Chapter Seven: Mixed Messages

HERMIONE

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” Seamus Finnigan said over breakfast in the Great Hall the next morning. “Me Mam didn’t want me to come back – she put her foot down, of course, and I’ll admit I was a mite nervous myself, but I’m of age and there wasn’t a thing she could do to stop me from returning.” He took a humungous bite of pancake. “Yes, it’s certainly good to be back, ‘specially since the house-elves are still cooking enough food for the usual 300. Nowhere beats Hogwarts for eats so long as they’re around.”

For the most part, however, the students looked more nervous than elated. Neville Longbottom looked far too queasy to do any more than pick at his breakfast, and Ginny was compensating for her nerves by chattering loudly about Gryffindor’s Quidditch prospects, now that Katie Bell had left and Harry resigned.

“What classes will they even offer this year?” Vicky Frobisher asked, taking Hermione completely by surprise. She’d been so focused on getting Harry back to Hogwarts that she’d almost lost sight of what the school would be like once they got there.

“There’s no D.A.D.A. professor, or so I’ve heard,” said Demelza Robins. “Not that that should come as any surprise – they haven’t had a very good track record, have they?”

Ron and Dean Thomas laughed halfheartedly.

“First Quirrell – everyone knows what an absolute stuttering nutter he was…Lockhart – a model dental specimen and walking joke rolled into one…Lupin—”

“—well, let’s just say that didn’t work out, eh?” Ron interjected quickly.

She shot Ron a laudatory glance. Nice save, Ron.

“And ol’ Mad-Eye Moody. Never quite knew what became of him, did we?”

“Nah. Crazy old coot he was, though. I’ll never forget the way that spider croaked it, the way it just bit the dust—”

Hermione shuddered and busied herself preparing jam and toast, only to find that she had no appetite at all.

The conversation had just shifted to Umbridge when McGonagall came down the aisle, handing out schedules. Her manner was once again brisk and unflappable, her breakdown the previous evening long brushed aside.

“Your schedule, Mr. Finnigan,” she said crisply. “I laud you for returning. Believe me when I say that your mother pulled out all the stops to keep you from coming. I must have received a dozen owls from her begging me to deny you admission…

“As for you, Mr. Sloper, I realize you intended to take NEWT Potions, but after your OWL results came in, I think it would be wise to reconsider. Slughorn is a bit more lenient than Sn—than his predecessor, but even he won’t allow anyone with a ‘P’ to proceed with his class – no, I’m sorry. There will be no negotiating – take it up with Professor Slughorn himself if you must, but don’t expect a sudden change of heart.

“The same goes for you, Miss Frobisher – yes, I know you’ve had longstanding aspirations in that field – but a ‘D’ is a ‘D.’ Unfortunate, I know, but you did manage to scrape together an ‘E’ in Charms, so even for one of your modest abilities, all those extra hours in Charms Club did pay off in the end. Perhaps if you refocused on that—

“MacDonald, Natalie? Yes, here you are. Continuing with Arithmancy, I see. Professor Vector took it upon herself to let me know how well you were progressing in class.”

“And Miss Granger – I wish to extend my sincere congratulations to you on your appointment as Head Girl. I couldn’t think of a worthier candidate and I am certain you’ll do us proud. Now you very well know that it entails certain responsibilities above and beyond those expected of prefects – patrolling corridors, ensuring the sanctity of the wards protecting the school – but given your prodigious skill in all things magical, I do not see any of this as being too strenuous for you.” She handed Hermione her schedule with a rare smile .

Ron tugged the schedule out of her hands before she’d had a chance to look it over properly. “Blimey, Hermione. It’s our last year – there’s no need to take all these tough classes—”

“Mr. Weasley, kindly give Miss Granger her schedule back,” said McGonagall sharply. “Now, rumor has it, you have attained the Gryffindor team captaincy in Mr. Potter’s place. You will schedule tryouts for this weekend. Madam Hooch informed me that she is available to supervise anytime this coming weekend. The first match will be Saturday the thirteenth and mind you, have the team ready, Weasley. After last year’s triumph, I expect more of the same.”

“Yes, ma’am,” murmured Ron, his ears burning red. As McGonagall strode away, he pushed his breakfast aside, now looking a great deal queasier than Neville. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Reassure him, a voice commanded in the back of her head. A girlfriend wouldn’t just sit there, letting him fret over whether he’s good enough to lead Gryffindor to another victory or not!

“You’ll be fine, Ron,” she said, too briskly. “They’ve all seen how well you can play, when you’re on form.”

“And what about the rest of the time?” he mumbled.

Before she could think of anything remotely comforting to say, Harry – still rumpled from sleep – had arrived and wedged his way in between them to sit.

“Good morning,” Hermione said, mustering as much cheer as she could.

“’Morning.”

“Had a good night’s rest?” she asked, though she thought the dark circles under his eyes were answer enough.

He laughed dryly.

“Harry, mate! Didn’t think we’d have you back this year,” said Terry Boot, clapping Harry on the shoulder, “what with, well, everything!”

Hermione cringed. This is what you call bad timing.

“Yeah, I didn’t think I would be either,” Harry replied, trying and failing to look happy about being back at Hogwarts.

Thankfully, Boot didn’t catch on; he merely smiled and said “See you in Herbology class” to Ron and Hermione.

“I don’t think you’ll regret coming back,” Hermione said lamely, “not in the long run.”

Harry shrugged. “We’ll see, I suppose.”

“I think it was good of him to come back,” said a voice at Hermione’s shoulder – Ginny Weasley had arrived for breakfast. “Don’t you have a class to get to, Hermione?” she asked pointedly.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Hermione replied coolly.

“Yes, she does. Cheerio, darlings,” Ron said, in a sarcastically cheerful voice. “Come on,” he hissed to Hermione, who still hadn’t budged an inch. He steered her out of the Great Hall and across the grounds towards Greenhouse Seven, where the N.E.W.T. Herbology class was convening. “What’s the matter with you two? You and Ginny have always got on so well.”

“It’s nothing, Ron – nothing but petty, that is.”

“Ah, so this would go in the book about ‘mad things girls do’ that you have yet to publish? 

“Precisely.”

* * * * *

The first lesson of the year started out on a bad foot, with Professor Sprout telling off Ron and Hermione for being tardy and assigning them to partner Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass. When Ron muttered, rather too loudly, that being within ten feet of Pansy Parkinson under any circumstances constituted ‘cruel and unusual punishment,’ he was booted from the class and told not to return until he’d apologized to the nasty Slytherin girl.

We’ll never see him N.E.W.T. Herbology again, Hermione thought sadly as Professor Sprout introduced the day’s lesson.

“Panax Quinquefolium Memorius,” she said, indicating the thriving patch of leafy green plants, sporting bulging red berries, that ran the length of the greenhouse, “more commonly known as Ginseng Memorius. As you can plainly see, they are cleverly disguised as common – or, as we say, mundane – Muggle ginseng. Muggles – bless them – are on the right track with some of their little herbal remedies, but the Ministry keeps careful tabs on the true Ginseng Memorius plants. Occasionally, Muggles do stumble across the real thing, of course, which inevitably spawns a revival in the use of herbs – but never mind that.

“When ingested, Ginseng Memorius can aid in the recovery of ‘lost’ or buried memories. It is also the staple food of Scotland’s dwindling Jabberknoll population. Unfortunately, it is a very rare plant and is tricky to cultivate as well, but the Ministry of Magic has a high opinion of your skills in this subject and has entrusted us with this little colony. Miss Parkinson!

Pansy – who had been chatting animatedly with Daphne – clammed up immediately, a foul grimace arranging itself on her pug-like face.

“If you are no prepared to approach this task with utmost dedication, I must ask you to leave now,” Professor Sprout snapped. Once she was satisfied with Pansy Parkinson’s skulking silence, she instructed them to snip back the leaves of their plants.

“But why, ma’am?” Ernie Macmillan interjected.

“The leaves must be cut back six times, Mr. Macmillan,” Professor Sprout said. “Only in their seventh incarnation do they gain their curative properties.”

The class seemed satisfied with this explanation and quickly went about their task lopping off the leaves. Silver shears flashed in the sunlight that filtered down through the glass-paned ceiling. Amidst the flurry of activity, the Slytherin girls resumed their conversation.

“Have you heard from dearest Draco lately?”

Hermione’s snort of laughter at hearing Malfoy referred to as “Draco Dearest” was thankfully covered up by the hubbub of activity in the greenhouse.

Pansy sniffed melodramatically, “I thought that maybe after his father got out of Azkaban, Draco would bother to write me a letter or pay me a visit…” Sniff! “Was that too much to ask?”

“Not at all,” Daphne simpered, patting Pansy consolingly on the shoulder. “If you don’t mind my asking, where are the Malfoys? I asked my father before I left for Hogwarts, but he hadn’t heard a word. Lucius and Narcissa are old family friends, so I would think we’d know something of their whereabouts—”

Hermione leaned closer to listen.

“I – don’t – know!” Pansy was now on the verge of tears – a first for the crass Slytherin, Hermione was certain. “Ever since that terrible day in June, it’s as though Draco has just disappeared! Some say Professor Sn—”

“Ow!” Blood spurted from Hermione’s hand, spilling over the shorn ginseng leaves. She had been so intent on listening in on Pansy and Daphne’s conversation that she’d neglected to look out for herself.

“Eavesdropping, Mudblood?” Pansy spat venomously, her tears replaced by vehement anger. “One of these days, you’ll pay, Granger,” she hissed, her voice dropping as Professor Sprout bustled over.

“Longbottom, take Miss Granger to the Hospital wing, pronto! Macmillan! Brocklehurst! Do something about these plants!”

* * * * *

HARRY

Having given Ginny the slip, Harry Potter spent the morning roaming the castle. He was not quite sure what he hoped to accomplish in doing so. No sudden insights came to him as he passed the rusting suits of armor and the portraits, which whispered about him behind their painted hands. After a time, Ron joined him and the two friends walked along in silence, hands buried in their pockets and heads bowed.

“H-Harry Potter?”

He looked down to see a little wisp of a girl bobbing along in their wake, scroll of parchment in hand.

“I’m supposed to give you this,” she whispered, her face flushing brilliantly red. “The Headmistress wishes to see you straightaway.”

“Er, thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.” The little girl remained, gawping up at his scar.

“Can we help you?” Ron asked, as politely as possible.

She blushed redder still and mumbled, “Mayhabyourautograph?”

“Ah, go for it, Harry!” Ron chortled.

“If only I’d known you were into younger women,” said a dreamy voice at Harry’s elbow – Luna Lovegood had arrived, looking as wildly out-of-place as always. It was Ron’s turn to blush.

Harry hurriedly handed the girl a signed scrap of parchment and after bidding Ron and Luna farewell (something about Ron’s red ears and blissfully vacant expression told Harry that he didn’t want to linger), he set off for the Transfiguration corridor before realizing that McGonagall would most likely be set up in Dumbledore’s old office. He set off for the seventh floor corridor. For a time, Sir Cadogan sprinted alongside him, proffering his one-dimensional hand for Harry to shake, but by the time he reached the sly gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s quarters, he was alone once more.

“Sherbet lemon?” he tried. The gargoyle gazed back impassively. “Er, didn’t think so.”

He unrolled the scroll, somewhat absentmindedly, and was relieved to see the password printed there.

“Melacholia,” he said, more confidently this time. The gargoyle leapt nimbly aside and Harry ascended the slowly-spiraling staircase, coming to a halt at the griffon door.

“Headmistress?” he called, peeking through a crack in the door.

“Ah, Mr. Potter. Do come in, have a seat.” She sat regally behind the claw-footed desk.

A quick glance around told Harry that the office had changed drastically since Albus Dumbledore’s days as Headmaster. The chintz armchairs Dumbledore liked so well had been upholstered in tartan and a tin of Ginger Newts sat on the desk where a collection of lemon drops and licorice wands had once sat. The once-whirring and spinning silver instruments stood stoically in a row, now silent and still. Harry’s eyes darted along the row of portraits: a short, red-faced wizard winked at him and sidled out of his frame. Albus Dumbledore’s portrait, framed in golden gilt, was empty.

McGonagall followed Harry’s gaze. “Headmaster Dumbledore has other matters to attend to,” she said evenly, though her hands twisted together convulsively. “I would like a few words with you, Mr. Potter, before the term gets underway.”

Harry sat up stiffly, knowing what was coming. She would ask him about the last night of Albus Dumbledore’s life and about the task Dumbledore had set to him, as she had asked at the end of the previous school year. She would ask and he would tell her neither.

“There is no need to look at me like that, Potter,” McGonagall said briskly, correctly interpreting his silence. “I will not ask you again, but know that I am here, if ever you need someone to call upon. On a slightly happier note, I am pleased that you decided to return for your final year.”

“Hermione thought it would be a good idea if I did,” Harry said, somewhat clumsily.

“I quite concur, although I have heard tell that you do not intend to attend class?”

“That’s correct.”

“Yet – and it may be in your best interests to humor an old woman on this count – it would be wise to drop in on a few classes, would it not?”

He shrugged listlessly.

She observed him sternly over the frames of her square spectacles. “Two weeks from Friday, I do expect you in attendance for my lesson on partial human Transfiguration, Mr. Potter. No, that is not throwaway advice. You will be present and when other particularly worthwhile educational opportunities present themselves, I expect you to partake of those as well.” McGonagall paused, on the pretense of straightening a pile of papers on her desk, then said, in a slightly gentler voice, “Rumor has it you have relinquished the Gryffindor team captaincy?”

Harry nodded.

McGonagall studied him critically, “Severus always used to rub it in –” She stopped abruptly, looking quite wrong-footed. “Perhaps it’s for the best. There are more important things these days.”

She turned her back on him and stared out the window at the distant Quidditch Pitch.

“Is that all, Professor?”

She rummaged in the pocket of her robe and drew out a tartan handkerchief; she unfurled it and waved it before her face with a shaking hand, and Harry understood himself to be dismissed.

* * * * *

 “Are you feeling any better, Hermione?” Neville asked, sitting down beside her where she was working on her homework.

Harry looked up in concern. “Better? Why shouldn’t she be feeling just fine? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Hermione said, carefully tucking her bandaged hand back into the sleeve of her robes.

“That’s nothing?” Harry demanded. “Judging by all those bandages, your arm could be off!”

“It’s just a scratch. I just made a stupid mistake.” **

“She was bleeding pretty badly,” Neville said honestly; Hermione shot him a sharp look. “It’s the truth!” he replied defensively. “I took her to see Madam Pomfrey, but—” He gestured helplessly at Hermione’s heavy bandages.

“Kiss it and make it feel all better, Potter!” a randy fifth year jeered. Harry’s ears reddened; Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You should take better care of yourself,” he said shortly, looking away. “So, how was class?”

“Apart from the flesh wound, you mean?” Hermione asked, her brown eyes now sparkling with laughter.

“Yes, passing over that.”

“Not bad. We’re tending to Ginseng Memorius plants, which are a bit – well—boring,” Hermione said, just as Neville dubbed them “fascinating.”

“They’re dead useful when it comes to retrieving memories though,” she finished.

“Yeah, if only they improved memory in general,” Neville said glumly. “I forgot to jump the trick step again today. Had to wait for Professor Sinistra to come along to pull me out. That seems to be my First Day Back tradition...”

* * * * *

HERMIONE

The second day of classes brought N.E.W.T. Transfiguration with McGonagall and Potions with Slughorn. The Angel’s Trumpet Draught they were supposed to be preparing kept scorching holes in the bottom of their cauldrons and Ron and Anthony Goldstein ended up as the second and third Seventh years to visit the Hospital Wing for treatment after Lisa Turpin’s cauldron exploded and splattered them from head to toe in the toxic potion. So it was that Hermione spent the evening at Ron’s bedside, smearing paste over his burns and reading to him from Harry’s copy of Quidditch Through the Ages because he had adamantly refused to have anything schoolwork-related foisted upon him while he was recuperating.

On Thursday, just as Hermione was beginning to wonder if the week could possibly get any worse, Professor McGonagall announced that, as no suitable Defense Against the Dark Arts professor could be found, the class would be canceled until further notice.

“What are they playing at?” Seamus yelped.

“That’s an outrage,” Ron muttered darkly. He’d been removed from the Hospital the day before, but was still taking it easy, propped up with pillows in his favorite armchair beside the Gryffindor fire. “Just when we needed the class most…”

“Even Snape was better than having no DADA professor at all!” Neville said morosely.

“Harry,” Parvati said reasonably, “you don’t think it’d be plausible to reform the D. A., do you? I’ve never learned as much defensive magic before or since.”

“I’m not sure I can wing it,” Harry said, looking startled by Parvati’s request. “I just don’t have that kind of time anymore.”

Hermione found herself thinking against her will, he may not have much time here with us at all…

“You don’t look too busy, mate! I mean, what’s this you’ve got?” Seamus snatched the book out of Harry’s hands. “See this, Self-Defensive Spellwork! This could be the D. A. material right here!”

“No, I don’t think you understand—” Harry was growing restive.

“Harry, if you could just—”

“I can’t!”

“You’re not the only one fighting this war, Harry,” Parvati reminded him, while Lavender gazed hopefully at Ron from behind her best friend’s back, unfazed by the serious discussion at hand. 

“Look, if I could do it, I would!” Harry said loudly, his voice rising over the other Gryffindors’ protests. It seemed that half the Common room had risen up to join the debate. For a moment, he stood before them, agitated and on edge, and Hermione saw how they all looked up to him as their leader, certain that he’d come through for them yet again. The next, he had strode across the room and disappeared into the shadowy stairwell, leaving the Gryffindors stunned into a self-righteous silence.  

**It’s just a flesh wound! (Sorry, I’ve always got Monty Python on the brain.)

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