Jinx Not-So-Malfoy and the Heir of Slytherin

Chapter 13

Number 13. Uh oh. Something bad's gonna happen.

Maybe. I dunno. I haven't written it yet. :D

So apparently, Hermione put Millicent’s cat’s hair in her potion and now she’s all fuzzy.

I offered to brush her. She scratched me.

Hermione remained in the hospital wing for several weeks. There was a flurry of rumor about her disappearance when the rest of the school arrived back from their Christmas holidays, because of course everyone thought that she had been attacked. So many students filed past the hospital wing trying to catch a glimpse of her that Madam Pomfrey took out her curtains again and placed them around Hermione's bed, to spare her the shame of being seen with a furry face.

Harry and Ron went to visit her every evening. I went every break. When the new term started, we brought her each day's homework.

"If I'd sprouted whiskers, I’d take a break from work," said Ron, tipping a stack of books onto Hermione's bedside table one evening.

"Don't be silly, Ron, I've got to keep up," said Hermione briskly. Her spirits were greatly improved by the fact that all the hair had gone from her face and her eyes were turning slowly back to that gorgeous brown.

"I don't suppose you've got any new leads?" she added in a whisper, so that Madam Pomfrey couldn't hear her.

"Nothing," said Harry gloomily.

"I was so sure it was Malfoy," said Ron, for about the hundredth time.

“And who was right, again?” I asked, for about the hundredth time again just for the kick of it.

“You,” replied Ron mournfully.

"What's that?" asked Harry, pointing to something gold sticking out from under Hermione's pillow.

"Just a get well card," said Hermione hastily, trying to poke it out of sight, but Ron was too quick for her.

He pulled it out, flicked it open, and read aloud: "To Miss Granger, wishing you a speedy recovery, from your concerned teacher, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming-Smile Award."

Ron looked up at Hermione, disgusted. "You sleep with this under your pillow?"

But Hermione was spared answering by Madam Pomfrey sweeping over with her evening dose of medicine.

"Is Lockhart the smarmiest bloke you've ever met, or what?" Ron said to Harry and I as we left the infirmary and started up the stairs toward Gryffindor Tower.

Snape had given us so much homework, I thought I was likely to be in the sixth year before I finished it. Ron was just saying he wished he had asked Hermione how many rat tails you were supposed to add to a Hair-Raising Potion when an angry outburst from the floor above reached our ears.

"That's Filch," Harry muttered as we hurried up the stairs and paused, out of sight, listening hard.

"You don't think someone else's been attacked?" I asked tensely.

We stood still, our heads inclined toward Flich's voice, which sounded quite hysterical.

“... Even more work for me! Mopping all night, like I haven't got enough to do! No, this is the final straw, I'm going to Dumbledore..."

His footsteps receded along the out-of-sight corridor and we heard a distant door slam. We poked our heads around the corner. Filch had clearly been manning his usual lookout post: We were once again on the spot where Mrs. Norris had been attacked. We saw at a glance what Filch had been shouting about. A great flood of water stretched over half the corridor, and it looked as though it was still seeping from under the door of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom -- which was highly possible. Now that Filch had stopped shouting, we could hear Myrtle's wails echoing off the bathroom walls.