Year Two
Chapter 2: Year Two
~ The flames fill my lungs Burning up everything I've become It's not that I'm brave, no It's that I've been here before And I know I'll be okay ~
Bellatrix was furious.
She’d lost the coin toss to Snape on who was to patrol the grounds and wait for Potter and Weasley to arrive—it had only taken a couple of hours for their escapade to make the front page of the Daily Prophet’s Breaking News. She’d never admit it aloud to anyone, but she’d always rather enjoyed the Sorting Ceremony—she was one of the teachers who liked to guess the placements before the hat announced them–but this year, she was stuck on idiot lookout.
It wasn’t difficult to spot them. No chase. No hunt. She was almost…disappointed. There they were, staring through the Entrance Hall windows, chatting animatedly and watching the sorting, their belongings strown around them. She rolled her eyes. Fools. They were so oblivious to their surroundings they didn’t even notice her approach.
“Hang on…” Potter was saying to Weasley. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table…Where’s Black?”
“Maybe she’s ill!” Weasley suggested, a little too hopefully.
“Maybe she’s left,” said Potter. “Because she’s missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!”
“Or she might have been sacked! I mean, everyone hates her—”
“Or maybe, Mr. Weasley,” she said quietly, her voice brimming with a certain irresistible joy as she anticipated their reactions, “she’s waiting to hear why you two didn’t arrive on the school train.”
They spun around in horror to find Bellatrix smiling in a way she hoped let them know they were in very deep trouble.
“Follow me,” she said. Eyes never leaving the ground, she watched as the two of them gathered their trunks and pet cages and followed her up the steps and into the Entrance Hall, then away from the excitable hum of chatter and delicious smells of the feast, and down into the dungeons and her office, which was right around the corner from Severus’s, at the end of a cold passageway near the Slytherin Common Room.
“In,” she snapped, opening the door and pointing. Bellatrix took great pride in her office design–dark wood in a herringbone pattern echoed under her heels, and the candle-bracketed walls were a deep Slytherin green and featured ornamental black floral brocade designs that were actually serpents when one got close enough to look.
It was the perfect balance of austere and intimidating depending on the occasion, and tonight its’ latter qualities were certainly coming in useful.
She slammed the door and turned sharply on her boot heel to look at the two Gryffindors.
“So,” she said. “The train isn’t good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we boys?” She picked a book off her desk and tossed it across the room to make her point. Both of them shivered.
“No, Professor, it was the barrier at King’s Cross, it—”
“Silence!” Bellatrix hissed. “What have you done with the car?”
Weasley gulped and they both stared up at her, wide-eyed, their thoughts–always so loud–synchronized and panicked–’How did she know about the car? Can she read our minds?!’
Grinning wickedly again, Bellatrix unrolled the evening edition of the Daily Prophet.
“You were seen, by no less than seven muggles!” She pointed to the headline–FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES—, and then threw the paper on the ground, no longer smiling. “Do you have any idea how serious this is? You have risked the exposure of our world! Not to mention the damage you’ve inflicted to a whomping willow that’s been on these grounds since before you were born!”
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“The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir beware,” Hermione read. “It’s written in blood.”
“What’s that thing–hanging underneath” said Ron, voice quivering.
Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn’t move. Then Ron said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“Shouldn’t we try and help–” Harry began awkwardly.
“Trust me,” said Ron. “We don’t want to be found here.” Hermione nodded and they turned to leave, but it was too late. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment; students were crashing into the passage from both ends. Then the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat–until someone shouted through the quiet.
“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” It was Draco Malfoy, smirking maliciously.
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Bellatrix followed her colleagues up from the feast instead of down her usual path to her dungeon quarters, alerted by the sudden change in student cacophony from excited chatter to shock and fear. By the time she arrived at the blocked second floor corridor, a hush had fallen over the crowd save for Argus Filch screaming at the top of his lungs.
“You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”
“Come with me, Argus,” she heard Dumbledore saying as she pushed her way through the throngs of students to the front to join the other teachers. “You, too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger.”
“My office is nearest, Headmaster–just upstairs–please feel free–”
“Thank you, Gilderoy.”
Bellatrix rolled her eyes, but followed after the Headmaster, Filch, Minerva, Severus, that self-obsessed infernal man, and the three troublesome Gryffindors to the third floor office.
She’d had the misfortune of being in this room under its previous occupant, when she’d been trying to corner Quirrell for a -conversation,- but then it had looked relatively normal, almost too much so. The same could not be said for it now. From the moment Lockhart opened the door and swept them all inside, she was keenly aware of dozens of pairs of eyes on them all at once. Or more accurately, dozens of portrait eyes—as every available centimeter of wall space was occupied by a portrait of Lockhart himself–all of them…smiling.
Bellatrix averted her gaze, instead, onto the real Lockhart, who was lighting candles on his desk. The Headmaster laid what appeared to be Filch’s cat, though completely frozen, onto the polished surface and began to examine her. The three students exchanged tense looks and sank into chairs outside the pool of candlelight, watching. She didn’t need to read their thoughts to know they were terrified. Or that they hadn’t done this.
“It was definitely a curse that killed her—probably the Transmogrifian Torture—I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her…” Lockhart launched into one of his rambling tales of his own supposed heroism, his comments punctuated by Filch’s dry, racking sobs. As the dozens of Lockhart portraits beamed down at the lot of them. Truly the stuff of nightmares. She rolled her eyes again and began to pace the room. This was all making her uncomfortable.
At last, Dumbledore straightened up.
“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.
“Not dead? But why’s she all—all stiff and frozen?”
“She’s been Petrified…But how, I cannot say….” Dumbledore trailed off.
“Ask him!” shrieked Filch, finally rounding on the three students.
“No Second Year could have done this,” Severus said from where he’d been brooding over by the window. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced—”
“He did it! He did it!” Filch insisted and then the room descended into argument until Bellatrix couldn’t take it anymore—she was starting to get a headache and was in serious need of a stiff drink and some time to mull over this latest development. Not to mention reread anything she’d ever come across that mentioned the Chamber of Secrets.
“If I might speak, Headmaster,” she said. “Potter and his friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Their thoughts. Once again so loud, and almost synchronized, ‘since when does Black stick up for -us-?’
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At 11 am the first Saturday in November, Hermione headed down to the Quidditch Pitch and stands with Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Hagrid for Harry’s first match of the season. It was a muggy sort of day, unseasonably warm, and smelled like rain. She knew Harry had never wanted to beat Slytherin so badly and she frankly couldn’t blame him. The last week had been…troubling at best. It had taken a lot to get Professor Binns to divulge the story of the Chamber of Secrets, but Hermione, who was usually the first to be skeptical, had taken it as truth straightaway—if there was no Chamber, there’d be no reason for all the teachers to look so frightened every time it was mentioned. And if there -was- indeed a Chamber of Secrets, it lived on as proof that one of the tenets upon which Hogwarts had been founded was that other witches and wizards were and always would be superior to people like herself. Yes, the last week had been…troubling.
Hermione was shaken from her thoughts by the start of a steady, pelting rain about fifteen minutes into the match and not shortly thereafter, Harry was almost knocked off his broom by a Bludger one of the Slytherins sent flying in his direction. Fortunately, George Weasley got there just in time, but as soon as he sent the Bludger soaring away, it turned course and sped back towards Harry.
She gave Ron’s arm a shake, indicating for him to look at the strange way the Bludger was behaving, but she didn’t need to. Hagrid had noticed it, too.
“Harry’s got ‘imself a rogue Bludger! That’s been tampered with, that has!”
The rain increased. Fred and George flanked Harry on either side, sending the fixed Bludger off at every given opportunity, but each time, it came back just as quickly and pointedly as before. Meanwhile, other Gryffindor players swerved to avoid the other Bludgers in play, (since the Beaters were distracted) and Slytherin scored repeatedly, though it was getting harder to see what was going on as the rain continued to thicken. Eventually, Madam Hooch or Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain must have noticed something was off because the sound of a shrill whistle rang out signaling a timeout.
“This reminds me of last year—you don’t think—”Ron started, but Hermione shook her head.
“I don’t think someone could be jinxing the Bludger during the match, no, it’s raining too hard they wouldn’t be able to focus properly. And the movements are too erratic—I’ll bet you anything it was jinxed before the match even started.”
The whistle sounded again and play resumed.
“They didn’t do anything about the Bludger! What was the point of taking the timeout?!” Ron shouted. Neville threw his hands in the air. Ginny was sitting quietly with her arms crossed tightly in front of her, looking terrified.
Hermione borrowed Hagrid’s binoculars to try and get a better view of what was going on. Everything was a blur, but she caught a glimpse of Draco Malfoy’s pale hair, and Harry’s red robes not far behind him—they had seemingly both spotted the Snitch, or one was bluffing the other. Another blur and Harry jerked wildly and grabbed his arm—he must have been hit by the Bludger. She clapped a hand over her mouth as Harry suddenly swan-dived for the ground, where he tumbled off his broom, non-injured arm holding something aloft. The Snitch. The crowd erupted into cheers and whistles. She and Ron immediately got to their feet and headed for the stairs so they could beat the rest of the school down to the pitch—they needed to check on Harry.
The rain was still falling steadily, but had started to lighten up just a bit. The two Gryffindors reached the field just in time to see Professor Black pointing her wand at the rogue Bludger, which was still trying to attack Harry, and likely would have succeeded had Ron’s brothers not been standing guard and smacking it away each time it tried.
“Bombarda!” their professor shouted the next time the Bludger was airborne. It exploded into pieces like confetti or ash scattering to the ground and into the mist.
Hermione and Ron pushed through the throng of Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch players until they reached the little cluster of teachers surrounding Harry.
“Aha. Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen,” Lockhart was saying. “But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wing–ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, would you escort him?--and Madam Pomfrey will be able to–er–tidy you up a bit.”
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Harry, Ron, and Hermione headed to the Great Hall just after eight o’clock to find the long dining tables vanished and replaced by a golden stage lit by thousands of candles floating overhead.
Most of the school seemed to be packed in tightly, all carrying their wands and looking excited.
“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Hermione as they edged into the chattering crowd. “Someone told me Flitwick was a dueling champion when he was young—maybe it’ll be him.”
“As long as it’s not—” Harry began, but he ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, gorgeous as ever, in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Professor Black, wearing…red. A deep scarlet vest with a tailcoat and black ruffles on the shoulders and cuffs covered one of her usual long black corseted dresses. Her curls had been pulled back into something of a long ponytail, leaving her angular profile more visible than usual. Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off of either of them.
Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!”
“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions—for full details, see my published works. Now, let me introduce my assistant, Professor Black,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. Black stiffened instantly, like she was about to speak, but thought better of it. Hermione expected she wasn’t the kind of person who was used to, or even accepting of, being called anyone’s ‘assistant.’
“She tells me she knows a tiny little bit about dueling herself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry—you’ll still have your Astronomy professor when we’re through, never fear!”
“Wouldn’t it be good if they finished each other off,” Ron muttered. Hermione shot him an indignant look and then turned back to her professors. Black’s upper lip was curling and it was obvious she was trying to keep from openly seething and Hermione didn’t blame her. She generally respected Lockhart, but the way he’d talked down to the other professor—an obviously more than competent and intelligent witch—was a bit disappointing.
Lockhart and Black turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with a twirl of his hands, whereas Black jerked her head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them. Lockhart, still smiling, and Black looking almost murderous.
“Don’t know what he’s so cheerful about—if Black was looking at me like that, I’d be running as fast as I could in the other direction,” said Ron. She and Harry nodded in agreement.
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Bellatrix was furious. How dare this sorry, useless excuse for a man. Assistant?! Her frustration and revulsion had been building all term and the only reason she’d agreed to this charade in the first place was for the opportunity to prove his total incompetence to a massive, live audience.
“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position. On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course,” Lockhart said.
She couldn’t help the malicious grin she felt spreading across her own face. Oh, the tempting satisfaction.
“One—two—three—”
Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Bellatrix cried: “Expelliarmus!” and in a dazzling flash of scarlet light, Lockhart was blasted off his feet. He flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor and the audience immediately erupted into a mix of anxious concern and laughter.
She cackled mirthlessly along with them—really? A supposed famous hero and defense against the dark arts teacher who couldn’t block a simple disarming charm in which most third years were proficient? It was a better performance than she could have ever hoped for.
He was down for several seconds and Bellatrix wondered if he actually -had- been knocked out, but, no such luck, as he soon rose unsteadily to his feet, wavy hair standing on end and looking entirely dazed.
“Well, there you have it! That was a Disarming Charm—as you see, I’ve lost my wand—ah, thank you, Miss Brown—yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Black, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do and if I wanted to stop you, it would have been only too easy—however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see…” he trailed off at the raging glare she sent his way, her beautifully crooked wand still aloft in the combative position. Could -no one- else see through him?! The coward visibly backed down from her…and this man supposedly defeated banshees and werewolves and vampires?! She scoffed. He was another one with thoughts too loud for his own good.
“Ah…well…enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Black, if you’d like to help me…”
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Hermione made her way down the empty aisles between the library shelves. She knew most of the school was already down at the Quidditch Pitch waiting for the Gryffindor/Hufflepuff match to start. She would be there, herself, had she not suddenly realized something. All of the pieces had been there all along, really, and all swirling around in her thoughts waiting for her to sort them into order. It happened during breakfast. Harry and Ron were talking about the match and one of the Weasley twins made a joke about how Gryffindor was likely to have an easy win because the Hufflepuffs were terrified Harry would petrify them if they flew too close. She’d rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all…the only ‘evidence’ they had to support their accusation was that Harry was a Parselmouth like Salazar Slytherin, which was…unfortunate, but…Then it hit her. Harry could talk to and hear snakes—the only person at Hogwarts able to do so AND he was also the only person at Hogwarts able to hear the monster. He’d always said it sounded like the voice came from the walls. She clapped a hand over her mouth, pushed away her barely touched breakfast, and sprinted out of the Great Hall. There’d be time to explain to Harry and Ron later.
She continued scanning the shelves for the book she was looking for, frustrated with herself for not realizing it sooner. After all, she’d first checked out Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them in first year. Finally spotting a battered copy of the red and gold tome, she excitedly pulled it off the shelf and flipped to the section she was looking for.
“Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents…its methods of killing are most wonderous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death…” she read aloud under her breath. Of course! This explained why only Harry could hear it speak -and- why all those attacked had been petrified, but no one had died. Everyone had only seen the Basilisks’ -reflection-, not the snake itself. Justin saw it through Nearly Headless Nick…but Nick was a ghost; he couldn’t die again. Mrs. Norris must have seen it through all the water on the floor that night…and Colin Creevey saw it through his camera! It all fit!
Going against all of her instincts in the name of what she believed to be the greater good, Hermione ripped the page on Basilisks out of the book. She felt immediately uncomfortable, like she’d just done something horrible…but she needed to show Professor McGonagall straight away. She sprinted around the shelves, so caught up in her thoughts she almost tripped over…Percy Weasley locked into such a tight embrace with Ravenclaw prefect Penelope Clearwater that it was hard to tell whose arms were whose.
She blushed and made to step away slowly, but it was too late. They’d spotted her. Percy got right to his feet.
“Granger! Err…we were just…never you mind, why aren’t you down at the match?”
“I was just…I needed to look something up. Just…had an idea for my Potions essay at breakfast and wanted to check on my theory…in case I forgot it,” she stumbled over her words hoping the prefects would be embarrassed enough to accept her excuse. It wasn’t like she even had to lie…other than ripping the book she hadn’t done anything wrong, but she knew if she divulged her basilisk theory to Percy it would delay her from getting to McGonagall.
“Very well. I’ll just be…headed down to patrol the stands, maintain order. I suggest you do the same,” said Percy. He shuffled away with slightly less pomp than usual. Penelope, meanwhile, had taken out a compact mirror and was fussing with her hair and makeup, twirling her wand and setting any disarray in her appearance to right. Wasn’t she a muggleborn as well?
“You heard Percy, move along.”
“Penelope. This is going to sound absolutely bonkers, but I really need you to trust me. Walk me down to the match and we’re going to look around every corner with that mirror.”
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Bellatrix poured herself another glass of firewhiskey. Her fingers clenched around the stem as she swirled the amber liquid.
Summer was fast approaching and the days were getting longer…light still faintly pouring through her office window even though it was close to dinner hour. Term would be ending in just a few weeks and there’d been no word from the “Heir of Slytherin” since the last attack. The one on Clearwater and Granger. Two brilliant Muggleborn students, found near the library while most of the school was down at a Quidditch match.
She gulped down some of the whiskey, feeling the familiar singe on the back of her throat as she swallowed. It was all so…entirely frustrating. From the very first attack on the cat, her colleagues had looked to her for answers. And to Severus as well, at least to an extent. Could she blame them? Given their past affiliations…and the fact that they were the only professors on staff who had been in Slytherin.
What grated her further…even more so than the unspoken suspicion she unwittingly heard on so many thought streams throughout the castle…was the fact that she truly had no idea who was behind it. She was from a sacred 28 legacy pureblood family…she’d had relatives at Hogwarts, in Slytherin, 50 years ago when this supposedly happened before…-He- had been at Hogwarts 50 years ago…and yet she’d never even heard mention of any Chamber of Secrets outside of legend. It was probably–no–definitely hushed up. The Board of Governors and the Ministry wouldn’t have wanted it to leak that they’d never even found the chamber…and of course that a student had died.
She took another long sip of whiskey. It would have made sense…if -He’d- been the one to open the Chamber fifty years ago. He was a descendent of Salazar Slytherin, after all, and he’d even won a special award for services to the school for supposedly catching the “culprit,” though obviously there wasn’t enough evidence to ever file charges, so the accused’s name was expunged from what limited information she -was-able to find…and it wasn’t like -He-told her everything. But so far as she knew he had no children, no heirs, not even a protégé…-She’d- been his protégé…
More whiskey. She slammed the empty glass down on her desk and refilled it with a flick of her wand. The pieces were all there, she knew, but it was like she was missing -one- crucial piece, without which she might as well have been blind. Petrification…from the Latin petrificare, meaning ‘to turn to stone.’ What kind of monster could freeze people like stone but not kill them? Was it trying to kill them? If so, why hadn’t it succeeded when, according to the events of fifty years ago, it had?
She slammed the glass down again. Fury.
The students all had their theories of course, but the collective anxiety had died down a little bit since there hadn’t been another attack in about two months…and because the Mandrake drought was almost ready to restore those who’d been petrified…but it wasn’t like reviving the monster’s victims was going to make the problem go away. Dumbledore was gone. The Minister arrested -Hagrid- of all people—trying to make the case that he’d been the one to unleash the monster fifty years ago (though they obviously couldn’t prove it then or now) -and- that he had a habit of taking on dangerous monsters as household pets…Which was not untrue…but -Hagrid- the halfbreed Gryffindor, the gamekeeper, Heir of Slytherin? Please.
And then there was her spoiled nephew who wouldn’t stop running his mouth, name-dropping his father, and implying he knew more than he let on. He didn’t.
Just that morning in Astronomy, she’d overheard him boasting about blood status.
-“I’m quite surprised the Mudbloods haven’t all packed their bags by now. Bet you five Galleons the next one dies. Pity it wasn’t Granger–”
-”Ten points from Slytherin! And I don’t want to hear another word about this business out of your mouth or I’ll be writing to your father myself, do we understand each other?”
Something had come over her then. And whether it was her far from empty threat or the look in her eyes didn’t matter. Her nephew, paler than ever, nodded and averted his gaze down to his textbook. She rarely took points from her own house, but her sister’s brat had gone too far.
More whiskey. A missed dinner. And an unshakeable sense that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
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Suddenly, echoing through the corridors came Minerva’s voice, magically magnified.
“All students are to report to their House dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staffroom. Immediately, please.” Bellatrix sighed. This could mean nothing good.
“It has happened,” Minerva told the silent staffroom. “A student has been taken by the monster. Right into the Chamber itself.”
Filius let out a squeal. Pomona clapped a hand over her mouth. Bellatrix gripped the back of a chair very hard and said,
“How can you be sure?”
“The Heir of Slytherin,” said Minerva, who was very white, “left another message. Right underneath the first one. Her skeleton will lie in the Chamber forever.”
Filius burst into tears.
“Who is it?” asked Rolanda, who had sunk, weak-kneed, into a chair. “Which student?”
“Ginny Weasley,” said Minerva. “We shall have to send all the students home tomorrow. This is the end of Hogwarts…Dumbledore always said…”
The staffroom door banged open again–enter beaming, stupid Lockhart.
“So sorry–dozed off–what have I missed?”
Bellatrix seethed. She couldn’t resist.
“Just the man. The very man. A girl has been snatched by the monster, Lockhart. Taken into the Chamber of Secrets itself. Your moment has come at last,” she hissed. Lockhart visibly blanched.
“That’s right, Gilderoy,” chipped in Pomona. “Weren’t you saying just last night that you’ve known all along where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is?”
“I—well—I—” sputtered Lockhart.
“Yes, didn’t you tell me you were sure you knew what was inside it?” piped up Filius. Her colleagues had clearly finally caught on. And if it weren’t for the dire circumstances, she would be celebrating.
“D–did I? I don’t recall—”
“I certainly remember you saying you were sorry you hadn’t had a crack at the monster before Hagrid was arrested,” said Severus. “Didn’t you say the whole affair had been bungled, and that you should have been given a free rein from the first?”
“Well that’s settled,” said Minerva. “We’ll leave it to you, Gilderoy. Your skills after all are legend. Tonight will be an excellent time to do it. We’ll make sure everyone’s out of your way. You’ll be able to tackle the monster all by yourself. A free rein at last.”
After Lockhart retreated to “get ready,” Minerva turned back to face them, entirely stone-faced and as severe as Bellatrix had ever seen her.
“Right. That’s got -him- out from under our feet. The Heads of Houses should go and inform their students what has happened. Tell them the Hogwarts Express will take them home first thing tomorrow. Will the rest of you please make sure no students have been left outside their dormitories.”
One by one, the teachers rose and left. Bellatrix and Severus addressed the Slytherins together, and then she’d gone immediately to the sanctity of her office and her whiskey, kicking the door shut behind her. The whole thing was infuriating. Her students completely lacked awareness of the severity of the situation. They thought since the majority of them were pure or at least half bloods that they were safe and this was all going to pass and summer vacation was just starting early.
She kicked her desk, causing her bottle of firewhiskey to nearly topple over it. Ginny Weasley was a pureblood…and look where that got her. Fuck.
In a world where their last line of defense was Gilderoy Lockhart, maybe it really was the end of Hogwarts.
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Thirteen-year-old Hermione Granger had been to several feasts, over the years, especially since starting at Hogwarts, but never one quite like this. Everybody was in their pajamas and the celebration lasted all night. From the moment the Mandrake drought had awoken her from her petrified state, to finding out that Harry and Ron had found her clues and solved the mystery, to Hagrid turning up at half past three (he’d been in azkaban?! She had so much to catch up on!), to Harry and Ron’s four hundred awarded points for Gryffindor for saving the school securing the house cup for the second year running…it was all like something out of the best dream.
The only real downside was that exams had been canceled…apparently as a school…treat? But then Dumbledore immediately followed that announcement with the news that Lockhart wouldn’t be returning next year. Harry and Ron looked expectantly at her, like they thought she’d be disappointed, but she shrugged.
“He’s much less interesting now I know he isn’t really brilliant and hasn’t done all those things in his books…who knows, maybe Professor Black will finally get her chance.”
“Come on, it’s been such a good day, don’t ruin it!”
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“I heard your idiot husband was sacked as school governor -AND- you lost your house elf. Bad day?” Bellatrix teased. She was sat on an antique ivory-colored sofa in her younger sister Narcissa’s drawing room three days after the start of summer recess, a glass of wine in her hand.
Narcissa sat across from her in a matching armchair, feet up on an ottoman, twirling her own nearly empty wine glass between her fingers.
“You’re one to talk. All these years playing Dumbledore’s pet have made you soft. Taking points off of Slytherins for reminding lesser bloods of their place? What would father say?”
Bellatrix stiffened uncomfortably and downed the rest of her drink, which refilled itself almost instantaneously. She didn’t want to hear a word about their father. Not today. Not any day.
“That was low Cissy. I’m surprised at you. And if you’re going to encourage the further devaluation of mudbloods, you should at least be able to say the word.”
“You speak as though you no longer hold to the sentiment yourself. And I can teach my son proper values without having to debase myself to such language.” Cissy tossed her long sheath of well-styled white blonde curls over one shoulder as she too finished and refilled her wine.
“And I can hold to those values without so openly compromising my position. If Draco isn’t careful, he’s going to get himself in trouble…until he grows into the bite to match his bark.”
“You don’t get to say a word against my son!”
“Your son is a spoiled prat. If he doesn’t start paying more mind to his studies than he does his boasting, he’s going to end up just like his father—a spineless fool hiding behind a good name. Really—giving the diary, a piece of the Dark Lord, to a blood traitor first year? Oooh I’m sure that was so challenging for him,” she mocked. Lucius (and others like him) had always grated on Bellatrix’s last nerve. All talk, no action, putting on airs to mask layers of cowardice.
“It was nearly a success,” said Narcissa. She gave a disdainful sniff and wouldn’t meet Bella’s eye.
“Nearly. And where does ‘nearly’ get us at the end of the day? I’m sure the Dark Lord, when he returns, will be so appreciative of all the ‘nearlys.’”
“At least he made an effort. What have you done Bella? And don’t give me any of that tosh about spying or protection from Azkaban…ten years you’ve been up at that school. The war is over, has been over, what’s there to spy upon?”
“It should have been Draco,” said Bellatrix, ignoring her sister’s question.
“That was my…what was it? ‘Spineless fool’ husband’s initial intention. I forbade it.”
Bellatrix laughed darkly and gestured broadly to her sister with one hand as if introducing a performer.
“And there it is. He’s rubbed off on you. The Black family has -never- been known for cowardice.”
“My son is not a pawn in a war that was fought and lost before he was born,” said Narcissa sharply.
“Fought and lost? Don’t you mean ‘nearly successful?’ Draco would have made an honorable Heir of Slytherin. And to be the one to bring -Him- back…your family would have been exalted above all others.”
“Perhaps I’ve grown to prefer alive and comfortable over…exalted.”
“Now who’s gone soft?” said Bellatrix, but with a smile as she again finished her wine and settled back against the sofa’s satin upholstery. She had no doubt -He- would return. He’d keep trying, his more loyal servants would keep trying…and when they succeeded…she felt the familiar knots in her stomach at the thought. In a way, she knew her sister was right. She -had- gone soft…at least in how easy it was to play her parts in peace time. For all of them to feign like they knew exactly what they would do when the time came.
But the truth of it was that none of them were ready.
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End year 2.