was really the least stressful part.
What would her mentors say?
Much of Ted's advice boiled down to 'Don't invite more attention than necessary'— and her independent studies made that more vital than ever (she did not intend to face Dementors again until she could repel them or destroy them).
None can take from you an advantage they know not of, Lady Auriga's portrait had advised. And with Riddle, Pettigrew, and however many of Malfoy Sr.'s buddies out there, she would need every advantage she could get.
Pretend inferiority, that your enemy may grow arrogant, Sun Tzu had written.
But none of that had come to mind while Fleur Delacour was smiling at her. There was only the desire to see how older, more capable magi dueled, to prove her worth in front of those sapphire eyes, and the flutter of her traitorous heart.
What might have happened if Fleur had pressed the issue of her exceptional knowledge? What might she have let slip, mesmerized by her attention?
Hermione skipped her nightly Telekinetic Weight Training in favor of a second round of Occlumency exercises. The odd headache was worth the clarity they brought.
The foreign students were some of the most skilled young magi in Europe; it would be foolish to pass up a chance to see how they dueled. She didn't necessarily have to duel anyone herself— and even if she did, she could merely restrain herself to unsurprising, completely legal spells.
Besides, it would be a good opportunity for Harry as well; their little study group only had so much time in their respective schedules to help train him up.
.
.:.
"I dunno, mate," Ronald said the next morning, on their way to breakfast. "Telling the other Champions about the dragons was one thing —sporting thing to do— but dueling 'em? Lettin'em see what all you can cast and when you cast it and stuff? What if you have to go up against 'em in the final Task? They'd know exactly how to beat you!"
Harry glanced nervously between him and Hermione.
"And so what if they do?" She replied, failing to keep the sharpness out of her voice. "We're trying to make sure Harry gets through this alive! Who cares if he loses a duel?"
"I care," the prat declared, as if he hadn't spent weeks shunning Harry for an imagined slight.
Her hands curled into fists, heartbeat loud in her ears. "You can not be serious."
Ron frowned, narrowing his eyes— "'Course I am. Harry deserves to win this."
Oh, that was it!
Hermione stopped in her tracks, whirling to face him directly. "Really? Really?"
(Parvati was gripping her arm and whispering something but she didn't care— she couldn't stand this any longer—)
"Abandoning Harry for a month wasn't enough? Now you want to sabotage his education as well?"
"Sabotage?" Ron scoffed. "D'you ever listen to yourself? I'm looking out for him!"
"No you're not!" She snapped. "You're trying to get him to skive off as if he's facing some routine exam instead of mortal danger! What is wrong with you?"
Splotchy pink was overtaking his freckles, pale green pulsing and twisting through his aura— "Me? You're the one bossing him around all day, running'im ragged, not giving'im any time to unwind!"
"Wha—? That is an over-exaggeration and you know it! And don't try to change the subject!"
"No it's not! And how is that changing the subject?"
"You—"
"No!" He shouted, taking a step towards her— "You don't get to lecture me like you're a bloody professor an'not just— just a swot that got lucky!"
Hermione was distantly aware that they had an audience, and that that audience had gone very quiet. She was distantly aware that the smart thing to do was walk away, of Parvati tugging on her arm, of Harry saying something in a soft, conciliatory tone— but that was all very quiet next to the pounding of her heart, the rage simmering through her veins, and the very handy hex on the tip of her tongue.
Hermione drew her wand.
("Oh shite.")
"Yrre issē fuir be þū sealtast," she hissed, letting her magic unfurl, "on hwilc gēafe būtan spearcan."
("Oh, shite.")
"Yrre issē swyrd þe þū brandischest—"
("Someone get a prefect!")
She raised her wand with a flourish, circled it over her heart, then at his— "carlēas af hit twofeald eċġe."
("Hermione just think about this for a minute—")
"Mid mīn gealdor ond mīn wræþþe—"
—she waved a tight horizontal zigzag, a string of ghostly power flowing forth onto his oversized, gormless mouth—
"—yrre issē þrædþe þinelippan siwaþ!"
—and tied off the spell with a sharp swirl and flick. The ghostly stitches tightened, pulling his lips shut… and then kept pulling even after she let go, brightening to a dangerously pale red.
Ron grunted, nearly poking his eye out with his wand as his hands flew to his mouth, scrabbling at his lips in vain as the magic… sort of… melted into a shapeless glow she had to squint through to see what it was actually doing—
(—someone yelped, someone swore, Harry had his wand out but didn't seem to know what to do with it, Parvati's hand was like a vice on her arm—)
And then Ron's lips melted together, leaving only a ridge of pinkish flesh where his mouth should have been.
He clawed at it, breathing hard and fast through his nose— and when that accomplished nothing, let out a chillingly muffled scream.
Hermione raised her wand to counter it, only for him to stumble back, eyes wide with— with fear, she realized—
"Stop!" Harry stepped between them, hands outstretched. "That's enough! You already got him, just—"
That hurt, for some reason. "No, Harry— the counterspell, I need to cast the counterspell!"
He stared at her for a moment, green eyes piercing, then stepped aside— at which Ron let out a panicked grunt, backing up further, shaking his head and eyeing her wand as he would a live snake.
"Ron. Ronald." She stepped closer, slowly so as not to startle. "It's a rare spell, so unless you want to wait for a teacher—"
"Mmph!" He nodded.
"Oh, don't be petty, just let me—"
"Mmmmph!"
"Hold still!"
"What is going on here?" asked a tired, annoyed voice.
Hermione turned to see an older boy pushing his way through the crowd, prefect badge gleaming on his chest— and was suddenly, acutely aware of how this looked.
Ron, all but backed up against the wall, mouthless. Her, standing right in front of him with her wand out. Harry, clearly ready to intervene.
Hermione froze up.
Twenty minutes later she sat in Madam Pomfrey's office, mentally reviewing her mistakes as she awaited judgment. Her counterspell had been perfect: incantation and wand-movements exactly as she'd memorized, mindset correct— i.e. genuinely regretful that she'd mucked it up, that she'd frightened both boys, that she'd been stupid enough to cast a hex like that in public, and more panicked than angry…
But clearly her anger hadn't waned quite enough, as neither that perfect counterspell nor various attempts at un-transfiguration had done a thing until after Madam Pomfrey gave her a calming draught.
She'd known the hex fed on anger to sustain itself (it was right there in the incantation), and she'd suspected that it didn't particularly matter if that anger came from the caster or the target, but she had thought the requisite anger on her part had to be directed at the target. Though she supposed it wasn't that surprising that the rich pureblood author of that grimoire had less rage in the tank than a half-black muggleborn swot who got lucky.
The door swung open.
Professor McGonagall regarded her for a moment, expression unreadable in a way that probably would've been anxiety-inducing without the calming draught. Then she sighed, paced over to Pomfrey's desk, and took a seat.
"Well?" She asked. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Hermione thought for a moment. Calming potions really were wonderful.
"It was irresponsible of me," she said, "to cast an unpracticed hex on a fellow student without adult supervision, and it will not happen again unless necessary for self-defense."
McGonagall stared. "A hex."
It wasn't inflected like a question, no Hermione did not reply.
"Miss Granger. That spell disfigured Mister Weasley, resisted conventional counterspells, and fed on both your anger and his magic to sustain itself. That was no hex— it was a curse."
Oh.
That… was a reasonable observation.
"Where on earth did you learn it?"
Hrm.
Ginny said she was pants at lying. Parvati agreed. Best stick to the truth.
"A book of defensive spells intended specifically for witches," Hermione replied. "Some were more… proactive than others."
"Indeed," said McGonagall. "And the title of this book?"
"There was none. I believe the author was… a Carrow, yes…"
—At least until she'd married into House Black—
"…and the language was a bit archaic, though not in a way that gave me any real idea of when it was written, though I suspect it was at least a century ago."
Professor McGonagall's eyes narrowed. She looked… rather tired, actually…
"Miss Granger. The only reason you avoided any permanent, career-damaging repercussions for assaulting your peers in your second year was Professor Snape's intervention. He managed to convince them that writing to their parents about the incident would bring them more humiliation than satisfaction— and that was only possible because so many others witnessed their misbehavior towards you."
"Humiliation," Hermione echoed. "Over needing their parent's help to best one lowly mudblood, you mean."
"Miss Granger."
"Yes, Professor?"
"There is no need for such language."
"Why not? What do I gain by shying away from how this world sees me?"
McGonagall's expression softened. Hermione loathed it.
"Miss Granger…"
"Sorry," she amended, "how parts of this world see me. The bulk of its legislature, for example."
McGonagall looked like she was about to argue that point, but then sighed, and said: "If that is how you feel—"
Hermione's hands balled up in her skirt.
"—then your behavior is even more irresponsible than it seems. You are far too intelligent to keep letting your anger get the better of you."
Hermione stared at the desk between them.
"Giving in to your baser instincts only presents those who do harbor such horrid prejudices with an easy target, Miss Granger."
"I need to be twice as good to get half as far as them," Hermione grit out, cheeks burning. "I am acutely aware, Professor."
"Then you have no excuse."
She did not trust her ability to respond to that without making things worse.
"Detention."
Obviously.
"With Professor Moody."
…ah.
"Every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday after dinner, until the end of term."
"But—" after dinner was her Occlumency and telekinesis practice time!
McGonagall silenced her protests with a stern twitch of one eyebrow. In any other situation, Hermione would have admired that.
Instead she mentally reviewed her schedule, trying to find time to practice the essentials and accompany Fleur to the dueling club… and failed.
Between Tonks' lessons and what Sirius' post-Azkaban mess of a mind thought passed for sparring, she might not be too far behind the purebloods who'd been tutored in dueling… and protecting her mind was probably more critical than winning formal, defanged duels (most of the people who might threaten her health and freedom had decades more experience than her, so the only safe way to take them on was to deal with them before they could draw their wands)… but still.
"I require verbal acquiescence, Miss Granger."
Hermione took a very deep breath, and schooled her expression as well as she could. "I understand, Professor."
"I sincerely hope you do," said McGonagall— and then paused, her stern mien softening ever-so-slightly. "And perhaps whatever work Professor Moody sees fit to assign you will prove educational as well as corrective. This is as much an opportunity as it is a punishment."
"…I know, Professor." A veteran Auror, even one in the grips of undiagnosed PTSD, was probably the best Defense instructor they were going to get before Hermione graduated.
"Good. Now run along— and apologize to Mister Weasley on your way out."
Even with the calming draught gently embracing her nerves, Hermione's jaw clenched involuntarily.
"Yes, Professor."
Though her magesight did not generally reveal to her what people were feeling, primal emotions such as love, anger, lust, and fear wrought distinct changes on the magic of those experiencing them.
Thus Hermione knew, the moment Ronald saw her approaching, that she had made him fear her… and all she could think was Good.
Maybe now he'll think before he speaks.
"Ronald." She stopped just beyond an arm's length from the cot he and Harry were sitting on.
"'Mion—" he twitched as Harry elbowed him, and cleared his throat. "Hermione."
Really? Even after getting cursed, he needed prodding to show basic respect?
For a moment she was tempted to say something clever, to leave him stinging with her words, to win— but then she felt the faint, watchful pressure of McGonagall's magic.
"I apologize," she said as evenly as she could, "for using that spell on you. It was both irresponsible and an overreaction, for which I will be serving detention."
While you sit around in the common room distracting Harry from his studies and probably badmouthing me—
"It won't happen again."
Neither boy seemed to believe her. She was fine with that.
"I— uh," Ron shifted uneasily, aura pulsing smaller around him. "M'sorry for… saying that stuff. Y'didn't deserve that. You were just trying to look out for Harry, same as me. So. Yeah."
Why did you? She wanted to ask, but she suspected his response might be idiotic enough to overcome the effects of the calming draught, and McGonagall was watching— so Hermione just gave a stiff nod, and marched out of the Hospital Wing.
Parvati and Ginny were waiting outside. Neither spoke as the door shut behind her, nor as they made their way down the corridor. Hermione appreciated that. Having attentive friends was usually nice, but it could occasionally feel a bit stifling. Parvati's arm linked with hers was comfort enough.
The instant they'd turned the corner, Ginny turned to her and declared: "You have to teach me that spell."
Barty took another sip of chamomile tea (proper calming draughts didn't mix well with Polyjuice), and did his best to neatly push all his restless eagerness to the back of his mind. It didn't matter that he was about to have an hour alone with Potter's pet mud— not when it was the Halfblood Harridan who'd arranged it and Dumbledore was surely keeping tabs on everyone who so much as breathed in his precious little pawn's vicinity. Especially the chit that supposedly did all of said pawn's thinking for him,
No no. No fun for Barty. Not yet. Not tonight. Tonight he would be careful. Light touch.
It didn't matter what she knew— all the memorized textbooks in the world would be no help to Potter soon enough.
Though according to McGonagall, she'd been memorizing more than textbooks. Cursed a pureblood, she did. A blood-traitor, but still. And all she got was detention?
It was like Evans all over again. Another up-jumped she-ape, thinking that a pretty face and basic literacy could compensate for lack of breeding.
There would be no such pretending when his Lord was whole again. Mudbloods would lose their wands for such offenses.
"Focus!" He hissed to himself, slapping the desk to ground himself. "Professor. Detention. Educational punishment."
Moody might be suspicious about where a mudblood could've learned such a handy little curse, but it would be driven by caution and concern. Couldn't have one of Dumbledore's dolls being Corrupted by the Darkness, after all.
He could do this. He could give some stern advice, put her through some watered-down Auror exercises, and send her on her way none the wiser.
He could do this.
He took a gulp of polyjuice, and chased it with tepid chamomile.
Five minutes later, the detection charm he'd put on the door nudged his magic. A wave of his wand opened it.
The chit stood frozen in the doorway, aura tense and expression determined, as if she'd shown up for a duel instead of a detention.
Barty obliged her via an overpowered stinging hex, which splashed off a decently quick shield charm— cast by a wand drawn from a wrist-holster.
Interesting.
"Not bad," he growled. "Given the miscreants you've been exposed to before I took this post, it'd be damned pathetic if you weren't ready for it, but still. Take a seat."
She took a deep breath, marched to the front of the room, and claimed a chair in the front row with a minimum of poise that spoke of domestication by someone respectable— most likely those Patils. Speaking of which…
"Checked the library for that grimoire you mentioned to Minerva," he said.
She stiffened, aura contracting around her like a startled jellyfish.
"Didn't find it, of course." He smiled. Moody had such a face for smiling. "Not that I expected to. Spells meant for witches are usually passed down mother-to-daughter. Question is, Miss Granger…"
—wasn't easy to keep his disdain out of the name, but he did it—
"Which of your little friends lent her Nan's Auld Book o'Hexes?"
She pursed her lips, shoulders tight.
"Wasn't a Patil. Nor a Weasley, I suspect. Welsh stock, them, not Saxon— nor are the Prewetts, and no Carrows've married into either family since…"
The mudblood kept her expression fairly neutral and her gaze on his desk until he slapped it. The moment their eyes met he cast:
"Legilimens!"
Now, Barty was no mind-mage. Though his occlumency was pretty damn good (he'd never have earned the Mark if it wasn't), he had never successfully legilimized anyone until Moody (and that'd been after he'd softened the old bloodhound up with potions)— but twelve hellish years of being tethered to his father's will had taught him a bit about psychic connections. So he didn't expect the mudblood to be an open book— but neither did he expect the utter fucking flood of memory that awaited him.
The angle of his wand reminded her with startling clarity of watching that spider dance to its flicks and convulse beneath it, meagre aura (?) snared by a tendril of Moody's own which reminded her of a diagram depicting a mind-mage attuning their mental frequency to that of their target and an old article about the Imperius Defense that mentioned the Dark Lord planting compulsions in people's heads to and making them do things like murder their families which reminded her of nightmares involving Quirrel puppeteering various people before Barty could even focus his intent on the Dark Lord— and when he did it fished up the memory of Tom Riddle's award for Special Services to the School and the simmering fury that had gripped her as she vividly imagined smashing it to bits and his smarmy face in an old yearbook and the finger-shaped scorch-marks she'd left on its parchment and then Barty was swept up in a wave of facts— countless names and dates and maps and photos each leading to countless more names and dates and maps and photos and all of them from muggle history, mundane and meaningless and endless—
Barty broke the spell with a flick of his wand and winced at sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes.
Moody's memories hadn't been anywhere near that vivid— or come at him so bloody fast. Probably due to some combination of age, all the curse damage, and the potions Barty'd dosed him with…
"Sir."
Right. Moody. Teacher.
"Not bad," he growled. "Not nearly enough to stop anyone who doesn't mind scrambling yer brain to get what they want, but not bad."
"Sir," she bit out, face pinched in discomfort, "may I ask how this relates to the reason for my detention?"
…no question about the legality? From a walking encyclopedia? Interesting…
"You're supposedly clever. Take a guess."
She thought for all of three seconds before answering: "Routine occlumency exercises supposedly cultivate greater awareness and control of one's emotions."
"Correct," he said. "Emotional control your Head of House believes you are in dire need of."
She pressed her lips together, stiff as a board.
"Do you disagree?"
"No, Professor." She didn't sound convincing at all, but neither was it obviously a lie.
"Look at me when I'm speaking, girl."
She did.
"Legilimens!"
This time he reminded her of Tonks attacking without warning, bombarding her shield with hexes that reminded her of the textbook definitions and diagrams of and wand-movements of every single one of those hexes which reminded her of a hexes with similar wand-movements and the theory of what differentiated them from curses which reminded her of Professor McGonagall's scolding which reminded her of cursing the Weasley boy and the sickening lurch in her belly when she realized she'd botched it which yielded a brief flicker of a yellowed old tome written in something that wasn't quite English but quickly shifted to a barrage of infuriating, insensitive idiocies from the redhead's carelessly flapping mouth which reminded her —despite a sudden thrash of resistance— of crying in the loo with her feet pulled up onto the toilet lid so no could see her and then the stalls splintering around her as a huge shape loomed over her— only to be engulfed in another deluge of useless facts. Barty grit his teeth against the sharpening headache and buckled down, focusing all his will on Weasley Weasley show me Weasley—
Every Weasley she had ever encountered flashed through his mind's eye clear as photographs before resolving into a memory of the youngest one disheveled and smeared with filth and grinning— Ginevra, derived from Guinevere which was derived from Gwenhwyfar which probably meant 'The White Ghost' in Old Welsh according to Talfryn Ross 1749-1851 who had published extensive studies of Common Brittonic which was the parent language of Welsh and Cornish and Cumbric and Breton from which the magical families who still spoke those tongues as their first language derived the incantations for much of their traditional spells and rituals just like the Dunbars and MacGregors and Ó Ruiths did with Old Irish which according to Senchaid Ó Draighneáin 1519-1660 was actually the parent language of Scots Gaelic as well though that was emphatically disputed by Scottish scholars such as—
Barty broke the connection, squeezing his eyes shut as the pain behind them intensified.
Was this how the chit had fooled her teachers into thinking she was the second coming of Lily Evans? Just— memorizing every fucking thing she read regardless of how useful it actually was? How the hells did she have any space left in her skull to think?
"Professor?"
"Parchment!" He barked. "Parchment out. Write down the incantation of what ye cast on Weasley."
She obeyed with haste. Even that much, after so long unable to do anything but obey, sent a shiver of satisfaction through Barty's soul.
Then she pulled out a muggle pen.
The click was unmistakable in the empty classroom, like the strike of a fucking chisel against Barty's restraint.
Unnatural. Insidious. The death of our culture by a thousand tiny, festering cuts—
No!
Deep breaths. You can do this. Remember your Lord. Remember the plan.
Remember the plan.
Stick to the bloody plan.
The moment she stopped writing, he summoned the parchment.
The parchment twitched. A little bit. Maybe.
The chit waved her wand, & sent it floating over to him. "Sorry, Professor. I tired of my essays disappearing, you see, so I invested in un-summonable school supplies."
This was a lie.
Every respectable student had craft-standard unsummonable parchment, and with Moody's eye Barty could spot it by the invisible runes glimmering neatly 'round its edges. Granger's was covered in a faint but even web of charmwork— un-anchored, but strong by dint of its weave. Another lesson from the Patils? No, they had standard unsummonables as well…
Barty focused on looking through his flesh-and-blood eye, and read.
It was Saxon, all right— rendered all flat and flavorless by that horrid muggle contraption, but Auld Ænglisċ nonetheless. In the old days that'd be a big fat arrow pointing towards the Blacks or Bulstrodes or Selwyns (or even those blood-traitor Fawleys), but with the Aurors ransacking every fucking manor they could after the war, who knew? Hadn't the Patils had something to do with Lord MacNair's arrest? Barty wouldn't put it past such interlopers to strike a deal with the Ministry…
Focus!
Let's see…
Yrre… ire? Anger? Anger is the fire… anger is the sword… anger is the thread…
Oh, that was a nasty one!
And she was surprised it had vanished the little troll's mouth entirely?
Mudbloods. Honestly.
Still…
"You must be one very angry little witch," he said, "t'accidentally turn this into a curse."
"I suppose I was," said the mudblood.
"Ye hard of hearing too?"
—her wand-hand twitched, but remained on her desk—
"Didn't say must've been angry, did I? Present tense! Only a madwiccan gets angry enough over trifles to accidentally turn hexes to curses— and you, lass, are not mad. No. You were full of anger already, weren't ye? Right on the verge of boiling over, and Weasley provided that last lick o'heat."
She said nothing, shoulders stiff, lips pressed together, gaze locked on his wand.
"Do ye deny it?"
"No, Sir."
"Good! Might be some hope for ye yet." He sat back, forced his wand-hand to be still… "Now the question is: what are ye going to do about it?"
"I will refrain from drawing my wand in the halls except to defend myself," she said tightly, the slightest sharp edge to her voice, "and I will prioritize occlumency in order to better control my emotions. Sir."
"Yes," said Barty. "You will."
Then he flicked a light stinging hex right into her brow. She twitched, eyes reflexively shutting… but that was about it. She looked more surprised than hurt, even as the skin started to swell up.
"Schoolmates toughen ya up, did they?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, a furrow 'twixt her eyebrows. "No, Sir. They merely provided the motivation."
Barty scoffed. "Think so, do ye? Ye've no idea, no idea at all how easy you've got it. Whatever pesterin' Malfoy's spawn and 'is ilk have given ye is nothing compared to what yer sort had t'weather not even fifteen years ago. Soft, the lot o'ye! This whole damn generation! Thank Merlin Albus had the sense to call me in."
Granger raised her hand. Barty stifled the urge to curse it.
"What?"
"Why do you think he didn't do so earlier?" She asked. "Ask you to take the Defense position, that is."
Barty grimace-grinned. "Who knows? Maybe the man's getting complacent in 'is old age. Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last. Now, what to do with you…"
She held herself like a spooked cat, ready to scamper at the first sudden move, which was nice to see— but not as nice as outright fear or obedience… and really, hadn't he been careful so far? Hadn't he been diligent?
Didn't he deserve a little treat?
"Imperio."
She barely had time to widen her eyes before the spell connected and that heady sense of control spread like a balm over his mind. Her face went slack, all that pensive defiance wiped away by superior magic even as her inferior will flailed weakly against his own.
Up, he thought, and she stood.
Kneel, he thought, and she knelt, faint confusion echoing back across the bond.
Bow, he thought, and she bent forward 'til her brow touched the floorboards.
Barty took a steadying breath.
"Well? What d'ye say, girl?"
"Thank you, Sir. Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to rectify the clear deficiencies of my upbringing." As she spoke —really to the floor more than Barty— her voice shifted from toneless to meek and earnest, bringing the grin back to his borrowed face. "Please forgive me, Sir— I know you have much more important things to do than teach half-grown witches how to behave a… mongst…"
Oh, interesting.
"Amongst?" He pressed.
"Amongst…" her voice was ever-so-slightly strained, her body ever-so-slightly stiff where she bowed— "…civilized… beings."
Oh, Bella would have loved this! Especially those little flutters of resistance against his mind and magic, like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws.
Beg, he commanded. Submit.
"Here, Sir." She took one hand off her lap to— wordlessly, wandlessly summon her wand off the desk?
Then she stood and crossed the floor toward him.
"Please," she said. "Take… it. You should… hold onto it… until I've… proved…"
Barty leaned forward, jaw clenched against the mounting pain behind his eyes and the mounting, slippery pressure on his magic, like trying to hold onto a bloody squid—
"'Til ye've proved what?"
"That I can…" Her jaw was clenched too, her knuckles paling 'round her wand— "control my… savage… in… stincts—! Well— enough— to—"
"To what?"
"To—" her hair was definitely frizzier than it'd been a moment ago, her approach slower and stiffer— "To… be trusted… with…"
She was interrupted by his reading lantern exploding. Flame burst across his desk, flinging shards of glass in all directions and breaking his focus. Paper and parchment smoldered. Barty's cheek and hands stung in a dozen spots— and Granger tore herself free of his broken focus, stumbling back, chest heaving and wand gripped tight.
Barty extinguished the flames with one swish of his own and vanished the glass with a second.
Then they just… stared at each other, for a moment. The chit was trembling, whether from the curse or the effort of fighting it or the accidental magic or all three he couldn't say, but he did know that had been her magic. His own outbursts had never manifested as fire— much less a miniature fucking confringo.
Bint was lucky she hadn't burnt Weasley's bloody mouth off instead of just sealing it.
Perhaps there was some truth to those squib ancestor rumors…
"I apologize," she grit out. "For the lantern. Professor. I'll try my best not to blow anything up the next time someone casts an Unforgivable Curse at me."
Despite himself, despite the hungry, jagged feeling pervading both his physical and spectral bodies, couldn't help but smirk at that.
"See that you do," he shot back— and, before temptation could seize him again: "Dismissed."
"Thank you, Professor." She somehow managed to sound perfectly respectful and totally insincere at the same time— something Barty had only ever heard from pure witches. Those Patils must've been training her up, he figured.
It did not escape his notice that she kept her wand out 'til the classroom door swung shut behind her.
Moody would have approved.