Chapter 18: Dark Creatures
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Platform 9 ¾ roared with noise when Draco and his mother stepped out of the Floo booth. The old scarlet steam engine belched smoke over a bustling crowd. The scent of oil and metal hung so strongly in the air he could almost taste them. He waited for the pang of sorrow and anticipatory homesickness to register in his chest, and it did, but it was weaker than he expected, and it warred with an unanticipated swell of eagerness to be on the train and riding away to Hogwarts.
Theo and Pansy emerged from the booth next. Theo waddled out somewhat awkwardly, being saddled with both their trunks. Pansy floated out like prima donna emerging from her dressing rooms, brushed ash from her blouse, and yawned.
They had spent their last night on the Riviera around a bonfire on the beach, making cheese toasties and chatting about all the things they were going to do when they came back to school. After Draco’s mother went up, they had stayed awake long past midnight and gone to sleep only when Pansy passed out on Theo’s shoulder. Draco’s hair still smelled faintly like bonfire smoke.
As they stood blinking in the light of the platform, Pansy’s parents hurried forward from the crowd. Their loving daughter greeted them with a heartfelt: “Oh, balls.”
“Language,” said Narcissa sweetly, and with a sweep of her wand, she smoothed a stray hair into one of Pansy’s pigtails. With two taps, she planted an orchid on each hair tie, and kissed Pansy on the head. “Run along to them, darling. They look anxious.”
“But I don’t want to see them.”
“Hurry up and face the music,” Theo muttered to her. “Sooner you do, sooner we’ll be gone.”
Theo’s own father had not made an appearance on the platform. Theo had no discernible reaction to this fact. Instead, he turned and said, in a careless sort of way, “Oh look, there’s Daph. Suppose I’ll go say hello.”
Daphne was pinned between Orpheus and Dido Greengrass and clearly hating every second of it. She had got her looks from her parents: Orpheus was a tall, svelte, steel-eyed man of Scandinavian features, while his wife Dido could have played an emaciated Marilyn Monroe. She leaned heavily on a foxhead ivory cane, and deep bags clung to her eyes. Daphne’s younger sister, Astoria, was with them, but she was sitting in a wheely-chair, and carried a corpulent black longhair cat on her lap.
As they watched, Daphne extracted herself, with difficulty, from her father’s embrace, and limped across the platform to Draco’s group. Her right leg trembled perilously whenever it took her weight, and her irritation with this was clear in how she refused to favor it.
“Hello, you brutes,” she said brightly. “How was your glorious vacation without me?”
“Would’ve been better if you accepted the goddam invitation,” Theo said genially, reaching for her, and she smacked a hard kiss ‘hello’ on his cheek. “Invalids don’t get to pout. Narcissa would’ve rented the Royal Ambulance to get you out there.”
“I told them that. And I almost had them convinced, too, but then Tori,” she spat the word sourly, “had to go and take a spill down the staircase, and that was curtains for both of us. It’s been nothing but the baby treatment all summer. They wanted me to come to Hogwarts on crutches — fat chance!”
“So what if Astoria fell?” said Draco, frowning. “What’s that to do with you?”
But Daphne’s parents had descended on them, and she was steered away without another word. Meanwhile, the other Slytherin girl was fighting for her life to buck her mother’s grip.
“Pansy!” Her mother was a diminutive, dark-haired woman whose sneer erased whatever beauty her features might have offered. “What are you wearing? Is that to code? Where’s your badge?”
“It’s Hogwarts, Mummy, they let us wear pants,” sighed Pansy, shrugging off her mother’s arm. “Also, hello. It’s ever so good to see you, et cetera.”
“Merlin’s sake, let her be,” snapped her father, a man shorter than Draco, whose daughter had inherited his nose. “We get all of ten minutes with her this summer, and you’re picking fights? Come aside, Poppet, I’ve a gift for you…”
Narcissa watched them go with a fretful expression. “I hope they don’t make her change,” she murmured to Draco. “I took her to get them tailored. They’re quite presentable, I thought, and we checked the handbook to make sure…”
“Nah, not to worry. She’ll just put them on again once we’re on the train,” said Theo cheerfully. He shrugged Pansy’s trunk over his shoulder. “Couldn’t stop that girl with an army. Daph, need help with your trunk?”
“No,” Daphne said dourly. “My dad insisted on taking it up. On the bright side, I’ve got a compartment now, so.”
Deciding it was time to make goodbyes, Draco embraced his mother. It was startlingly easy, now; he didn’t have to stand on tiptoe at all, and he only had to lift his chin a little to kiss her cheek. She gave him a quick frenzy of kisses over the forehead before turning, unexpectedly, to Theo.
“Now, young man,” she said sternly, “you mustn’t let my son get you into any sort of trouble.”
Draco had a sudden fit of coughing which may or may not have contained one or two unpleasant words.
Narcissa patted his shoulder without looking. “You must try your very best to behave,” she continued, “and make good grades in everything, and earn lots of House points. And you must write to me often to tell me what you’ve been doing. Every week, you understand? I won’t accept anything less, or I should be most disappointed in you.”
Theo puffed his chest out a bit. “I’ll do my best,” he said seriously.
“Good.” She kissed Theo on top of the head, and he appeared to glow. “Now, run along, and help Pansy with her trunks.”
Theo — to Draco’s abject shock — gave Narcissa a sincere and dutiful salute. Then he marched off to regroup with Pansy, head high, hardly swaggering at all.
“I don’t know what that’s about,” Draco muttered, eyeing him. “Highly suspect, if you ask me.”
“In fact it’s rather simple,” said Narcissa, opaquely enough. “Anyway, don’t be jealous, my dove. You’re still my darling boy.”
“Lies and slander. I’ve never been jealous in my life.”
“Oh, never mind, then, dear. Perish the thought.”
“Oi! Draco!”
Harry and Ron wrestled their way through the crowd, staggering with their trunks. Harry had a long, conspicuous wooden box strapped to his back, and staggered under the weight of it, but he was beaming. “I just showed Ron the Firebolt,” he said. “We took it for a run before we left the Burrow. You’ve got to try it. It’s incredible!”
“Careful, Potter, or I’ll hold you to it,” said Draco, enjoying himself. “Hello, Weasley.”
“Malfoy,” said Ron. He wasn’t smiling; in fact, he looked a little sour. “Good gift, mate.”
“Thank you. I did think so.”
Narcissa cleared her throat politely. “Draco,” she said, “these are your schoolfriends?”
Draco twitched. “Oh,” he said, and his eyes darted for the train, calculating how quickly he could cross the distance to it. It would be easier than explaining to his mother that his “schoolfriends” were the two most famous blood traitors she was ever likely to meet.
But there was no use; Harry and Ron had put them all in an inescapable situation, and there was nothing for it but truth or lies. Gryffindors. “Yes. This is… erm. Well, for starters, this is Ronald Weasley.”
Ron — who had probably never in his life been introduced before Harry Potter — gave Draco a glance that was surprised, and perhaps even slightly grateful.
“Weasley, this is Narcissa Malfoy. My mother.”
“A pleasure,” she said, shaking Ron’s hand. Draco watched her reactions closely: her smile was a touch brittle, perhaps, but nothing discourteous. “You’d be the Ronald who sent him that lovely pair of spectacles for Christmas?”
Ron pinked. “Yeah, that’s me,” he said. “Er. We meant to get him something nicer, but they don’t let second years go to Hogsmeade, so…”
“It was a perfectly wonderful gift. I’m so glad we’ve been introduced. Please give my regards to your mother — Molly, wasn’t it? Molly Prewett, and her husband…” Narcissa wet her lips, hesitating.
“Arthur,” muttered Draco.
“Arthur! Yes. Your father, Arthur Weasley.” She smiled, with teeth.
Ron, looking faintly floored, said, “Yeah. That’s him.”
She turned to Harry. “And you,” she said, tapping her forehead wryly, “are Harry Potter.”
Draco jumped.
Harry shrugged, and nodded, having presumably learned to accept these sorts of introductions without awkwardness. “Yup. That’s me. Hullo.”
“Did I tell you, Mother,” Draco said quickly, “that Weasley’s mum is the last living Prewett? After the war, I mean. Which technically makes Ronald here a scion of the House of Prewett, as well as Weasley. Seven children, too, and only one girl — I don’t suppose you remember Aunt Cedrella—”
Narcissa put her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “The Wizarding World owes you a priceless debt,” she said, and Draco’s mouth froze in the shape of his stifled next word.
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Oh. Well, that’s awfully nice of you, but—”
“To say nothing,” she added, “of the debt I owe you for freeing my husband from the Dark Lord’s clutches.”
Draco and Harry exchanged wild-eyed looks.
“Yeah, don’t mention it,” said Harry stiffly. “I’m glad I could, er… help him.”
“Do not think I do not understand the sacrifices it required,” said Narcissa. “I see them. I hope that in another time, if you ever have a need, we shall have the opportunity to repay you for those sacrifices.”
“Thanks. I… sort of hope not, actually?” Harry shrugged his Firebolt higher on his back, and glanced at the train, which obligingly screeched and belched smoke. “Well, we’d better get going. Er, Draco? You ready?”
“Yes,” said Draco, and snatched up his things. “Let’s go — have to run — bye, Mother! Don’t forget to write!”
Together, they scrambled onto the train.
Steam billowed from the engine, and it heaved away from the station just as Ron’s foot left the ground. Harry pulled him up, and they slammed the door shut as King’s Cross shrank into the horizon.
“No offense, but your mum’s weird,” Harry told him, as they bustled down the aisle, searching for compartments. “What did she mean, ‘free’ your dad?”
“Yeah, she makes it sound like he was some double agent or something,” said Ron humorously. “Was he a secret Order member all along?”
Draco had no idea. He understood less and less about his mother the older he got, and today had been a profound regression on almost every score. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m as surprised as either of you are; I thought she’d hate both of you, to be perfectly frank.”
“Cheers,” said Ron, elbowing him. “I thought the feeling would be mutual. Turns out, you’re the sore thumb in the family. Should’ve expected.”
“Makes two of us, Weaselbee. My congratulations to Percival, by the way, on Head Boy. Least one member of your family’s not a perennial disappointment.”
Ron’s expression darkened. “Don’t bring that up around him,” he warned. “You’ll never hear the end of it. We’ve only just pawned him off on Penelope, and the twins have been riling him up all day. They charmed his badge to say ‘Bighead Boy.’ Wonder when he’ll notice.”
They set off down the corridor, seeking an empty compartment.
Near the very end of the train, they ran into Hermione. She had yet to change from her muggle clothes, and wore some fitted muggle pants of a rough-hewn fabric, with a voluminous turtleneck jumper in gray and red stripes. It was a perfectly ridiculous outfit, but she looked enviably cozy and warm.
She also carried a cat. It was bright orange, the size of a tiger cub, and half as amicable.
“Oh, good, you made it,” she said brightly. “Boys, this is Crookshanks.”
The four of them ogled each other. It was hard to say whether the animal or the wizards were less happy about it.
“Hermione,” Ron said, in pained tones, “Scabbers is a rat.” __
“Yes! So what?” The defensive edge in her tone suggested that Hermione did indeed know exactly ‘what.’ “He won’t be a problem! He’s perfectly well behaved.”
As if perturbed by the sound of lies, Crookshanks gave a beastly yowl and tried to claw his way out of his arms. She wrapped her arms around his chest and hoisted him firmly into place. “Anyway,” she said firmly, “the people at the emporium said no one else would take him. He deserved a second chance.”
“At what?” said Draco, veering out of reach of the claws. “Manslaughter?”
“You’ll all come around,” she said firmly. She hauled open the door to the last compartment, refusing to look at them. “He’ll grow on you.”
“Like gangrene,” muttered Ron. Draco coughed in discreet agreement.
The last compartment was already occupied, as it turned out — but not by a student. A man slumped against the window, clothed in a rumpled herringbone jacket with more patches than buttons, and a shabby, browned-out traveling cloak that he’d wrapped around himself like a blanket. His hair was too gray for his face, a silty brown like autumn earth.
His face was scarred indiscriminately, like someone had taken a fork to it. Draco balked a little at the sight of it.
“Didn’t think adults took the Express,” mused Ron.
“He’s a professor,” said Hermione. “R.J. Lupin.”
As Draco turned to her in amazement, ready to inquire whether she’d dabbled in Legilimency over the summer, Ron spared him the embarrassment by asking: “Blimey, how’d you know?”
She pointed. “It’s on his luggage.”
“Oh,” said Ron. Draco tittered, as if he, too, had made that deduction, although privately he was relieved Ron had beat him to the punch.
“Defense Against the Dark Arts, if I had to guess,” she added, “since there’s a vacancy again.”
Draco sat down opposite the professor, kicking his feet up on the seat. “Think we should just beat the piss out of him up-front, and save ourselves the trouble later on?” he asked, yawning. “Or at least check if he’s a Death Eater or You-Know-Who in disguise? Since Dumbledore’s obviously not heard of vetting.”
“Quirrell was arcanely possessed,” Hermione said primly, sweeping his feet out of the way with a swish of her wand, and settling on the cushion. “It was Dark magic. And Podmore was under Imperius. Neither of those things reveal themselves with a background check.”
“No, but they might with a taste of Veritaserum.”
“Incredibly invasive,” she said severely, “and inappropriate, as far as school policy goes. You can’t go poking around in people’s heads just in case they might be Death Eaters — then you’ll really have trouble filling the job.”
“Anyway, he’s got to be desperate, Dumbledore,” said Ron. “The job’s jinxed. How many qualified wizards do you think are lining up to take a job where the last two blokes got knocked off inside of a year? You burn through enough good professors, and suddenly, the weirdos start looking pretty good.”
Harry sat down gingerly next to the sleeping Lupin. Ron squeezed in with Hermione. All three of the boys had shot up a few inches over the summer, and the same compartment that had seemed cavernous as first years now only tenuously admitted the five of them.
A faint, tinselly whine pierced the air. Harry winced, and dug from his satchel what appeared to be a quaffle-sized lump of socks. Peeling them away, he revealed a Pocket Sneakoscope, which glowed and spun even faster when it touched Harry’s palm.
“Is that a Sneakoscope, Potter?”
“Yeah. I think it’s broken,” he said apologetically. “It’s been going off ever since I left this morning.”
“It’s not broken, it’s merely junk,” Draco snorted. “Pocket Sneakoscopes are a scam. They’ll spin and squeal whenever you bring them near loud noises, or bright lights. Trash that thing first chance you get, and buy a proper Sneakoscope from a reputable vendor, if you want one.”
Harry glanced away guiltily. “It was Ron’s birthday present,” he said. “He brought it back from Egypt for me.”
Draco blinked. “Oh,” he said. Hermione was glaring at him. Wonderful. “Well. Then its… sentimental value is, naturally… inimitable.” He looked at her. She rolled her hand in a go-on motion. “Forget what I said. I… apologize… for any offense.”
Ron, who had been staring at his shoes ever since Draco started talking, shrugged. “Nah, mate,” he said crisply. “S’fine. Doesn’t work anyway, you might as well.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I mean, it’s no Firebolt, so.”
“Ron, c’mon,” said Harry pleadingly, but the professor gave a snort, and they all fell still, like rabbits in the presence of a sleeping fox.
In the awkwardness that followed, Draco, Harry, and Hermione played a silent game of ‘who’s going to speak.’ Draco drew a finger across his own throat, shaking his head. Harry and Hermione turned to each other and did some sort of strange game of hand gestures that involved smacking their palms and making different shapes with their fingers. Finally, Hermione smacked her hand over Harry’s fist, and pointed at him. Harry sighed.
“Oh, Ron, you’ll think this is funny,” he said. “Your dad thinks I’m going to go looking for Sirius Black.”
All three of them looked at him seriously.
“Are you?” said Draco.
Harry blinked. “Of course not,” he said, irritated. “Last I checked, people were more worried about him coming after me.”
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, knitting her fingers together. “You don’t think… you have to be careful.”
“I am careful! I don’t want to get killed, do I?”
Ron chuckled, “Mione, he’s not about to go running after a murderer. He’s thick, but he’s not that thick.”
“Thank you,” said Harry, “and piss off, respectively.”
“You must admit that it sounds like something you’d do,” she said to Harry. “I mean, first Quirrell… then Yaxley…”
“I was eleven, that first time,” said Harry firmly. “And the second time, it was Nott who started it. Just because some loony’s got it in for me doesn’t mean I’m going to go all… Batman.”
“Well, that’s good to hear, but you must understand why I’d worry.”
“What’s a Batman?” said Ron, mystified.
“I don’t know,” said Draco honestly. “If someone who betrayed my parents broke out of Azkaban, I would consider it.”
There was silence in the compartment.
“What do you mean, he betrayed my parents?” said Harry tonelessly.
Draco turned from one face to another, seeking recognition. “Well,” he said helplessly, “I mean — didn’t anyone tell you? The story of the Potter murders? I wouldn’t have… Merlin, Potter, I wouldn’t have mentioned it, but I thought you knew.”
“What’s he got to do with them?” demanded Harry.
“…Black knew your father. Before he turned coat on the Order.” He paused. “He was the Potters’ Secret-Keeper, in Godric’s Hollow. The night after they died, he went after Peter Pettigrew.”
Harry stared. Draco said weakly, “Nobody’s ever told you?”
“Harry, I’m so sorry,” said Hermione tenderly. “It’s in Modern Magical History. I didn’t think.”
Harry blinked. He wet his lips, and Draco wished suddenly that they could all Disapparate from the room, to give him a modicum of privacy. It wasn’t dignified to catch a man with his trousers down like this.
“It’s okay,” Harry said bleakly, after a moment. “I’ve sort of gotten used to everyone knowing more about my life than I do.”
“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione, and with a flurry of movement she had crossed the carriage to wrap him in a fierce hug. In her haste she displaced Crookshanks, who leapt into Draco’s arms with a fearsome yowl, and Draco hissed as the claws dug into his legs.
The things he tolerated for these people.
The Hogwarts Express pressed north through darkening swells of wilderness. The sky knitted over with clouds and dimmed to the color of coal, while lightning flickered in the distance, small knives of light dancing on the horizon. People raced back and forth past the door of their compartment, their laughter echoing queerly in the long train.
At one o’clock, the trolley woman arrived, and Harry bought them all Cauldron Cakes, which put Ron in better spirits, since it freed him from the tyranny of Molly Weasley’s premade sandwiches. Hermione took out her History of Magic essay and insisted on peer revision, which was fine by Draco, since he’d wanted to edit his essay anyway, but led to much groaning from Harry and Ron.
Mid-afternoon, rain rolled down in a battery across the hills, accompanied by a gun-salute of thunder, and lashed the windows. The train rattled and the wind roared, and still, Professor Lupin remained unmoving. Hermione took some of Draco’s Cauldron Cakes, and they had a brief, highly litigious argument over whose property rights were at stake, until Harry threatened to just go buy more, which they both begged him not to do, as it would moot the point of contention. Then he gave the cakes to her anyway. He didn’t like sweets that much.
“Blimey, it’s black as pitch out there,” said Ron, squinting at the black mirror of the window. “We must be nearly there.”
As if on cue, the train started to slow down.
“Speak of the boggart,” Ron said cheerfully. “Bang-on. I’m starving.”
“We can’t be there yet,” said Hermione, checking her muggle watch. It had a pink strap with roses on it. Hermione, Draco noticed, owned rather a lot of accessories in pink.
“So why’re we stopping?”
The robust pumping of the pistons faded to a faint tsh-tsh-tsh, and then vanished under the pounding of the rain. Harry poked his head into the corridor. “Everybody thinks we’re getting out,” he said. He lifted his voice: “Oi! Neville! D’you know why we’re stopping?”
Someone said something warbly and muffled, and Harry shook his head. Draco stood up, intending to join Harry’s investigation in the corridor, but as he did so, the train slammed to a halt. A jolt rocked the carriage, and he tumbled down on top of Hermione — and, by extent, Crookshanks, who gave a tortured yowl and sprang away. A small thunder and racket of cries from throughout the train told them that luggage had been knocked from its berth.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” he muttered, prying himself apart. He’d fallen hard on her lap, and Hermione’s knees were none too hospitable on one’s rear, but he couldn’t rightly blame her for that. He pulled out his wand and gave her a once-over to ensure he hadn’t banged her up. “Not hurt, are you?”
“No,” she said, rubbing her head where it had knocked against his. “I’m alright. But what on earth happened to the train—?”
At the same moment, the lights went out.
“What’s going on?” said Ron’s voice from behind Harry.
“Ouch! Ron, my foot!”
“D’you think we’ve broken down?”
“We must have done,” said Hermione, though she didn’t sound certain. “The Express doesn’t make stops.”
Something squeaked, and a figure moved to the window, scrubbing away a patch of fog. A flicker of lightning filled the compartment, and Draco could see that it was Ron, peering out the window.
“There’s something moving out there,” Ron said. “I think people are coming aboard.”
“I’m going to go and ask the driver what’s going on,” said Hermione, businesslike. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
Draco grabbed her wrist as she rose to leave. “Don’t,” he said suddenly.
“What? Why not?”
He couldn’t explain it — maybe it was the dark — but a cold hand of foreboding trailed its nails down his spine. “It’s like you said. This train doesn’t make stops,” he said. “Ever. We have no idea what’s happening up there.”
“It’s the Hogwarts Express,” she said slowly. “We’re perfectly safe.”
“Yeah?” he said. He could feel her pulse against his thumb, and it was fast. “How sure are you?”
The compartment door slid open. Everyone startled, but a girl’s voice cut through the dark: “Who’s there?”
“Ginny?” said Ron, moving away from the window. “That you?”
“Ron? Harry?”
“Yes, Ginny, it’s us!”
“Oh, hullo, Hermione! I was looking for Ron.” Ginny fumbled into the compartment. The door squealed closed behind her. “Mad, isn’t it? I overheard someone saying we hit something.”
“That’s impossible. The train is warded with Repulsion Charms, so animals don’t come near the tracks. I read it in—”
“Oh, shut up, we all know where you read it,” Ginny said good-naturedly. “Can I invite Neville? He got scared and went looking for a prefect.”
“Quiet!” said a hoarse voice suddenly.
A small, shivering light bloomed in the compartment, perched on the tip of Professor Lupin’s wand. The cool glow drew deep lines in his face.
He stood up in a single, rigid movement, like that of a soldier. None of them spoke.
“Stay where you are,” he rasped. He crossed to the door and reached for the handle. With a rattle, it slid open before he touched it.
At first, Draco mistook it for wandless magic. Then he saw something locked around the door: a slender hand, black as ink, thin as a raven’s claw. His heart skipped.
Then, as it slid open, the rest of the creature came into view.
It spanned ceiling to floor, a floating shroud of black coils like smoke, under the dusty cowl of a long cloak. In the place where its face should have been sat a pit, shrouded in fathomless dark, and from the tattered hem of its sleeve protruded a gray, glistening, skeletal hand, its skin scored and peeling like dead flesh.
It drew in a deep, rattling breath, and it sounded like an echo of wind over a distant moor.
The temperature in the compartment plummeted. Frost iced over the windows, and a shiver wracked Draco’s spine. His breath turned silver in the darkness. He could feel Hermione’s skin turn cool under his fingers, gooseflesh pebbling her arm, but the sole throb of warmth from her pulse point distracted him from the chill. He squeezed, tighter, and felt warmth sprout around the place where his fingers banded her wrist — he clung to it like it was the last living flame on the planet, the last warm thing he could find, and as if from a distance, he heard her hiss of discomfort. He tore his eyes away from the Dementor to look at her, and she had drawn as far as she could into the seat, her knuckles white around her wand, her eyes enormous.
Harry dropped to his knees with a thud, and collapsed. Ron dove to catch him before he hit his head.
The Dementor made to enter the compartment, but it made it no further than the threshold. Lupin had stepped calmly over Harry’s body and pointed his wand at the creature.
Draco, who was still clinging to Hermione’s wrist in the effort of remaining upright, considered this an inconceivable display of recklessness and supremely impressive nerve.
“None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks,” he said. “Go.”
The Dementor gave a rattling howl. Ginny cried out and clapped her hands over his ears, and Draco winced.
Lupin narrowed his eyes. “Expecto Patronum. ”
A silver beast erupted from the tip of his wand, four-legged, with a long snout and a short, wagging tail. Snarling, it leapt at the Dementor, leaving a glowing trail of white mist. The Dementor gave another shriek and soundlessly swept out of the compartment.
Lupin hauled the compartment door closed in its wake, locked it with a muttered and trembling, “Colloportus. ”
In a moment, the lights flickered back on, and the train shuddered into motion. Lupin dropped to his knees — Draco opened his mouth, an embarrassing flood of thanks on the tip of his tongue — and dealt Harry the meanest, fiercest slap Draco had ever seen.
Draco winced.
“Oi,” roared Ron, shoving him away. “What’s the big idea?”
“Wake him up,” panted Lupin, pointing at Harry. “Wake him up! Is he all right?”
But they needn’t have worried: Harry groaned, stirring. He hauled himself up on his elbows and fumbled for his glasses on the floor. “What happened?” he mumbled.
“Harry! Oh, thank goodness — here!”
Hermione snatched up his glasses and pressed them into his hand, shaking quite badly herself. Draco smoothed both hands over his hair and tried to settle his own nerves, which were badly frayed. He still felt cold, too; a coat of frost lingered on the windowpane.
“Who screamed?” said Harry, looking around. His eyes lingered on Ginny, and she scowled at him.
“No one,” she said. “Lupin cast a Patronus, and the Dementor left.” She had gone tremendously pale, and there was a suspicious redness to her eyes, which she scrubbed at angrily.
“Cast a what?” said Hermione.
“That’s a Dementor?” gasped Harry.
“Powerful anti-Dark magic charm,” Draco said to Hermione. He furtively drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The piercing cold had abated, but a chill lingered in the compartment, and the hairs on the back of his neck had yet to lie flat. “Heinously difficult to do, as I hear it. I didn’t know they worked against Dementors.”
“Common misperception. They’re only as difficult as you think they are, young man,” said Lupin bracingly, and something snapped. He broke a large chocolate bar into several pieces, and passed them around. “Eat up. It’ll help.”
Draco eyed the piece in his palm. “Is this enchanted?”
“No, it’s Cadbury.” Lupin pocketed the empty wrapper and hauled open the compartment door. “Alright, Harry?” he said.
It was not a strange question, but it became strange by virtue of his tone: he asked it casually, almost familiarly, as if they’d known each other their whole lives. Harry, who obviously was just as unnerved by this as Draco, frowned and mumbled, “Fine, professor.”
“Good,” said Lupin. “Very good. We’ll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes, I think. If any of you don’t start to feel better, have some more chocolate… I’m going to have a word with the conductor.”
And with that cryptic announcement, he hurried out of the compartment.
Harry pushed himself up on the seat, looking discombobulated and rumpled, at least more so than usual. “What about the rest of you?” he asked, earnestly. “Are you alright? Ron? Draco?”
“M’fine, mate.”
“Quite well, thank you, Potter.”
“Ginny?” He held his hand to help her off the floor. A tinge of color topped her cheeks, but she accepted it, and sprang to her feet.
“I’m fine,” she said briskly. “That Lupin’s got to be something to write home about, if he can produce a full corporeal. I’ve only ever seen one of those.”
“Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it?” said Ron. “Dad conjured one that time he thought someone was breaking into the Burrow… turns out Bill just forgot his key, and the nutter thought it’d be fun to try and crack the house wards…”
“Bill’s a riot,” Ginny said wistfully. “Wish he were here. Anyway, I’ve got to change, we’ll be there in a mo. Hermione, come with?”
“Yes, I’d better change, too,” said Hermione, springing up to fetch her trunk. “I’ve never cut it this close, but I got distracted — oh, Crookshanks, no!”
Crookshanks, master of strategy, had taken advantage of the hullabaloo to make a mad lunge for Ron’s pocket. There, Scabbers had sequestered himself, squeaking frightfully. Ron shouted and whisked his pet out of the animal’s reach.
“Hermione! Get — that — thing — away — from — Scabbers!”
“Fine! Crookshanks, come here,” she said and wrestled him into her arms. She turned to Draco, and her expression turned sly and coaxing. “Draco, would you do me a wonderful favor—”
“No.”
“Just for a bit! He’ll behave!”
“Your nose twitches when you’re lying. That, or you need a hanky.”
“Oh, fine,” she huffed, and went out to change with Ginny.
“Given the choice between a Dementor and that animal,” Ron said darkly, “I’d take the Dementor.”
Draco shuddered. “Bite your tongue, Weasley. Fortune has big ears.”
“Not joking, mate. At least Dementors respond to a patronus. I could cast a full corporeal, and that cat wouldn’t give a damn.”
At the opening feast, Draco listened intently to Dumbledore’s usual remarks about house unity and cooperation. The headmaster warned the first years away from the Forbidden Forest and introduced Professor Lupin, who, as Hermione had predicted, would fill the D.A.D.A. slot. Not a word was said about Runcorn, the Ministry, or why Dark creatures were now permitted to stalk the castle grounds.
“I suppose he doesn’t want to frighten people,” suggested Hermione the next morning. They were marching down to Care of Magical Creatures, their scarves wrapped tight against the nippy air. In the distance, faceless shrouds floated in a foreboding perimeter over the hillsides, staining the overcast sky like ink on gray velvet.
“Sure,” snorted Draco, “because there’s nothing frightening about those things, certainly.”
“Well, he’s addressing first years, too, remember. They don’t know it’s not normal. And he wouldn’t want to cause alarm.”
Draco sneered. “Ignorance is cause for alarm. Or at least, it should be.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, and what did you want him to say? ‘Sorry for the nightmares, children, but nothing to be done, nobody’s in control, and we think a murderer might come for you at any moment’? Honestly.”
“I’d give him points for honesty, at least,” he muttered, as they marched into the shelter of the trees.
Hagrid hosted Care of Magical Creatures in a paddock just a few meters into the Forbidden Forest, where the trees were still thin enough that you could clearly see the castle. The grass was springy and wet beneath their feet, almost breathable, as if the rain had pounded life into the earth.
Their textbooks that year were horrible things, actually, literally monstrous, and it took Hermione’s and Draco’s combined efforts to pry one open: he gripped the spine and held it still while she pried it apart, and then she stuffed a stone in between its jaws, to keep the page open. Hagrid urged them to “Jus’ stroke the spine, all ye need ter do,” but though this worked for Harry, who rarely met a creature he couldn’t charm, Hermione and Draco’s touch failed to soothe the agitated volumes.
“See, this is interesting,” said Hermione valiantly. “He’s — he’s incorporating the textbook into the teaching method. It’s a fully integrated kind of learning.”
“The thing tried to ‘fully integrate’ my hand into its gullet,” Draco said darkly. “Remind me again why Kettleburn retired?”
He had spoken too loudly; Harry threw a sour look at him. “Thanks, Hagrid,” he said clearly. “This is really cool.”
“Thanks, Harry!” Hagrid piped up, beaming. If he was bothered by the whispers and sour looks of other students who, like Draco, had little love for their textbooks, he did not show it. “Now, if yeh all got yer books — looks like yeh do, well done, you lot — I’ll go fetch the firs’ of the creatures. Picked out a real treat fer yeh today, firs’ day of classes, didn’ wan’ to disappoint ye…”
He strode out of the paddock. When he was gone, Draco turned to Hermione.
“I take back what I said about Muggle Studies,” he muttered. “All of it. It’s the nine o’clock slot, isn’t it? If we go now, we can make the first half—”
“Just give him a chance,” Hermione said, but she didn’t sound altogether convinced. “It’s his first time teaching. He’s probably nervous.”
“He’s nervous? Did that sound comforting in your head?”
Hagrid came back holding a weathered and suspiciously frail-looking leather leash. Lavender Brown gave a cry of delight, because she was a twit who didn’t recognize when a creature had the capacity to stomp you to death.
The animal on Hagrid’s lead looked like a horse, if horses were designed by someone with murder in their heart. It had the head and wings of an eagle, the talons of the same, and the back of an equine, which altogether doubled, if not tripled, its capacity for bloodshed. Its yellow, beady eyes swept with haughty bloodlust over the assembled children, clearly seeking a subject upon which to enact the terrible violences for which it was wrought. Draco saw it and despised it at once.
“This is Buckbeak!” said Hagrid, slapping the thing’s back. It looked at him as though it was too surprised to maul him for it. “He’s a hippogriff! Lovely creature, inne? Who wan’s to pet ’im first?”
Nobody raised their hand. Draco leaned into Hermione’s ear.
“You know, I’ve heard the loveliest things about Charity Burbage—”
“Stop it!” she whispered, but her eyes were darting back to the castle. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”
Harry squared his shoulders and stepped up. “I will, Hagrid,” he said loyally, and Draco, with a sigh, set about drafting a quick eulogy. Dear friends, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Harry James Potter, big of heart and none of brain, who nobly laid down his life for the cause of Sodding Zilch and No Reason At All…
“To think I could be safe and sound in a classroom right now,” he said gloomily, “learning what a fellytone is.”
“Selly- phone,” said Ron wisely. Hermione huffed a short laugh.
Harry gave a deep bow to the hippogriff, which, to Draco’s surprise, permitted Harry to pet its flank. A few moments later, at Hagrid’s exhortation, Harry was scrambling atop its back, and it vaulted into the sky. Harry gave a long, gusty holler of exhilaration. Hermione gasped, and clapped her hands over her mouth.
“Oh, my God!”
“There yeh go, Harry!” Hagrid roared, pumping his fist. “Perfect! He likes yeh!”
“He’s so daring,” sighed Lavender. She had grown up a bit over the summer, and now wore a number of beaded charms in her hair, along with feathered earrings that brushed her shoulders. The quantity of silver jewelry on her hands and fingers, none too slim to begin with, had quintupled since June. She and Parvati had both doubled down on their eyeliner, and their nails shone a dark, inky purple.
When Harry landed again, he was met with a raucous cheer. He slipped off the hippogriff’s back, grinning widely, his hair standing electrically on end from the wind of his flight. “That was fantastic,” he said. “Draco, you’d love it. It’s like flying, only rougher.”
Draco said politely, “Thank you, I would rather die.”
“Don’t be a priss! Hermione, what about — okay, you wouldn’t like it. Ron, though, seriously…”
But nobody else could be coaxed onto the hippogriff’s back, and Hagrid spent the rest of the lesson lecturing. It was unclear what they were supposed to be gathering from his lecture, which mostly consisted of him saying: “Watch this! Isn’t he marvelous?” whenever Buckbeak did something of trifling note. At the end of the lesson, he added as an obvious afterthought: “Er — homework! Read the textbook introduction, and, er… choose yer favorite creature from the book, an’ come to class ready ter share it an’ say why. Alrigh’! Off ter the castle, there yeh go!”
Word of the new Care of Magical Creatures’ professor’s pedagogical approach spread quickly through the castle. Later that week, Theo flagged Draco on the way into Potions to ask if it were true.
“Is what true?”
“That Hagrid’s got a Class Four monster on a leash down there,” said Theo incredulously. “And he’s showing it to third years.”
“Class Four?”
“It’s a Ministry classification indicating a creature’s danger to wizards,” Hermione said, appearing from the crowd, as some radar in her brain detected all academic questions in a five-mile radius. “It’s in the reading he assigned for Wednesday. I did it during lunch. Actually it’s quite problematic, because it’s biased in all sorts of ways! For one thing, a lot of the ratings are outdated, totally in conflict with the latest research. House-elves are Class One, but considering how strong their magic is, they really ought to be Class Three or Four! And of course, it’s totally wizard-centric…”
“Wouldn’t want that, would you, in a book meant for wizards,” said Theo. “Hello, Granger. Good summer?”
“Quite,” she said stiffly. Hermione loathed to be interrupted, and Draco almost would have found it funny, except he knew magical creatures could be a touchy subject.
“Good. I still mean to kill you, by the way.”
Her lips twitched. “Still stuck at third rank in Transfiguration?”
“Veritably ensconced in it, my dear. I am comfortable and at home in this rank. I soon intend to purchase building permits, and erect a great country house for my descendants, of whom there will be many.”
“Mazel tov,” said Hermione dryly.
Snape barely uttered a word as they filed in. He flicked his wand at the board, and the instructions scrawled themselves in chalk. Draco tried to catch his godfather’s eye, but the man was scribbling furiously on a book of his own at his desk.
The first potion of the year typically constituted a pre-test, a sort of evaluation to see how far they had slipped over the summer. It wasn’t hard, but from the sweat-beaded faces and frantic muttering that filled the dungeon, the slippage had indeed been vast. Ron was still making careful, deliberate cuts on his daisy roots, wielding his knife like an ax, and Harry had barely stripped the first layer of skin off his shrivelfig.
Draco made a quick job of both pieces of knife work and passed the cutting boards over to Hermione, who was murmuring an incantation over the pot, stirring while she carefully adding six, seven, eight drops of tigerbee honey. Their potion ripened from yellow to a healthy acid green. He grinned at it, and sat back in his chair.
A squeak came from the next desk over. “Orange, Longbottom,” drawled Snape. “Orange. Tell me, based on your understanding of a Shrinking Solution, when in the process of brewing should it turn orange?”
Neville flushed and looked down at his cauldron. “N-never.”
“Never. And what color is your potion now?”
“O-o-orange.”
“And what has caused your potion to turn this color?”
Draco cringed. Neville was hunched over his cauldron, his cheek pillowed miserably on his fist. Snape folded his arms, glowering with unmerciful disappointment.
Slowly, Draco inched one of the shrivelfigs into his grasp, and tapped it thrice on the desk. Neville glanced at the noise, but just as quickly turned away. “I d-d-d-d—” He started, swallowed, and tried again. “Sir. I really d-d-don’t—”
Draco rapped the shrivelfig hard on the desk. Snape and Neville both turned.
“Sorry, sir,” he said brightly to Snape. “Thought I saw a spider.” As he spoke, he held the shrivelfig under his desk, out of Snape’s view, and shook it violently at Neville.
“Oh,” exclaimed Neville. “Oh! Sh-sh-shrivelfigs!”
Snape paused, mouth slightly open, and narrowed his eyes. “What about shrivelfigs?”
Neville scrambled for his book. “I didn’t add them,” he said hurriedly. “Or, no, I added them too late. So the cauldron was too hot, and they burned.”
“That,” said Snape, and paused for an interminable silence, “is correct.”
“It is?” said Neville wildly.
He and Snape stared at each other. Snape appeared to be attempting to cast laser beams out of his eyes and through Neville’s woefully thick skull.
“Start over. There will be no third chances,” snarled Snape, and he swept away.
Draco slumped into his chair, relieved. He daubed a bit of sweat from his temple and glowered at Neville. “What,” he said, once Snape was well and truly out of earshot, “did we say about prep work, Longbottom?”
“Do it first, so you aren’t rushing later,” he said happily, “but who cares — Merlin, I’ve never got an answer right in Potions before!” And he wiggled gleefully in his seat.
“Right, you didn’t, I did, so let’s calm down,” muttered Draco. But he had to admit that it was an unprecedented coup for Neville, who last year would have called it an accomplishment to string three words together in front of Snape without throwing up.
Hermione was smiling at him in a small, sweet, profoundly unnerving way, quite different from her normal know-it-all smirk. It made his cheeks feel hot.
“What?” he demanded.
“That was nice of you,” she said quietly.
“What was?” He pretended not to hear her. He reached for their ladle. “Are those clumps? Did you forget to stir it? I turn my back for thirty seconds, and you let the brew turn to bilgewater. Pass me the funnel, I want a viscosity test.”
After the lesson ended, Neville joined Draco, Hermione, Harry, and Ron on their way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. “Granny says I don’t have to do more than O.W.L. in Potions,” he said cheerfully, trotting up the long staircase to the third floor. “After that, I can d-d-drop it for Advanced Phytomedicine, and Sprout says I can audit that once I’ve taken Herbology IV. But we’re already doing such cool stuff this year, I mean, she let me work with the new monkshood b-b-bulbs yesterday, and she’s letting me TA the first years…”
“Neville,” Ron said, patiently, after some time of this. “Not to be insulting or anything, mate. But could you — respectfully speaking — shut the hell up, a little?”
Neville, still riding on a cloud of his own borrowed glory, was unfazed. “Hey, Harry,” he added. “Have you heard about B-B-Black? The Prophet says there was a sighting this morning, in Scotland. A muggle spotted him not f-f-far from here.”
“What?” said Harry sharply.
“Yeah. On the m-m-move, it looks like.”
Harry paled. Draco felt bad for him; he thought Neville would do well to, in Ron’s words, ‘shut the hell up, a little.’ But Hermione said waspishly, “And this was a single sighting, was it? Uncorroborated, unverified?”
“Well, yeah,” said Neville awkwardly. “But I mean, it is scary, isn’t it? Seeing as everyone’s s-s-saying he’s going after Harry…”
“Yeah, everyone’s saying it,” said Harry, brusquely, shouldering open the door. “Everyone’s really excited about this scary bloke who wants to kill me. It’s excellent. Keep me posted if he turns up under your bed, would you?”
They filed into their seats. At five past the hour, Professor Lupin ambled out of his office, hauling a chest of drawers behind him. He looked better than he had on the train: though he wore the same shabby herringbone jacket, he had a fresh, unrumpled shirt, and was clean-shaven, which alone restored a decade of youth. He walked with stiff grace, as if each motion were a sentence unto itself, ending with a full-stop of stillness.
“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. His voice still went thin when he lifted it, and so he spoke at a conversational murmur that made all the students lean forward to hear. “I’d like to start the term with a bit of a project.”
The chest rattled and banged itself against the wall. Several students jumped and gave a shout.
“Never fear,” said Lupin. He looked down at the floor, smiled slightly, and then looked up again. “This is a boggart. It’s been rattling around a chest of drawers in the staffroom for some time, after a few, ah… young miscreants… trapped it in there, many years ago.” He cleared his throat. “So today, you’re all going to set their wrongs to rights, and deal with this little beastie for us.”
The chest’s topmost drawer rattled ominously. Seamus Finnigan, looking quite eager, said, “So we get to destroy a piece of furniture?”
Lupin covered his mouth with his hand, but his eyes were smiling. “Not quite, Seamus,” he said. “Can anyone tell our incendiary friend why that wouldn’t work?”
Hermione’s hand almost smacked Draco on the way up. (By now, he was well-used to dodging, and had leaned away as soon as he heard the question.)
“It’s a shapeshifter,” she said crisply. “It takes the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most. If you destroy its home, it’ll just move on to the nearest dark, enclosed space.”
“Quite right, too,” agreed Lupin, to Hermione’s delight. “These things are born of the darkness, and they thrive anywhere you have concentrated fear and misery. So we’re going to chase it away. Scare it so badly that it shan’t even think of coming to Hogwarts again. Wands out, please.”
The class rustled and drew their wands. Neville shook so badly he dropped his, and went scrambling after it on hand and knee.
“Accio, ” said Lupin calmly, and caught Neville’s wand in the air. He flipped it around and held it out, handle-first, to Neville, who slumped shamefacedly to the front of the classroom to collect it. “Why so blue, friend?” he said gently.
“I’m n-n-n-not very g-g-good with spells.”
Lupin frowned. “And who told you that?” he asked seriously, as if he desired to have a word with them.
“W-w-w-well, I, I thought that the b-b-b-boggart…” Neville swallowed. “If it’s the th-th-thing you f-f-f-fear m-m-m-m-mmm-mmm—” He choked himself off.
Lupin nibbled his lip. “Hmm,” he said. “Do you like music, Neville?”
“W-what?”
“Music? Muggle music, wizard’s music, any kind?”
“My g-g-g-gran likes Celestina W-Warbeck,” he ventured.
Lupin made a face. “And you?”
Neville swallowed again. “I like w-what Seamus plays.”
Seamus sat up proudly. “Good man, Longbottom.”
Lupin smiled slyly, a twitch on the corner of his lip. “Ah,” he said. “Let me have a guess, then, at what Seamus plays.”
He pointed his wand at the back of the room. From beneath a pile of trinkets on an old shelf, a dusty victrola stirred to life, and a thunder of drums roared from the old speaker.
Last night a little dancer, she came dancing to my door…
Last night, that little angel, she came pumping on my floor…
Lupin’s foot tapped a soft drumbeat on the ground. “Seamus,” he called, somewhat hoarsely, over the music. “Something like this?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thank you, Seamus. Now, Neville, when that boggart comes out,” he continued, pointing at the chest with his wand, “I want you to humiliate it.”
“What, sir?” Neville said, terrified.
“I mean, make a mockery of it. Doesn’t matter if it’s the silliest, stupidest, low-brow joke you can think of. Nothing’s too blue, or too raunchy. I’m giving you a free pass, you understand? Just whatever makes you laugh.”
Neville, whom Draco doubted had ever had a raunchy thought in his life, gulped. The musician’s guitar snarled and leapt into a chorus. Seamus shook his head back and forth to the music. Harry was beaming. “Okay, sir.”
“And when you do that, I want you to yell Riddikulus. Big silly spell for a big silly beast. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll t-t-t-t-try, sir.”
“Okay. Thank you, Neville. You’re being very brave, going first,” said Lupin seriously. “The rest of you: once Neville successfully dispatches his boggart, it’s going to move around the room. All of you should be prepared to take the same advice I just gave him. Think of something that scares you, and embarrass the living daylights out of it. You understand?” He grinned, and it was a threadbare, ferocious expression. “Make a mockery of evil.”
The singer howled, WITH A REBEL YELL—
Lupin flung open the drawer.
A dark shape exploded from the chest of drawers, swirling furiously in the air. It landed in front of Neville, thrashing, and resolved into a tall, pinched-faced woman with steel-gray hair, wielding a cherry red handbag.
“Disappointment!” she shrieked. She flew at Neville, wheeling her handbag like a flail. “Disappointment! Squib! Feckless, worthless, unmagical lump!”
Neville staggered back, mouthing wordlessly.
“Embarrassment! Humiliation! Dishonor! Worthless child!”
“Riddikulus, Neville, come on,” shouted Lupin. “I think she needs new shoes, don’t you? Nice big red ones?”
“R-r-riddikulus!” squeaked Neville.
A crack filled the room. The woman stumbled, and her green blazer sprouted into a flowery clown suit, complete with lace frills. Her shoes sprouted into enormous red trainers, and a red bulb appeared on the end of her nose. Laughter exploded from the classroom, more from relief than anything else: she had stopped shouting at Neville, and everyone was glad.
The boggart paused, confused, and Lupin shouted, “Parvati! Up!”
Parvati sprang up, wand gripped tightly, and the boggart swirled into a bloodstained mummy, trailing bandages. But with the music playing so loudly, it was hard to be scared, and with a victorious jab of her wand, she collapsed it into a pile of toilet paper, laughing all the while. Then came Dean, who turned a giant squid into a plate of calamari, and Ron, who dealt with a giant spider — Draco shuddered — by planting a roller skate on each of its stubbly legs. The music changed, and an older song came on; this wasn’t Seamus’s music, but clearly Lupin’s, who smiled when the track clicked. Ooh, a storm is threatening… My very life today…
“Hermione, up!” shouted Lupin, and Hermione sprang up from her desk.
“Got this, Hermione!” hollered Ron. Electrified by his own success, he was in high spirits. “Go get him!”
“Yeah, get on!” shouted Harry. “Beat him up, Mione!”
Draco kicked her ankle, which was his own way of showing support.
She hurried forward. The boggart went swirled into a tall, white-haired wizard in a periwinkle robe, with horn-rimmed glasses and a kindly smile.
Draco startled. It was Professor Dumbledore. But Hermione couldn’t be afraid of Dumbledore; she practically worshiped him.
“Miss Granger,” he said softly, “I am afraid there has been a mistake.”
Hermione gasped.
“The owl that delivered your Hogwarts letter was intended for someone else. It came to you in error.”
“No. No, no. No, you can’t. Please.”
“In consequence, I must revoke your acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You must pack your trunk and return your wand to Ollivander’s, where it will be given to a true witch.”
“No, no, no, please, please, you can’t, don’t send me away, please!”
Hermione broke into tears. She gripped her wand like the last torch on a dark planet.
“I apologize most dearly for this mistake,” said Dumbledore, ever gentle. “To minimize emotional distress, your memory of the past two years will be modified—”
“NO!”
“Riddikulus!” shouted Lupin, frantic. “Hermione, riddikulus! Come on! Think of something funny!”
But it was clear this was the last thing Hermione could do. Instead, she lunged forward, slashed her wand, and snarled, “Reducto!” __
The chest exploded, shattering splinters everywhere. Lupin dove behind his desk for cover. Shouts erupted from the other students, some of whom threw up weak Shield Charms.
Hermione lifted her wand for another go, her tearstained face contorted in fear and ferocity.
He was only half aware of his own actions: his head was full of heartbeat and worry. Draco shoved back his chair and shouldered in front of her.
“Riddikulus,” he spat, and with a hard crack, Dumbledore appeared again, bare-chested, and mounted on the back of a unicorn. The class gasped, and then broke into a titter of nervous, irreverent laughter. He looked like he could have cantered off the cover of a harlequin novel.
Dumbledore looked down at himself in surprise. “Goodness,” he sighed. He tossed his mane of luscious white curls. “Would it were so.”
Then he disappeared, and the boggart broke into a dark swirl again, whirling on the hardwood.
Hermione clapped her hands over her mouth, mortified.
Lupin reemerged from his desk. “Very good, Draco,” he panted. “It is — of course, when possible — always better to face a boggart in groups — helps confuse it, keeps it from making an impression…”
But now the boggart had started to take form again. It resolved into a tall, slender finger of stone, an obelisk of fresh marble, with a thin skirt of earth. At the bottom, three names appeared in succession.
HERE LIES: LUCIUS ABRAXAS MALFOY…
With the acid of dread pooling in his stomach, Draco watched the second appear under it: HIS LOVING WIFE, NARCISSA BLACK MALFOY…
He quickly squeezed his eyes shut. But he knew the final line without having to read it, and it blazed on the back of his eyelids anyway: HIS SON, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY.
“Once more,” encouraged Lupin. “Something funny, Draco… anything funny…”
But was funny about a gravestone? What could ever be funny about this?
“Riddikulus,” whispered Hermione. Her wand sparked feebly. “R-riddikulus.”
It trembled. Hermione made an irritated sound — and because no fear was stronger than Hermione Granger’s anger at failing to perform a spell perfectly, she brushed past Draco, advancing on the boggart like she meant to strangle it with her hands next. Stabbing her wand at it, she shouted, “Riddikulus!”
The writing vanished from the stone’s face, replaced by a new inscription.
HERE LIES DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY’S
HUMONGOUS EGO
1980-1993
From the fourth row, Ron laughed. It was a pity laugh, but it broke Draco out of his trance. Weakly, he managed: “Real classy, Granger, thanks.”
Her shoulders heaved. She gave a weak smile.
“Well done, Hermione!” Lupin stepped between them and the boggart, ushering them back to their desks. The boggart swirled into a large, round, luminous shape, hovering high in the classroom; Lupin glanced up, casually flicked his wand, and it popped like a balloon. The chorus of giggles that followed sent the boggart spinning, frantically, until it at last collapsed into smoke.
“Congratulations to all of you. You should be very proud of yourselves — grown wizards often struggle to defeat a boggart. Five points to everyone who dealt with the boggart, and an additional five for Draco, whose quick thinking may have spared us several pieces of furniture.”
Hermione blushed. Dean raised his hand and said, “Sir, but Harry hasn’t had a turn.”
“Did he not?” Lupin paused. His eyes flickered at Harry. “I’m sorry, Harry, that’s my mistake. If you would drop by before class on Thursday, I would be more than happy to give you a chance.”
Harry, who seemed disappointed but not upset, agreed.
“Right. Excellent. Homework! Kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarize it for me… to be handed in next Monday. That will be all.”
On the way to the Great Hall, the Gryffindors fumed with exhilaration about their new professor. To have a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who was not only competent but enjoyable was an unprecedented windfall for everyone, and something to be celebrated indeed.
“Can you believe he listens to muggle music?”
“Did you see me with that eyeball? Did you see it, Seamus?”
“I saw it! I saw it!”
“With a rebel yell…”
“I wonder why Lupin’s fear is crystal balls,” said Lavender thoughtfully. “Maybe it means he’s afraid of the future…”
Hermione snorted. Lavender turned, and her eyebrow soared to a haughty altitude at the sight of Hermione. “Do you have something to say?” she said, politely.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation with Parvati.”
Lavender said, “Okay, but like, you did. You did do that? Actually? So. What is it?”
Hermione pressed her lips together, fighting a smirk. “Nothing, it’s just… It wasn’t a ball, Lavender.”
“How would you know?” she said stiffly. Lavender and Hermione had never lost much love between them, and Draco theorized it was because they both enjoyed picking on each other too much to relinquish that pleasure and be friends. “I suppose he told you, did he?”
“No,” said Hermione, on the verge of laughter. “I’ve just got eyes. It was round and white and in the sky! It was obviously the moon.”
“Right, because that makes so much more sense, Hermione,” snipped Lavender. “What kind of nutter is afraid of the moon?”
common disadvantages of not being in slytherin include: a lot more inter-house politicking; explaining to your mom, the widow of a death eater, why your high school bestie is Harry Fucking Potter; multiple mutually antagonistic groups wanting to sit with you on the bus; Having To Come To Grips With Your Internalized Classism, Like, For Real Now; cats
common advantages of not being in slytherin include: not getting your ass beat by a hippogriff. all in all? fair trade
next chapter coming on tuesday! get ready for:
-the beloved shopping episode (hogsmeade trip!)
-fan favorite guest stars FRED and GEORGE
-rampant abuse of an invisibility cloak
-the [REDACTED] Politics of Theodore Nott
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