Chapter 44
Hermione
Harry was sprawled on a plush Gryffindor armchair, a quill clutched loosely in his hand, his Transfiguration essay momentarily forgotten as he absorbed every word of Hermione’s latest tale. Hermione leaned over their table, told her story in a hushed voice brimming with amusement, "So, the levitation charm held perfectly, even with Crabbe's… considerable weight. Then we used a semi-permanent sticking charm, you know, to really make sure he stayed put. I heard they found him this morning shaking like a leaf and crying when the bells rang." Harry burst into laughter, the sound echoing softly in the otherwise quiet common room.
“I’d give 100 galleons to have seen his face. All night in the Tower? You’re an evil genius!” Hermione joined his laughter, imagining Crabbe’s face as she and the twins levitated him to the top of the bell tower; howling and kicking his legs in impotent fury. They had caught him after Quidditch practice the day before, and the opportunity was too good to miss. Another name checked off her list.
Suddenly, the smile dropped off Harry’s face as he gasped and doubled over, clutching at his scar. The laughter died in her throat, and she jumped forward.
“Harry!” She cried, “What is it?” She laid a hand on her brother’s back as he took a deep shuddering breath.
"It’s ok…it’s dying down. That's… that's the third time this week," he muttered, his voice tight.
“Have you told Sirius? Did this time have anything…else?” She asked carefully, pulling out her wand and casting a quick muffilato spell to keep their nosey classmates from overhearing.
"It's accompanied by this… unsettling feeling. Like…being watched, that prickling on the back of your neck?" Harry said, his gaze distant and troubled. "It's getting stronger. It feels… different this time. Sirius said he and Remus are reading everything they can on cursed scars, and to write if it gets any worse…but Dumbledore said come to him…" They fell silent, the comfortable atmosphere replaced by a palpable tension, the playful banter of moments before feeling like a distant memory.
Hermione tapped a finger against her chin, as she grappled with the problem. The pain in Harry’s scar, and the accompanying nightmares were a growing problem. She couldn’t help but worry, she loved Harry. He had been her first real friend, the first person to reach out a hand and offer a smile after her long dark childhood. It amazed her he came out of such a dark childhood so open and loving (if also being emotionally stunted and terrible at picking up social ques from peers), when she herself had come to the conclusion that she was so unlovable it wasn’t worth trying. Harry had been the start of a change in herself, the first person she truly, deeply loved and knew loved her in return. Family by choice, from the troll onward. So it was natural she worried, her mind circling around (as it often did these days) to that night in the graveyard. Voldemort had taken his blood for his resurrection spell, but why. Why Harry’s blood, when if the goal was simply for Harry to die, it would have been so easy at any point to kill him. He had a spy in the castle for a year, why wait. Perhaps what was done to him in the graveyard was having some kind of lasting effect.Or perhaps Voldemort found a way to track him, keep tabs on him? Is that how he found our homes this summer?
"Could he be using Legitemancy from far away? Voldemort is a Legitemens; maybe he opened some kind of connection when he took your blood in the graveyard.” She said speculatively.
“I don’t know how it works. I think I can feel when he’s angry. Like I just know that he is. Could I be reading his mind?”
“I don’t know Harry. We’d need to know more about this type of magic for answers. We could go to Dumbledore but…I really think we should talk to Sirius first.” She played with her quill. This was an increasingly sore subject. Dumbledore had pulled Harry aside and informed him they would be having private lessons, and Harry had been thrilled. When Hermione had reminded Harry about Dumbledore’s odd behavior, he had gotten defensive. They were currently, “agreeing not to speak about it,” and had been for days. She was positive she would be the one to break the silence first, but had been delaying the fight.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.” Harry said easily, surprising her. “I’ll write Sirius.”
Hermione could hardly keep up with the rapid changes occurring at Hogworts, both with the school and in her personal life. It seemed that she and Harry’s change in family had caused a shift in how they were viewed by the school in general, with the majority of their peers. Harry was no longer the pariah he had started the year as; as people vied to get closer to the new heir of the house Black. Girls, especially, which seemed to spark a fierce rivalry in Ginny. The younger girl had attached herself to Harry, who seemed pleased but bemused at the attention. Other girls had tried and failed to snare his attention, but Harry (so often socially oblivious) did not recognize that the girls were chasing him before Ginny managed to scare them off. Hermione had tried to gently clue Harry in but he had shrugged off his new popularity, claiming to not care one way or the other. He was simply happy people had stopped whispering about him being a lying attention seeker.
Ron and Lavender had something going on that claimed most of Ron’s time and attention. Not that Hermione cared that Ron was busy, or keeping time with another girl. But the fact that is was Lavender, a girl who frequently bullied her and took time out of her day to rub their relationship in her face was a sore subject. She found it deeply insulting that her so-called-friend would date someone they knew bullied her. It would be the same if he were dating Pansy Parkinson, or Pavarti. The enemy of my friend is my enemy, unless they had a pair of tits and were a half-decent snog, I guess. She thought with an internal laugh.
For herself, she realized she was no longer the wallflower friend to “the famous Harry Potter” she had been seen as in previous years. Whether it was her new status, new clothes, or general teenage hormones at play she couldn’t be sure but suddenly the male population of Hogwarts seemed to take notice of her. Any time she passed a corridor alone someone seemed to find her, and she was fending off invitations to Hogsmead, study partner requests, and even bold requests to visit her father and talk courting and betrothal. What confused her the most about the change was the number of older Slytherin boys suddenly approaching her, treating her as one would an exchange student, rather than someone they had bullied for years.
Umbridge was an ongoing problem, as they slogged through her minefield of classes trying their best to not attract attention. She and Harry leaned on each other through these, as Ron had become Lavender’s default partner. Hermione figured this was actually better in terms of Harry’s academic achievements, he needed almost no help with his homework, and was being praised for his “sudden dedication to his in-class-work!” (Flitwick had praised Harry when he succeeded his charm on the first try, earning 10 points to Gryffindor. Meanwhile, Hermione had been kept behind that same class, so the same professor could gently ask her if she was still having trouble reconciling the “issues” she had over the summer.
“Hermione, you’re quite possibly the most naturally gifted student I’ve ever had. Your magic has astounded me from the first day. But your work in class this year so far…” He said soberly in his high voice from behind his desk. He eyes were full of compassion, and Hermione felt the sting in her own suddenly, thinking for the first time perhaps she had more people around her who genuinely cared than she ever could have imagined.
“Professor, I’m not aware of any missing work…” She said hesitantly, acutely aware that this had nothing to do with a missing assignment or two.
“No, you get all of your work done. Exemplary, as always. But you aren’t raising your hand at every question. You aren’t…you aren’t even attempting to be the first to do the spell…What I’m saying is I’m worried about you, Hermione. Your issues this past summer…”
Hermione fought down her urge to fight. To demand to know if because she had always done more she now was required to do more than her classmates. She couldn’t relax and do the required amount only, she was required to go above and beyond, forever? However, she realized this was unfair to professor Flitwick. He wasn’t doing anything but expressing concern that she had been through an ordeal over the summer and for all intents and purposes was behaving differently.
“I’m OK, Professor. If you have extra work you’d like me to do I’d be happy to…but in class, with all the…observation,” She said delicately, “I prefer to…let’s say not stand out. I have to get to Herbology, if that’s all? She stood to leave, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Truly…thank you…for your concern.” She said softly.
Flitwick nodded solemnly. “I understand.” He said gravely, and Hermione knew his mind was going to Umbridge and her “teacher evaluations.”
She’d heard similar from her other teachers, to different levels of concern. Snape and Umbridge continued to needle her, and she worried it wouldn’t be too much longer until she snapped. She found herself waking up at night from nightmares of being cornered without a way to defend herself, of Fenrir snatching her in Hogsmead…too many scenarios keep track of. This fear was a driving factor to her shift in conversation with Harry.
“Are you better?” She asked, noting him absently rubbing his scar as he penned his letter to Sirius.
“Yeah, it’s nearly gone. I’m almost done, walk me to the Owlry?”
“Of course.”
They gathered their things and Harry tossed Ron a wave as they made their way out the portrait hole. Ron, extracted himself from Lavender just long enough to wave back before dismissing his friends again. Harry frowned but said nothing about Ron’s behavior. He’d told Hermione in a rather half-hearted way he was happy for Ron, and didn’t care to talk about it. Hermione saved her Ron-bashing for the twins, who were always ready to commiserate about their younger brother and what a nonce he was.
Halfway to the Owlry, Hermione paused, an idea hitting her with force. If they weren’t taught defense, how unprepared would they be…not for O.W.L’s , but for the next attack by Voldemort and his henchmen? Hadn’t this summer proven that they were not safe? Would they live in hiding, between school and home indefinitely? It was unthinkable. They had to learn how to defend themselves, and if the school wouldn’t help them…
“Harry. I have an idea.” She said, grabbing his arm to stop him.
He rolled his eyes playfully. “What else is new, Wonder Witch?”
“Wonder Witch?” George said, stopping beside Harry. “Good one!” Fred added, kissing Hermione’s forehead and slinging an arm around her shoulders. She groaned.
“Not another nickname! Wonder Witch sounds like a comic book.” She rolled her eyes and gave Fred a playful tap to the chest.
“What’s wrong with that?” George asked with a raised brow.
“It fits, you’re wonder-ful.”
“Such a winsome, wonderous, witty…”
“Warm, well-spoken, wooable…”
“Wonder witch!” They finished together on a laugh. Hermione glared at Harry, but was unable to suppress her smile. “Do you see what you’ve started?”
Harry laughed. “Don’t blame me! You’re dating them!”
“That’s because she’s so wise.” George said smugly, unable to resist continuing the game.
“Oh Wonderous Wonder Witch, wait for this wizard to walk with you in a while, your kiss is my wish and worth the wait for your winsome wonderful smile.” Fred sang, hand over his heart. Hermione blushed and ducked her head.
“Stop.” She said softly, pleased but embarrassed. Fred tucked a curl behind her ear and winked.
“Ok. What did we interrupt? We’re off to the Owlry.” He said with a smug sort of grin.
“We’re going to the Owlry as well, actually.” Hermione said.
“Walk together?” George asked brightly.
“Got an absolute ton of owl orders. The skiving snackboxes are taking off!” Fred exclaimed, as the twins beamed. Hermione felt her chest swell with pride for them. Officially, she didn’t approve of skipping class. It was…disrespectful to the teachers. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been tempted to take a fever fudge rather than deal with another hour of “silent reading” punctuated by snide insults. She was proud they had created, produced and marketed something so popular. Not for the first time, she thought about how successful they would be. And then they move to London and forget about their long-distance girlfriend still in a boarding school most of the year. She thought with a sudden burst of melancholy. She shook it off resolutely. Focus on the year you have, not the ones you won’t. She scolded herself. Fred and George; nothing about them gave any indication they were fickle or caviler in their feelings for her. If anything; the constant warmth and support, the easy laughter, occasionally put her on edge. It was as if when she felt she was too happy, she expected something terrible to happen and ruin it. To wake up and find herself back to the school let out last
“Do you mind, Harry? What I mentioned, it’ll be easier to explain to you all at once, anyway.”
Harry shrugged. “Let’s go.”
********************
Fred
Fred sat at his desk, quill and notebook ready to observe George’s latest experiment. They were using their new free time (having dropped Defense Against the Dark Arts from their schedule, finding the class an abysmal waste of time) to test their latest revolutionary time-waster, a charm guaranteed to produce a highly realistic sensory daydream. George held a small, shimmering charm, humming faintly. "Alright, Fred, let's see if this Daydream Charm works as intended. Prepare for… well, let's hope it works." He laughed, then tapped the charm lightly against his temple, and Fred felt a faint tingle spreading through his own head. George’s grin faltered. "Uh oh." Fred scribbled furiously, noting the sudden shift in George's expression from playful anticipation to something far more… flushed. His brother groaned and sank back into the couch, lost in the vision the charm had provided. Fred noted his brother’s overall condition.
“Subject is relaxed in posture, gaze unfocused, seems…warm.” He scribbled.
He felt himself growing inexplicably warm, and thoughts of Hermione started to drift into his mind. He felt a familiar rush of warmth and blood rushing south, and noted with wry amusement his brother was defiantly…excited. George moaned again, shifting his back and whispering something. Fred decided it was time for the second phase of the test, and snatched the charm out of his brother’s hand.
George snapped out of it abruptly, face a vibrant crimson. "Right, that was… unexpected," he stammered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Definitely not suitable for classroom use."
Fred looked wryly at the charm in his hand. “Well, now I kind of hope the second test fails.” He smirked, bringing the charm to his own temple. The test was to determine if another party could intercept the vision, something that would certainly affect it’s marketability.
He felt an unpleasant swooping sensation in his stomach as he was slammed into the daydream, finding himself in the library, the scent of old books thick in the air. Hermione was there, her thick black curls loose and tumbled wildly around her face, her grey eyes heavy-lidded and sultry. She sat in his lap, her hands stroking through his hair. She leaned in and bit his earlobe lightly, whispering, “We’re all alone here. We could do anything…” A deep blush crept onto Fred's cheeks, even though the reality of the situation remained firmly grounded in his office chair.
He felt Hermione's fingers on his belt buckle, a playful tug that escalated quickly. She slid from his lap and dropped to her knees, and he found his fingers tangled in her curls as she took him into her warm, wet mouth. He heard an echo of his moan in his ears, the coherent part of his brain aware that he had spoken aloud. The image faded just as rapidly as it appeared, leaving Fred breathless and flushed, his heart pounding like a drum solo. He blinked, the charm still warm in his hand.
"Indeed. We-uh…” He gasped, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to clear his head, “ Need a recalibration. Less… intensity. More focus on appropriate…scenarios.”
George frowned thoughtfully. “So you could see it then?”
“The library?” Fred asked, quirking a brow. George nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, it dropped me right in, in your place I presume. That defiantly needs to be fixed.” He was struggling to keep his mind on the charm, the work that needed to be done, but the unexpected vision swirled seductively in his mind.
“Maybe we could add some kind of filter to keep out…unwanted deviations?" George tapped his quill thoughtfully against his chin.
Their initial goal of creating a fun, lighthearted charm had backfired spectacularly. The last thing they wanted was a classroom full of unexpectedly aroused students during Herbology. Fred shook himself mentally, forcing his mind from the dream to focus on the problem at hand.
George
George and Fred hunched over their workbench, a chaotic array of shimmering vials and disorganized tools surrounding them. Their latest invention, the Daydream Charm, lay on a velvet cushion, a small, coin-shaped exercise in frustration. It was supposed to enhance creativity, be a simple fantasy to skiv off class, not induce uncontrollable, intensely personal fantasies unfit for the public. The disastrous test run had left George utterly distracted. His mind, instead of focusing on recalibrating the charm’s peculiarities, was fixated on the image of Hermione, her laughter echoing in his ears, her hands on his body, in the daydream he couldn’t seem to shake. He was mentally counting down the minutes until their rendezvous by the lake, the image of her there even more potent than the charm’s effects. He found himself surreptitiously checking his watch, counting down the minutes until they could call it a day. The charm's failure felt oddly symbolic of his own current inability to focus on anything but Hermione.
Fred, seemingly oblivious to George’s internal turmoil, muttered about fluctuating magical currents and recalibrating. "The enchantment's backfiring, George," he said. "It's amplifying the caster's subconscious desires. In your case... well, let's just say it's quite... specific." He caught a glimpse of George's glazed-over expression and the barely contained smirk playing on his lips, and raised an eyebrow. “Are you listening?”
George shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Distracted. Sorry, Forge, yes, I hear you. Maybe if we readjust the filament wire connecting the interior charm matrix…” He gathered the tools, using a steady hand to disassemble the small charm. He fumbled with a particularly temperamental wire, his traitorous mind still drifting back to the dream. He wondered if he could convince her to sneak away with him to the library some evening, find a quiet corner and make it a reality. He closed his eyes for a moment, counting to ten and willing his body to calm down. Focus! He scolded himself. Finish this first, it’s just one errant wire… Suddenly, the charm in George's hand began to vibrate and glow, before coming apart in an explosion of wire and copper shards. A shower of sparks filled the room, followed by a sharp, searing pain in George's hand. He cried out, dropping the charm, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Fred, cursing under his breath, rushed to his side, snatching his hand for inspection. George glanced down and paled at the sight of his ruined hand, a mess of blood, blisters and charred flesh. Fred, acting swiftly, conjured a simple healing charm, but the burn was too severe. George panted lightly, leaning hard on the workbench not daring to look at the charred flesh of his palm again, as Fred sighed and declared, "Hospital Wing, George. Hermione’s going to have to wait."
Hermione
Hermione sat perched on a moss-covered rock overlooking the inky Black Lake, meticulously writing notes on her defensive training group as she waited for the twins to finish their work and join her. She’d decided even though study groups were perfectly within the rules, it would be best to keep it from the powers that be. She had a feeling if Umbridge knew they were practicing jinxes and defensive spells she would find a way to stop it and punish them. So, she had taken a page out of the twin’s book, so to speak, and made a magically binding contract she would have all the members sign. If they broke their word, specifically if they told Professor Umbridge, they were in for a rather nasty surprise. Hermione had a bit of a moral dilemma about having them sign the paper without knowing it was a contract, but reasoned only liars and sneaks would break it, and it would save her the trouble of having to find them later. The spell ensured that everyone would know who the rat was.
Harry had been hesitant, but bent to her will under pressure about starting the group. The twins had been beyond ecstatic, pressing to start it immediately, and dedicate this upcoming Hogsmead weekend to recruitment.
The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the water in hues of orange and purple. She was waiting for Fred and George, who were notoriously late, even by their standards. The rustling of reeds and pebbles broke the silence, and she looked up to see Marcus Flint, rather than the twin smiles of her boyfriends. He walked purposefully towards her, all swagger and smirk, and sat down on her rock uninvited. He was so close his thigh almost touched hers. Hermione frowned and shifted, creating more space between them as she waited to see what he would do.
"Fancy seeing you here," he began, his voice dripping with false charm, “Mind if I join you for the sunset?” He gestured to the admittedly beautiful colors in the sky over the lake.
“I do mind, actually. I’m waiting for someone.” She said crisply, tucking her notes away discreetly and opening a book from her bag at random. She hoped the rude dismissal would be enough to end this interlude.
"I hear you're dating the Weasley twins. A rather… pedestrian choice for a girl of your…lineage." He chuckled, a sound like gravel grinding. "I thought perhaps it was just a rumor; why would someone as wealthy and beautiful as you waste her time on a pair of poor clowns?"
Hermione was used to the casual arrogance of pureblood supremacists; but felt this was especially sleezy. Hitting on her by insulting her boyfriends? Disgusting. His clumsy attempt at a romantic advance was as offensive as it was predictable from a bully like him.
“Not interested.” She said firmly.
“I could take you out, show you a fine time around London. There’s this restaurant, ‘L'huître grillée’, C'est tout simplement divin. J'adorerais t'y emmener. He finished in french, in what Hermione assumed he meant to be a seductive tone. Rolling her eyes, she turned a page in her book and said blandly,
“Ton accent a besoin d'être travaillé. Ça ne m'intéresse pas.”
Marcus scowled, and hesitated. Planning his next move. She thought grimly as she turned the page again. Relentless, these arrogant bastards.
"The Weasley boys… quite the simpletons, wouldn't you say? Acting like fools half the time, and poor as churchmice. A girl like yourself deserves better.. much, much better." He leaned closer, his eyes lingering on her chest, a predatory gleam replacing the usual arrogance. "I'm offering you a chance to…upgrade."
Hermione didn't flinch, or even look up from her book. "I'm quite happy with my boyfriends, thank you very much, Flint," she said, her voice calm but firm, laced with an undercurrent of steel. Flint's face contorted in a mixture of disbelief and anger. He reached to snatch her hand, but before he make contact, a sharp shove sent him sprawling backward into the cold, murky water at the shore of the lake with a surprised yell.
She watched, keeping her face neutral as the enraged boy struggled to stand in the slick mud.
“Fred and George are brilliant, kind, and fiercely loyal. They’re everything you're not: genuine, creative, and utterly lacking in your nauseating arrogance and obsession with blood purity. Poor?” She laughed, the cruel sound echoing across the water. “You think money matters more than the content of your character? I’d rather live in a cardboard box in the gutter with them than waste my life in a gilded cage surrounded by morally bankrupt bigots.”
He struggled to the muddy shore, soaking wet and humiliated. He glared at her as he sloshed his way past her towards the castle, his mud-drenched robes slapping against his legs.
She knew Fred and George would be thrilled to hear this story. She settled back onto her rock, completely at peace, her book now opened to a chapter on jinxes.