Chapter 61: Umbridge’s Lament
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Every year, the Defense professor did something different with their classroom.
Lupin’s had been a cozy, cluttered space, full of weathered furniture and overstuffed bookshelves; Mad-Eye had set the desks in a semicircle so no one had to sit with their backs to the door; but this year, the same desks were set in a four-by-ten matrix facing a large podium at the back of the room. Umbridge appeared to have moved it from the Great Hall.
Even more unlike Mad-Eye, she had decorated the walls: posters of famous Aurors and Ministers of Magic gazed stonily from beveled wood frames, or squinted nobly into some invisible sunset. Cornelius Fudge reclined in a lavish study, ogling a photographer who clearly had been given no incentive to flatter him; next to it was a mint-condition RUNCORN FOR ALL poster, and beside it hung a framed photograph of Runcorn and a small group of Ministry wizards, posing together under the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic. Runcorn was beaming at the camera. In the back of the photo, there was a small woman with short curly hair, an unmistakable pink cardigan, and a beatific simper.
Along the bottom of the photo, someone had scrawled: WE FEW, WE MERRY FEW. A.R.
Umbridge wore a frilled lace shawl and a pillbox hat, and her smile could have sheared metal.
“Please sit,” she said. “Please sit! Thank you. Good afternoon, everyone!”
Hermione brushed Draco’s arm, aglow with excitement — she was mad, truly and passionately — and he was steered, not altogether involuntarily, to their usual post at the front of the room. He drew out her chair as she rummaged in her bag for an ancient, leather-bound journal so stuffed with spare parchment and pasted-in notes that it had to be buckled shut. He suspected, based on its advanced age, that she had enchanted it with interior page-expanding charms long ago.
In contrast, he flicked open a blank scroll of parchment, wetted his quill, and scrawled the date lazily in the corner.
The last chairs scraped into place. Harry and Ron shuffled in behind them; Ron leaned forward to tap Hermione’s shoulder.
“Hey, Mione?”
“Hm?”
“Mione!”
“What is it, Ron?”
“You got a quill?”
Her quill stopped, and lifted; a bead of ink trembled at its tip, as if equivalently surprised.
“Since when do you take notes?” she whispered, half-delighted, half-disbelieving. Draco verged rather more one way than the other, and sent Ron a look that expressed both incredulous suspicion and, failing that, a profound fear for his health.
Ron offered a small grin, which was somehow cocky, defensive, and sheepish all at once. “You told me I couldn’t skive off yours this year. We made a deal, remember?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you’d keep it,” she said bluntly. Draco snorted. “I made that deal so you’d remember to study. I wasn’t trying to suggest I’d stop helping; you’re still welcome to look at my notes, if you want, if it’s helpful, which frankly it probably will be, since I’ve had more practice at them, and it’s not fair to expect — really it was more the principle of the thing, even I didn’t honestly expect— not that I’m discouraging you,” she exclaimed, as Harry began to snigger, and Draco fought a smirk in vain. Ron glared sequentially at both of them. “I’m very glad that you’re trying now. Here, you can use some of my parchment. Do you know how to set them up? I do mine in the Cornell Method—”
“Shut up and gimme a quill,” muttered Ron. “I know how to write things down. I’m not dull.”
“I never said that,” said Hermione pointedly, but then Umbridge cleared her throat again.
“Excuse me,” said Umbridge clearly. “I would like us to be friends, boys and girls! And when a friend says ‘good afternoon’ to you, what do you say? Please try again.”
There was a somewhat wary refrain: “Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.”
“Wonderful. That wasn’t hard at all.” She clapped her hands. “Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it? The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.
“You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.” She rapped the blackboard. Course aims… Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic… Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used… Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use…
“Once you have finished copying the course aims, I will ask you to read the introduction and first chapter of the book, Defensive Magical Theory, by Wilbert Slinkhard. I would like to make sure that everyone is on the ver-y same page!”
She paused and smiled widely. “I am not hearing any quills moving!”
Draco, who was considering moving his, if only to put it through his own eye, sat back and folded his hands, incredulous. Hermione, to his right, put up her hand.
Umbridge gave a tinkling laugh. “Do you require help identifying a quill?”
Hermione cleared her throat and said politely: “Professor Umbridge, you assigned us to read the introduction and the first chapter for today.”
“That is a comment, not a question, my dear,” said Umbridge indulgently. “Please save all your very bright ideas to share with your friends, after class. Now—”
“Pardon me. Professor. But may I ask the point of making us read it again?”
Umbridge paused at the interruption. Her smile waned. “May I ask your name, Miss…?”
“Granger,” she said at once. “Hermione Granger.”
“Lovely. Because while you may be familiar with the concept of ‘assigned reading,’ Miss Granger,” she said cheerfully, “the past three years of test scores from this class have made perfectly clear that you are among the ver-y few people in this room to do so!”
There was an awkward, shifty silence. Harry and Ron, against whom this was a valid but nevertheless unsportsmanlike accusation, ducked their heads.
Hermione, who made this exact remark at least once a week, scowled.
“Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” she said shortly.
“Wonderful. Now, everyone, I think we’ll read for fifteen minutes, and then we’ll discuss. I want to see those books out and pages tur-ning! Oh, goodness,” she said, peering down at Ron’s unearthed copy of Defensive Magical Theory, whose cover was dangling by a thread. “I’m aw-fully sorry, but I believe what you have over there is Defensive Magical Theory, fourth edition. Nothing but the sixth edition will do! You, dear,” she added to Draco. “Your copy looks perfect.”
Ron turned bright red and shoved his book back in his bag, kicking it away.
There was a silence of turning pages and unsubtle muttering for ten minutes. Umbridge presided from the podium, watching and writing something on a clipboard.
Hermione put her hand up again. Her copy of Slinkhard sat untouched atop a blank page of notes.
Umbridge smiled, showing a number of faintly yellow teeth. “Why, Miss Granger, I don’t see you reading.”
“No, I’ve done that already, professor,” she replied rigidly. “I have a question.”
“Is something about the introduction confusing, dear?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Good. In that case, we’re reading just now. If you have other questions, you can see me during office hours.”
“I’d like to talk about pedagogy,” said Hermione.
Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows. “That’s a ver-y big word,” she trilled. “I don’t think Slinkhard uses it! My dear,” she said to Draco, who startled again at finding himself involved, “can you remind me if Slinkhard uses it in the introduction?”
Hermione scoffed.
“Not,” he said, each syllable slow and precise with disdain, “that I recall.”
“No? I thought not. Well-remembered, young man! Five points to Gryffindor. Now, can you please help Miss Granger figure out how to open her book?”
He sat back, faintly stunned.
Hermione stared at him, mouth ajar. He raised his eyebrows, silently inquiring what she wanted him to do.
She raised her hand. Umbridge sighed and opened her mouth, but Hermione interrupted her.
“I’d like to know what a Special Inquisitor is,” she said.
There was a murmur of fascination from the peanut gallery: in Hermione’s book, interrupting a professor was the kind of offense you could get hanged for. Lavender was watching the exchange like the Quidditch World Cup, apparently delighted.
“I’m sure you would,” said Umbridge. “However, whatever you may believe, your personal desires do not dictate the curriculum of this class, nor will I permit them to any further detract from the education of your p—”
“Everyone here can read,” she said impatiently, “and half of the introduction is acknowledgements. I’d like to know what your goals are, administratively—”
“Miss Granger—”
“—and whether we can expect similar curriculum changes to other classes, as well as this one,” she insisted, “and it is relevant, because our O.W.L.s are this year, so knowing whether we should expect major changes to the way we’re being taught, only nine months before the exam—”
“Ten points from Gryffindor!”
Hermione broke off, flushing. The classroom dissolved into groans and whispers.
“And it’ll be twenty,” said Umbridge softly, “if I hear another word from you before class ends, Miss Granger.”
Hermione’s mouth parted in a perfect rose of fury. Draco wondered, with irrational intensity, how a Boils Jinx would change Umbridge’s face, being that her nose was not so dissimilar from a pustule already. He drummed his fingers, which itched as if longing for a wand.
Harry’s nostrils flared. He threw up his hand.
“Yes, Mr. Potter?”
She hadn’t asked his name.
There was more whispering, now; Ron had flushed deep into the red, and Seamus’s grip would soon snap his quill in half. Neville swung his head between Umbridge and Harry, jaw agape.
“That’s not fair,” Harry said loudly. “Hermione asked you a good question.”
“It appears this class must review the definition of ‘questions’! It can be a tricky subject for young people to grasp.”
“Why can’t you just answer her?” he said, louder still. “It wasn’t even a hard question.”
“Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Mr. Potter?”
Harry’s expression changed. Draco identified it at once as the sure sign that Harry’s authority problem had wrestled the wheel away from the rest of his brain.
“Yeah, aced my certs last week,” he said. “I’m just here for the bants, really.”
Giggles broke out. Ron guffawed and thumped his desk. Hermione, who usually regarded unprofessional classroom conduct with extreme hostility, scoffed in quiet amusement and sat back in her chair, arms folded.
Harry’s smile was a hard, flat thing, and there was something faintly glad in it.
“Our class troublemaker, it seems,” Umbridge murmured. “It seems you have quite a mouth on you. Of course, I’m not very surprised.”
“Yeah? What’s that mean?”
“It means that a little birdie told me someone likes to blame other people for his problems,” she said indulgently, tapping her nose. “I won’t name names, but let me just say to you all: that kind of behavior is just what we want to weed out, in this classroom!” She swept her head to regard them all with great seriousness, pursing her lips. “It is high time that wizards and witches of this country began to take accountability for themselves.”
“Accountability—”
“One more word, and it’s detention, Mr. Potter.”
Harry swallowed. She smiled, and continued. “Your generation is struggling,” she said, with acid sympathy. “It is struggling because many of you — not all! But many — have been allowed to believe that their problems, their failures, are the fault of other people. They believe that because they are poor, or sad, or unable to get the jobs they want, it must be the fault of society. Because why should they try to work harder? Why should they pull themselves up, when it is so much easier to be angry at ‘ the system’?” She was more serious than she had yet been; the sheen of insincerity had slipped away, and she spoke in a hearty register, with conviction. She struck the podium with one soft fist. “But there are no systems,” she said patiently. “There are only people. Witches and wizards. Strong ones and weak ones. And when people are strong, they do great things. And when they are weak, they suffer.”
Hermione’s knuckles were white. Slowly, carefully, she put down her quill.
“I want you all to be strong,” said Umbridge earnestly. “I believe you all can be strong, if only given the right instruction. It is your duty as citizens of Great Britain, and as the next generation of witches and wizards, to become strong, and be a model to your own children. I will not give handouts. I will not hold your hand! I will not allow you to entertain delusions that you deserve special treatment simply because you are unhappy! Many people are unhappy!” She peered down at them with arch dignity. “But if you rise to the occasion… if you work hard, and take responsibility, and meet your obligations as citizens of the British Wizarding nation… then I think you will find yourselves much stronger than you have been led to believe by those adults who have coddled and failed you.”
She smiled at them. The smile was the worst part: it was wide and real and hopeful, evidence that for once, there was absolutely nothing insincere in her. She meant it. She meant it desperately. It was possibly the first thing he’d heard from her that she actually did believe.
No one raised their hand. She relaxed in evident satisfaction.
“Now,” she said, “I require a volunteer to read.”
Draco had always understood, accepted, and even appreciated that it was well within Hermione’s capabilities to kill somebody; but he had never been so intrigued that it might actually happen before.
“I can’t do this.”
“Mm.”
“I absolutely can’t.”
“So I gather.”
“I can’t take one more minute with her. I won’t do it, I’ll read up and take the O.WL. on my own. No, don’t laugh, I’m seriously considering it.”
“I’m sure you’d excel.”
“What was Dumbledore thinking? She’s an embarrassment!”
“Quite so.”
“It’s humiliating,” said Hermione viciously, “to say nothing of irresponsible, for him to hire such a — an obvious incompetent; a condescending, power-hungry, conniving, obsequious—”
“‘Obsequious,’ good one.”
“—supercilious, egotistic, pontifical—”
“‘Pontifical’ is lovely.”
“—despotic, truculent, mean—”
“See, now you’ve gone too far.”
“It’s not funny,” she snapped. He could admit, on reflection, that his tone had been too light; he was privately enjoying the glow of the sun on her face, which was furious, and radiating a flush as warm and rich as candleflame. He made a point to have no unusual thoughts, whatsoever, about her hair or her face; he didn’t even notice that her socks were crooked, or what her legs looked like when she crossed them under the table. Nothing had changed.
“It isn’t,” he said. “Forgive me. I find it — mildly amusing — with respect for the obvious issues notwithstanding — that you’re this riled.”
“Are you joking? She’s foul!”
“Naturally. She’s a bureaucrat.”
“Yes! What does that matter?”
“She’s not important,” he drawled, shouldering the door to the Great Hall, “or she wouldn’t be here. She’s more pathetic than intimidating.”
“Easy for you to say, she likes you. She was all but fluttering her eyelashes — Victoria! No running in the Hall, do you even read the handbook?”
“Sorry, Miss Granger! Sorry! I’m sorry!”
“You don’t have to call m— oh, there she goes, never mind. Do you suppose that was too harsh? They’re so timid around me.”
“Have you met yourself?”
“Very funny. I don’t know why I’m asking you, I think Dennis passed out after you finished with him.”
“Hopefully he’ll remember that next time he fancies riding a broomstick indoors.”
“You’re going to get yourself a reputation,” she said, with a glance out of the corner of her eye. “They’ll start to talk. ‘That Malfoy, the one with the big scary voice, he doesn’t let anyone off.’ I’m warning you, they talk to each other.”
He wondered whether big scary voice was a personal assessment. “Good. It’ll make my job easier.”
This amused her. “What, ruling through fear?”
“If a threat’s credible, you only need to make it once.”
She hesitated, head cocked at a questioning angle; then she smirked, wry. “Well, that’s hopelessly dramatic, don’t you think? I don’t mean to shock you, but not everything is a power play.”
“Scratch my earlier question,” he said. “Have you met me?”
Her high, bright laugh carried them to the Gryffindor table, the miseries of Defense already fading and forgotten.
It was a tight squeeze at the table’s end, with Cho and Daphne swelling their usual number, so Hermione wiggled over and ended up sandwiched between him and Harry, thighs flush, knee to knee. She reached under the table and dragged her bag out of the way to make room for him, and her hand grazed his knee on accident.
He picked up a fork and spent a moment trying to remember what it was for.
Hermione was wriggling around, her thigh a hot line of soft pressure on his right side, and there was her hip, her elbow — less sexy, therefore his friend — her shoulder; as she twisted around to put her bag on the other side of the bench, her chest grazed his arm.
She twisted back around and muttered an apology, for what in God’s name he could not have said. Her ankle appeared to be seeking locations under the table that didn’t involve being in contact with his ankle. It was not succeeding. Her skirt had ridden up with the fussing and it wasn’t cold enough for tights, so it was down to a few millimeters of cotton between skin.
He was becoming so irritated by the constant wiggling and shifting around that he started to contemplate what she would do if he just whirled around and kissed her. He could take her by the shirt and haul her up on the table and teach her to go around touching a fellow’s kneecaps in public. As it were. Shut her up for a while.
Audience notwithstanding. He couldn’t remember them half the time anyway, when her skirt rode up over the knees.
“Draco.”
He recalled the purpose of a fork.
Ron had been offering him a plate of breadrolls for a horrifyingly unclear amount of time. “Last call,” he warned. “You want lunch or not?”
“Yes. Fine. Thank you.”
Hermione cleared her throat and folded herself into Harry’s side. This might have provoked a modicum of jealousy if Harry hadn’t immediately grumbled like Ron whenever Ginny tried to wrestle him.
“Sorry,” she announced, to no one in particular. Her face was flushing behind the curtain of her hair. She was endeavoring to put as much space between them as possible, and that stung in an unanticipated quadrant of his chest, because he didn’t think that it was altogether necessary.
A shadow fell over the table, and before anyone could look up, George clapped his hands over Ron’s eyes. Ron shouted and upset his plate, meanwhile Fred, Lee Jordan, and Katie Bell followed them up, bearing almost cartoonish grins.
“Quick! How do you block a Uruguayan flying double-barrel with two chasers in the fourth quadrant and a third on two?”
“Nah, don’t give him that, s’ an easy one,” called Katie. “Hey, Ron: how d’you block an inverse Frenchman’s Gambit from the left, with a southerly wind?”
“Please! Child’s play! Now, Ron, imagine it’s urgent: how do you deal with the Bulgarian Double-Breasted Booby? Upside down—”
“—both ways—”
“—in the snow?”
“GERROFF! Bastards!”
“Well, that’s not even a play,” said Katie mildly, and tousled his hair. “Congrats, mate. We’d haze you the normal way, but Umbridge repossessed the cattle prods. You’ll have to wait for tryouts.”
“As commentator, I cannot offer a personal opinion on any player or team,” announced Lee. He saluted Ron. “However, as a Gryffindor, I say verily unto you: welcome to Team Sexy. Tryouts pending.”
“Where’s the sexy?” demanded Ron. “All I see is these two ugly lumps and their girlfriend—”
“Oi!”
“Hey now,” said George, tweaking Ron’s ear. “Dinnae speak ill of the captain, lad.”
“Angelina’s a stone cold ten, first off, so let’s get that straight,” said Fred briskly, tweaking his other. Ron barked in frustration and shoved them off. “Second, we’re hard nines, elevens with suits on.”
“And there’s no girlfriend about it, Ronniekins. Freddie can’t be tied down.”
“I’m a wild, rugged individual.”
“Many have tried.”
“Following in Bill’s footsteps—”
“—if a castle bicycle has ‘footsteps’—”
“—as a perpetual bachelor. With Godric’s ghost as my witness, I shall never wed for love nor money.”
“Think Mum was hoping she’d have a grandchild on the spotter by now.”
“Not from him, though,” snickered Fred. “Haven’t even kissed a girl, have you, Ronaldonald?”
“Sod off!” he snapped, and shrank down in his seat. “George hasn’t, either! And Fred’s only ever snogged Angelina!”
“Have, too,” said George placidly.
“And have you seen Angelina?” drawled Fred, stealing a roll. “I nailed it in one, mate. That’s not the insult you think it is.”
Unable to rebut this, Ron rounded on George. “Who did you snog, then?”
“Anastasia Bonk, Hufflepuff chaser, Class of ’93,” he said promptly. “One wild night in the Restricted Section, and I was ruined forever for other women.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yeah. Got to second in the locker rooms and her boyfriend walked in. That did put me off the birds, for a bit, to be honest.”
“Git,” snorted Katie, but she was smiling. To Ron, she added: “Michael Corner, third year.”
“What!” said Cho, with renewed interest. “Michael Corner? With the glasses?”
“Yes’m.”
“But he’s the size of a teaspoon!”
“Most girls are smaller,” said Katie, shrugging, and Cho’s brain appeared to snuff out like a torch in the rain.
“What can you say? Boys or girls, everyone loves a quidditch player,” drawled Fred. “Ask Harry. He got it done last year, didn’t he?”
Harry said, “Oh, no, you see, I wasn’t even in this conversation,” but it was far too late.
“Cho!”
“Choooo!”
“Miss Chang!”
“Which makes you the last one, Ronnie. Our dear, innocent, virginal brother—”
“I hate you.”
“Eh. Wait till you’ve played a game,” he said. “Fred’s not wrong about the uniform. Turns it on like a faucet, I tell you.”
Hermione choked on her food and doubled over. Katie whacked her on the back.
“Lay off him. It’s not a race, and anyway, Ron’s not the last one,” said Harry, frowning. “Draco—”
He broke off, suddenly aware of how intensely several people were looking at him. Or perhaps Draco’s attempts at wandless magic were working, and he simply had an aneurysm.
“Potter,” he said. He set down his knife and fork. “I believe you misspoke. What you were about to say surely had nothing at all to do with my personal business.”
“No,” said Harry, lying.
Daphne tossed her hair in a wide spume of fluffy gold. “Really, now,” she said. “Kissing’s not so grand a thing. It’s not a proposal, is it? I thought we were all libertines, over here.”
“Have you?” said Ron to Draco, vaguely casual. “I mean, just curious.”
“Does it matter?” Hermione said stiffly.
“No, ’course it doesn’t. Just asking him about his life, you know?.”
A new, interesting, even worse silence happened then.
“He has, though,” said Fred, in tones so soft and high they were almost tender. “Right, Blondie?”
Daphne cleared her throat. “I’ve kissed loads of people,” she announced, “if anyone’s interested in that. I’ve kept a list. Pansy once composed them all into a poem. Would anyone like to hear it? There’s a bit where she rhymes ‘Richard’ with ‘Prick-Hard,’ it’s quite a scream.”
“Fourth year,” said Hermione suddenly. She cut into her lunch with swift, crisp movements of her knife. “By the pumpkin patch. See? Daphne’s right, it’s not a big deal.”
“Fourth year?” said Cho tentatively. “Did that mean — was it—”
“Yes,” she said crisply, as Draco placed his fork slowly and tenuously on the table, resenting the thorny bristle in his chest. “It’s private, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh — oh, yes, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” said Hermione, with a sharp look, as if the apologies irritated her more than the question; and then she shook her head, and tucked into her lunch as if she had ended the conversation, which she almost did.
He was still contemplating how to save himself. So far, he had come up with the two options of running away and dying.
Fred slowly steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. He lowered them at Daphne.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
“No,” she tried, but it was too late, because she was fidgeting, and there was a lot of hooting from the twins. Draco was going to immolate her, and then himself. Maybe he would do himself first, come to think of it. “No, no, but really, I mean, it wasn’t a snog—”
“You laid one on him! You dog, Greengrass!”
“You got him! Draco ‘Tightarse’ Malfoy, Mr. No Eye Contact Until Marriage himself—”
“I’m going to see McGonagall,” said George seriously, pumping her hand, “about getting you an award for Special Services to the School.”
“Oh, stop, stop — do stop — look, he’s uncomfortable—”
“Greengrass,” he snarled. The surface of his skin would soon be acquiring a nice char.
“I thought,” she whispered, hiding her face from the twins, “you have to understand — Draco, I thought — I didn’t think — you haven’t told—?”
He couldn’t bring himself to look at Hermione, or he really did expect to start a fire.
“Stop,” said Hermione.
The thing, whatever it was, stopped.
“You’re being juvenile,” she said coolly, “and beastly, and ridiculously mean to everyone. Go bother someone else, or I’ll write to Molly and tell them what you’ve been feeding the first years.”
Fred and George both reared back, startled; the invocation of Molly was enough to have them on their back feet. Harry edged away from her. Daphne had laced her fingers and appeared to be hiding behind them in misery.
Hermione gave a pointed little nod down the table, and the two of them slouched off, muttering half-hearted apologies in Ron’s direction.
Draco lapsed again into a reverie wherein he hauled her onto the table and kissed her.
There was a commotion down the hall. Umbridge had come down from the staff table and was watching, her expression thickly satisfied, as Romilda Vane clambered out of the table on shaky legs. Several of her friends had cried out in objection.
“The Hogwarts Dress Code,” said Umbridge, clasping her hands, “prescribes that skirts must fall below one’s fingertips. Miss Vane, please stand up straight and put your hands to your sides.”
Hermione sucked a breath through her teeth; Romilda had rolled her skirt up at the waistband, to make it shorter. Half the girls in the castle did.
Rigidly, Romilda lowered her head and her hands to her sides.
“Ah,” said Umbridge, “yes, Miss Vane, that is a very big gap! My goodness! Are you aware that the Hogwarts Need Fund provides financial assistance to students whose families cannot afford robes that fit?”
Romilda muttered something.
“When addressing an instructor,” said Umbridge, “you will speak clearly. Were you aware that your skirt breaks the dress code?”
“N— I have long arms.”
“No, you do not,” said Umbridge sweetly. “Ten points from Gryffindor, and you will be excused from the first class of the afternoon to go and change.”
Face burning, Romilda ran out of the hall. From the Hufflepuff table, Cedric Diggory half-rose from his seat, looking quite angry; but someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.
“I’m thinking poison,” muttered Ron. “Show of hands, for poison?”
Daphne made an intrigued noise and lifted hers. Draco rolled his eyes and hauled it down again.
The hour bell groaned, calling them to Transfiguration. The table quickly dispersed — Harry gladly removing himself from the dire locus of territory inside Hermione’s hitting range, and Ron shooting her fervently grateful looks, that only increased Draco’s irritation, if anything.
Hermione, for her part, cleared out before anyone could say anything else, or indeed anyone could.
She was ruthlessly efficient, but her legs were short. He caught her on the way out of the hall.
“Granger?”
“What?” she said calmly. Her strides were long and smooth. “How are you? I’m sorry about that, that was brutal.”
This was not what he had expected. There was something alarming in how dissimilar it was to what he expected.
“Fine,” he said. “It’s nothing. Greengrass has a loose mouth.”
“Apparently,” she said, and then winced. Her step flagged. “I’m sorry. That — wasn’t kind.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not wrong for girls to kiss people. She can kiss anyone she wants. I do mean that. I’m not joking.”
“That’s true.”
“So she did?”
They reached a staircase, and she took them two at once. The others fell rapidly behind them, a cluster of murmurs and curious stares twisting out of sight on the stairwell. The winding halls above them were crowded enough to ensure privacy in the anonymity of a crowd.
“Kiss you, that is,” said Hermione, after a moment where he said nothing. “Sorry, don’t answer that if you don’t want to. I’m as bad as the twins.”
“You’re not.”
“Thanks.” She hopped a trick stair with an easy jump, wobbled, and he touched her elbow on his way up. They kept climbing.
“It was a perfunctory situation,” he said. “It wasn’t — I’m not involved.”
She laughed awkwardly.
“What.”
“Perfunctory?”
“Yes.”
“That’s the word you’d use for kissing a girl? Perfunctory.”
“It’s the word I’d use for kissing that girl, yes.”
“Gosh, you ladykiller,” she said mildly, swinging around a corner. He checked it, from instinct. Mad-Eye’s drills stuck around. “No wonder they’re all batty for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh — muggle term, I forgot — it doesn’t really mean killing—”
“Don’t care. Who’s ‘they’?”
“Nice try.”
“I’m serious.” But they had found the Transfiguration classroom, drawing the inquest to a close.
“It’s really none of my business,” she said, with perfect calm, and it bothered him.
It could’ve been. It really could’ve been, if she wanted. If she’d been irritated, or pitched a row at him, then it would’ve been better. Worse, facially, because of the rowing, but better. Because if she’d announced that she’d snogged someone, he’d be irritated out of his skin.
He didn’t want to kiss anyone else, and it would have been more assuring if they were of a mind about it.
He preferred her angry to apathetic, at any rate. At least then she was paying attention to him.
But Hermione said calmly: “Anyway. Poor Daphne. I think she was about to explode. You’re a bit terrifying when you’re mad, you know.”
“Not as terrifying as I should be, apparently.” They entered the queue for the classroom, which was a slow-moving body.
“No, you are. You get this… look, to you, and you go still. I mean very still, unnaturally so. I can’t ever tell if you do it on purpose, to scare people, but either way it makes me think you’re going to curse someone. Or smite them, or something.”
“I don’t terrify you,” he said, half a question in it.
“Mm. I’ve seen you get knocked on your arse. It kills the mystique.”
“Not all of it, surely?”
“Most of it, I’m afraid.”
“You break my heart.”
And she gave a loud, annoying sort of laugh, the kind that most people found irritating and trumpetlike, and in his opinion was well worth their discomfort or indeed almost any cost. The moment ended when they were herded into Transfiguration, which obscured the question of what she found quite so funny about it.
At the dark breach of morning in mid-September, Ron roused him with a pointed whisper: “C’mon. My dad’s here.”
Draco peeled one eye open and regarded him in the forlorn hope that he might be some sort of unusual ginger sleep demon.
When seconds passed, and neither Ron nor the irksome gleam of his Lumos went away, he rubbed his face and sighed. “He’s on the Floo?”
“No, numpty, he’s hiding in the closet.”
He dressed in the dark, forgoing his jumper and tie, bothering only to render himself marginally presentable in a dress shirt and trousers. In the autumn, Gryffindor Tower nearly froze under the constant submersion of wind off the moors, and the stone held chill like an icebox, leaving fractals of frost on the window panes, and the air helped to haul him back to consciousness. He did not esteem Arthur any better for electing to call his son at the witching hour.
Which was not to say he didn’t understand it. No other students abused themselves to rise at this hour, and not one measly first year dozed in an armchair by the fire. The common room was held hostage by Crookshanks, who had captured a piece of prime real estate on the sofa and hoarded it, purring jealously. Draco was so rarely awake at this time that he found himself newly acquainted with the Tower and its winding staircases, the faint gray glow that came from the sectioned windows, through which an indigo sunrise was setting up shop on the Forbidden Forest’s eastern crest. He announced himself to the common room with a jaw-breaking yawn, which made Crookshanks chirp fondly in greeting, and made the cat’s owner turn around where she knelt at the fire, her face half green from the flames.
Her hair was down, its contours lost in an amorphous dark shape silhouetted by flame, and one of Molly’s jumpers, with a gold HG knitted over the breast pocket. Like all of Molly’s jumpers, it anticipated several years of growth, but only some of those years had occurred, because she had rucked up the sleeves and the collar slipped down one shoulder, which was as close as she ever came to dishevelment.
Harry padded in blearily, still robed in oversized muggle sleep clothes; he was struggling to keep his glasses on his face, as unbeknownst to him, they were upside down.
Ron yawned. “Dad? You still there?”
“I’m here, Ron!”
Arthur’s face emerged from the flames, a shimmering projection of emerald and light. He beamed when his son loped into view of the fireplace and dropped down cross-legged by the hearth. Draco and Harry followed, clambering down to huddle near the fire, which had the added benefit of providing a place to warm his hands.
“Sorry about the time!” he added, and broke into a yawn. “Couldn’t get the Floo alone any other time, m’afraid. And Ron’ll tell you, it’s been wretched trouble trying to schedule this by owl, Mad-Eye’s a goblin about post—”
“Pejorative,” mumbled Hermione, and then yawned herself, nearly splitting her face open. Something soft turned around in Draco’s chest and laid down.
He folded his arms and leaned against the foot of an armchair, sulking.
“—ah, yes, you’re right, my girl, I’m sorry; Mad-Eye’s a wanker about post,” said Arthur. Harry laughed. “Won’t let me hardly send anything, and he’s not wrong, but I think one of these days Molly’s going to catch him raiding her mail-order catalogs and bite his head off. Can’t wait, too. Anyway — tell me everything! How are you? Keeping your chins up, eh, not letting them get you down? Tell me something good, why don’t you, Merlin knows I could use it — say, Harry, how’s Cho?”
Harry blushed deeply. “She’s — er — really good.”
“Really good?”
Hermione giggled, hiding her face behind her knees.
His chest did the thing again. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
“Dad!” said Ron, aghast.
“No, no, I’m sorry, we’ll let it rest. Harry, more importantly: is your scar alright?”
The ghost of Harry’s blush was exorcized by irritation. “Why does everyone want to know about my scar?” he said shortly. “First Sirius, now you? It’s fine!”
“Remus said that it had been hurting.”
“And I don’t see how it’s anyone’s business!”
“Your health is absolutely his business,” said Arthur, “and mine, for one thing. For another, if Dumbledore’s right, those pains are part of a connection with You-Know-Who, and you need to start learning to defend yourself — well, yesterday would be best, but ‘now’ is a close second.”
Hermione straightened. “You think that Voldemort—”
Ron and Draco both winced.
“—might have a way into Harry’s mind? Through the scar?”
Arthur grimaced. “That’s Dumbledore’s worry.”
“How did you figure that out? The connection?”
“No idea,” he said frankly. “Nobody knows where all our information comes from, ’cept Dumbledore, and he’s final say on who knows what. Alastor’s a close second, but even he doesn’t have all our agents’ names — nor does he want them. Likes to have as many baskets as he does eggs, Mad-Eye. Speaking of which.” He turned to Ron. “What’s this about a mole?”
“Someone knows Padfoot’s in the Order,” Hermione broke out, lowering her voice. “We’ve heard rumors about him and the Order, and someone mentioned there’s a Ministry dossier for him, which means—”
“Someone might know where the headquarters is,” said Draco.
Arthur winced.
“That’s not good,” he said. “No, not good at all. I — you’re sure?”
“Yeah. We think it’s Percy,” added Ron, with savage conviction.
“It’s not Percy.”
“No, but listen. We worked it out, right? Mum’s been writing him all year, we know that, and all she’d have to do was let it slip; he could’ve heard about Padfoot or the Order from anybody, her or Bill or Gin, hell, I think I probably said ‘Sirius’ around him once or twice—”
“Your mother,” said Arthur, “wouldn’t have told him.”
“Not on purpose, obviously,” Ron insisted, “but if she made a mistake—”
“Ron, take it from someone who’s known your mother a bit longer than you have,” said Arthur calmly. “Believe me: she didn’t.”
Ron scowled.
“It’s me,” said Harry, in a low, calm, rictus of dread.
All looked at him.
“Voldemort can get into my mind. Right? We were all ready to blame Percy, but the girl — the person Draco heard it from — she mentioned Buckbeak. Buckbeak’s not even at Grimmauld Place. Why would Molly tell Percy about him?” He raked his hand through his hair. “How would you even know that? Unless you’d seen my memories, from third year—”
“Harry, no, no!” Arthur was quick, almost panicky. “Dear boy, really! There’s no reason to believe that — none at all — even Dumbledore doesn’t think You-Know-Who can read your memories—”
“How would you know?” Harry snarled, scrambling to his feet. “How would anyone know that, except me? I can’t defend myself, you said it yourself—”
“Harry, sit down,” said Hermione, and her voice cut through Harry’s fug of anger; he looked down, blinking, like someone splashed cold water on him.
She inclined her head at him with exasperated affection.
“Say Voldemort is in your head,” she said, “which, for the record, you didn’t even believe five minutes ago — but say that he is. Say that he knows everything about the Order, absolutely everything. You think the first thing he’s going to do with all that information is go open a file at the Ministry?”
Ron guffawed in hoarse relief; Harry deflated somewhat.
She gave a little laugh. “I mean,” she said, “you think Grimmauld Place would still be standing if Voldemort knew everything you do? You think you would still be alive? This is why you’re not our strategist, Harry.”
“But — Buckbeak,” said Harry, with watery, reluctant relief. “And Remus.”
“Information that any mole could have easily, if they’d been to Grimmauld Place in the last four months,” she continued calmly, “Sirius tells that story fairly often, he’s quite proud of it. Which reminds me of another reason it can’t be you: some of that girl’s information was wrong. Sirius isn’t the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, and everyone important very well knows that, so whoever said that to the Ministry was either misinformed or lying, possibly to protect the real leader of the Order — which tells me that if they are inner-circle, it’s someone who likes Dumbledore, but doesn’t like Sirius. Either way, it’s not you, or it’s not just you, and if it is you it’s not your fault Dumbledore sent you to live in an Order safehouse knowing full well Voldemort might have a radio into your head. But I don’t think he’s stupid enough to do that, so I suspect there’s something else going on. Like a mole, for instance.”
Finishing, she smoothed her blanket over her legs like a queenly skirt.
Harry nodded jerkily, sat down.
“Well-put,” said Arthur, after a stunned pause. “It’s important information, I agree, and I’m touched that you went through all the trouble of trying to get it to us. I’ll relay it to everyone, and I’m sure Mad-Eye will figure out some sort of inquisition.” He chuckled. “Probably make his year, come to think.”
“You’re not concerned?” said Hermione skeptically.
“On the contrary, I’m very concerned.”
“Yes, but — I mean, I’m sorry, but you don’t seem it.”
Arthur softened. “I understand. But Dumbledore would tell you to think tactically. What else can we do? Padfoot is still walled up in Grimmauld, and that place could survive an air raid without losing so much as a chimney. The rest of us still have our covers intact. It’s obviously concerning that someone has eyes inside the building, but whatever information they’re leaking isn’t enough for the Ministry to act on, because if it was, they would have used it already.”
“But wouldn’t it be safer to relocate?” said Ron. “Just to be sure?”
Arthur smiled faintly. “Where do you suggest? The age of the house, and Padfoot’s claim to it, gives us access to wards that even the Burrow doesn’t have. And most of Mad-Eye’s safehouses won’t serve as a nexus for the work we’re doing. We need somewhere central, it’s essential to the operation.”
“What operation? Are you doing spy stuff?”
“The first rule of spy stuff,” said his father seriously, “is not to discuss spy stuff on the Floo. Or so I’m told.”
“It is, then! Bang-on! Can we help?”
“You can help us by passing your O.W.L.s,” Arthur said sternly. “You can help us by keeping yourselves safe, and protecting each other. How’s the new professor, Dolores…?”
“Awful,” said Hermione shortly, “really hideous, thanks for asking.”
“Mm. Yes. I suspected so. Had a few run-ins with her, over the years — she’s got a passionate hatred for muggles, that woman, I mean a vitriolic, mean-spirited attitude, not just the usual pureblood prejudice… no offense,” he added, generously, to Draco.
“None was being taken. ”
“I’m sorry I don’t have any better advice,” said Arthur. “But try to keep your head down. The more attention she pays to you — the more she’s interested in your families, your grades, your background — the more she’ll dig, and that’s when your mother and I start entering the picture. Which is a security risk. The best thing you can do for the Order is stand back and try to keep out of trouble. That goes double for you, Harry.”
“I’m doing my best,” said Harry, plaintively, “and it’s not my fault no one seems to bloody believe me when I say that.”
“They may harbor understandable doubts,” said Draco, “about the extent of ‘best.’”
“Of course you’re not,” Arthur agreed peaceably. “But Dumbledore says—” He peered over his shoulder. “Oh! Now? I’ve got Ron here — right, yes, that is what ‘now’ means. Sorry, boys— and Hermione— got to run—”
“What for?” demanded Ron. “Is it Order stuff?”
“Can’t say. Might be a grocery run, honestly. Alright. I love you all very much. And please listen to me, about lying low; if you don’t, I’m going to tell your mother.”
“Good luck with that,” said Harry smugly, causing Ron to guffaw, and Arthur wrinkled his nose at him.
“Meaning Molly, you little stink.”
“Wait,” Harry added, as Arthur turned away. “D’you think we could call Padfoot like this? If we woke up early—?”
Arthur’s smile flickered. “Well — I’ll ask, but you know — we’re trying to keep certain persons off the Floo, just now. For security. Especially since the castle Floo network is public.”
“Maybe I could go down to Hogsmeade and Floo him from a private line, if that’s better—”
“We’ll see. In the meantime—”
“—or a, a muggle payphone, there are some close to Number Twelve, he wouldn’t have to go far—”
“I’ll ask,” said Arthur firmly, in a way that ended the debate. “And at the very latest, you’ll see everyone again at Christmas. Goodbye.”
“Right,” mumbled Harry. “Christmas.”
Arthur’s head shimmered away into flames, and green warmed to feeble yellow.
A creak issued cheerfully from the foundations. The dawn-light in the windows had clustered together in long shards of white that pierced the opposite walls. It was growing warmer in the tower, and footsteps thumped in and out of earshot upstairs, like an old heart clawing back to life.
They adjourned to bathe and dress. When he came back downstairs, the common room was busier, populated with various groups trailing down to breakfast; Fred and George were urging Euan Abercrombie to eat a suspiciously pink toffee, clipboards aloft; Colin Creevey was examining a layout for the next edition of the Hogwarts Enquirer, a Sugar Quill dangling from his mouth like a cigarette; Seamus had his cassette deck out, and he was playing a new album from a group called the Smashing Pumpkins, a nasal voice, a melancholia of guitars; Dean was crooning along with his feet in Seamus’s lap while Seamus did his eyeliner in Katie’s pocket mirror: Time is never time at all…
“You know, while we’re on that thought, I was thinking about the twins said earlier,” said Hermione. “About not learning anything from Umbridge. Because everyone’s in the same boat, aren’t we? We can’t get anything from that book, and she’s scaring people out of coming to class altogether.”
“Can’t get anything from a book?” said Harry. He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Are you ill?”
“I said that book, and Defense is inescapably practical, like Potions.”
“Or Herbology,” said Neville, wandering down the stairs behind Ron. He scratched his head. “What’re we talking about?”
“Hermione wants us to do more reading,” said Ron.
“Not just ‘more reading,’” she said impatiently. “It needs to be a real practice group. Like a dueling club, actually. And Harry would lead it, naturally.”
Harry choked on air.
“Wot?”
Draco flicked his wand, and his airway cleared with a wheeze.
“You could show us everything you’ve learned through practice for the Tournament, and Draco and I could do research—”
“Intriguing, how I always end up conscripted in these things.”
“But you could also help with the practice part,” she assured him, as if his complaint had been not having enough work. “Since you’ve got experience with Dark magic—”
“Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean, ‘experience’?”
“You said your house was full of Dark artifacts!”
“That doesn’t mean I’ve used them! Your parents are dental Healers, that doesn’t mean you can — I don’t know, create teeth—”
“And Ron,” she said, breezing past any kind of credit for remembering what a ‘dentist’ was, “you could help teach, if nothing else, since you’re a natural. And I could handle the lesson planning, and such,” she said, sounding like this was a prize treat, “and we could all… work together. To help each other.”
There was a pause. Harry and Ron wore twin expressions of skeptical intrigue. Draco was made uncomfortable by the suggestion, which seemed to solicit attention and punishment, but he felt more uncomfortable raising the point.
Hermione threw up her hands.
“Or we can just all go fail alone, like she wants us to! That’s fine to me, I’m sure I’ll manage so you all can do what you like—”
“No, hang on, it’s great!”
“Seriously, it’s a good idea,” said Ron, “I’m just — thinking logistics, how we’d swing it, wouldn’t be the easiest—”
“Oh,” she said, mollified. “Well, we’d have to figure that out, of course.”
“That sounds great,” said Neville wishfully. “You guys have f-f-fun.”
The four of them looked at him. He turned back to his homework with a grave, polite expression.
“Neville,” said Ron, as if he were a bit stupid, “d’you want to join?”
“Oh, no,” he said sadly. “I mean, yes, I’d love to, but I’d only slow you down.”
“Neville Longbottom,” snapped Hermione, “you’re a person, and it’s ridiculous that students at a school like this should feel embarrassed for needing to be taught. Anyway, she’s a complete toad, I can’t believe you listened to her.”
“But she was right, I can’t — it’s not your lot’s job to make me—”
“I seem to recall tutoring you in Potions for three years,” said Draco dryly.
“That’s b-b-beside the point!”
Ron interrupted them. “Do you want to help? Is that it?” he broke in. “Because I could use a hand on my Herbology. Sprout’s reaming me this year, I’m gunning for a D.”
“W— I can do that,” Neville said, as if he was shocked. “That’s easy.”
“Not for the rest of us, tosser.”
“Sorry! I didn’t m-m-mean it like— b-but that’s p-p-perfectly straight-f-f-forward,” he said. “I know how to d-d-do it, it c-c-can’t be hard.”
Daphne’s laugh tinkled, and she sat up from the sofa. “Neville,” she said, “don’t be silly. I’m in three study groups, and I haven’t the brains of a jellyfish. We must be shameless about it, us brainless chaps, if we’re to get anywhere.”
“Thank you, Daphne, you’re welcome to join,” said Hermione. “Six is a nice round number, and it makes the work easier if we can divide it up.”
“I’m not good for a stitch of it, my dear, but I can bring snacks.”
Hermione drew breath, then hesitated. “That,” she said carefully, “would also be nice.”
Daphne beamed at her, and Hermione hesitantly smiled back.
“I want it noted,” Draco said, “that I think this is unlikely to end well.”
“You never think anything will end well,” said Harry.
“And I’ve yet to be wrong.”
“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
“As I said.”
“Prat!”
“You don’t have to help, y’know,” said Ron, buffing his fingernails, “if you’re chicken.”
“Ronald, you have in subtlety what a hippogriff has.”
“We’ll table it,” said Hermione.
“Which means you think you’ve won,” he said, mildly peeved, “and stalling will lead me to accept it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Three to one,” said Ron wisely. “You’re outvoted. Megamajority.”
“Super - majority,” said Hermione.
“Sure. Draco’s screwed, is the point.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“I’m not! This friendship isn’t a democracy!”
“You’re right. It’s a dictatorship, and Hermione’s running it,” said Harry. Hermione dimpled at him and preened.
The rill of discomfort that tripped down Draco’s spine was instinctual; it put his hairs up with the suspicion that he was undertaking more danger than he chose to acknowledge. He reminded himself that Umbridge was a professor, and that school associations were not, for the time being, against the rules; that no matter how grim the hallways turned, how bleak the silence in between classes, if there was one thing Hogwarts could not, as an institution, prohibit, it was studying the practice of magic.
But God, if it didn’t feel like danger. It frightened him that he was the only person to feel the current of danger swimming underneath them, lapping at their ankles — and worse, he felt himself being drawn after them into the water, knee-deep and freezing as the tide came in.
There were certain things that inevitably happened when you broke with power. When you stood against anything, even with people at your back, there was still something that lay ahead.
His father had learned that lesson. Too late, he’d learned it. Draco had spent a lot of long, sleepless, angry nights wondering why the lesson hadn’t stuck earlier, and it shook loose something wild and grief-stricken in him, to wonder if maybe this was the reason.
And it was such a tiny reason, really: just the feeling of watching Hermione tilt her head, smile hopefully, and silently, thoughtlessly demand of him unspeakable bravery. A silent order for the very best of himself to stand in evidence for her examination, without even any particular guarantee of approval. A call to do something bold and terrible, because she wanted it.
And so what, then. He had told her he’d follow her; he couldn’t very well renege on it now.
“Go easy.”
Confusion dimmed her smile.
“What?” she said.
She couldn’t know what he meant, of course. That wasn’t her fault. He was glad she didn’t.
A passel of laughter broke out by the fireplace, and the common room burbled with glad music. It was hardly recognizable as the same room it had been an hour ago, that cold dark chamber full of whispers and talk of spies. It wasn’t possible that the two places could exist in the same space, separated by a bare collection of minutes — nothing so insubstantial as an hour could change something that much. Because even though the hard edges of that conversation lingered in his memory, in this room, the other couldn’t exist.
-The 1995 Gryffindor prefect dynamic isn’t so much “good cop/bad cop” as “bad cop/will-literally-eat-your-face cop.” Which produces such exchanges as the above, paraphrased:
-Hermione: am I being too hard on them?
-Draco “regularly imagines corporal punishment” Malfoy: Of course not. Why do you ask?
-Credit where credit is due: Umbridge’s speech was strongly inspired by a famous remark by a very famous British politician.
-I like to imagine that Bill got his earring before he left Hogwarts, and that it did despicable things to the female Gryffindor population.
-I also like to imagine Colin Creevey running around in a little paperboy getup. There’s no reason for this. I know he’s wearing a Hogwarts uniform in every scene. But still. He gets his hands on a box of candy cigarettes and gives McGonagall a heart attack.
-Writing the Great Hall scene in chapter was a fantastic reminder of why no one should ever miss high school. Especially if your siblings went to the same school as you did.
-Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who commented. I had so much incredible encouragement, I wish I could have responded to them all. Know that I have read every one, and I wish you all a hot cup of tea brewed just how you like it, served in a beautiful teacup made of bone china. (Or coffee, for preference.)
-Next chapter: “The Miseducation of Hermione Granger.”
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