⚡︎
┄┄ .•* 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟔 *•. ┄┄
𝒅𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒘
────── *•. ⚡︎ .•*──────
That morning Hermione wasn't in the best mood, which is weird for her. This had to do with the fact that she had to deal with teen drama as soon as she woke up, and, without any sugar in her blood, she just didn't have the energy. Seamus was ignoring her due to a row he had with Harry. Hence, by association, Hermione was a "nutter" too. Though he didn't say it specifically—which might've been because he was ignoring her, and that implies not talking. Dean had looked apologetic and talked with the curly-haired witch for a bit before following his boyfriend—which Hermione thought was totally understandable.
Hermione tried her best to brush it off as if she didn't care, but the weather outside wasn't helping. As Hermione, Ron, and Harry walked into the Great Hall they could see the enchanted ceiling above them with a miserable gray rain cloud; which, all in all, reflected their mood.
It was after an encounter with a frantic and energetic Angeline Johnson about the Quidditch team—one conversation that Hermione decided to stay out of and say hello to the tall girl later—that a whoosh and clatter were heard. Hundreds of owls came soaring in through the upper windows. They descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of water; it was clearly raining hard outside. A grey owl came soaring in through the Hall and dropped a letter on Hermione's eggs.
Hermione thanked the owl and picked up the letter, noting it didn't have anything written on the outside. She looked at the boys who had their brows furrowed and shrugged. Hermione opened the envelope and instantly recognized her father's handwriting.
Dear Mia,
I got the letter. I truly wasn't expecting it, and to say I'm overwhelmed it's the understatement of the year. In fact, I never expected to hear from your mother since. . . . Well, you know. It's surreal, I tell you.
Anyway, I'm still not even close to finishing reading it. I'm on the fifth page or so out of the dozens (I didn't really count) of pages—all written with minuscule writing! How Nini can go on and on for that long, I'll never know. But it does feel like a breeze of fresh air in this dingy old, filthy, and disgusting place.
It's helping me a lot but I guess you were hoping it would—see? I can be smart sometimes. Your mother mostly talked about you in the first pages—not that I know anything past page 5. And if she didn't tell you yet—which I doubt—we both love you so much and are so proud of you, Mia. Nini also mentioned something about missing me so I guess that's good. . . .
Anyway write to me soon—Harry too.
Love,
Dad
P.S.: Are you coming here for X-mas or staying at the Grangers? Or Hogwarts? Also, ask Harry.
P.P.S.: Tell Harry to keep his head high and make Prongs proud of his prancing!
"Who's it from?" Harry asked from his place opposite Hermione. Hermione smiled at the two boys as she pocketed the letter—it didn't have anything bad if anyone outside of them read it; but if Ron or Harry or whoever knew her true identity did read it, they would be mucked in the brain trying to work out, how on Earth, Annora Hale (deceased) sent a letter to Sirius.
"Snuffles," Hermione beamed and the two of them smiled, "He just wanted to know where we're going for Christmas, Harold."
"I dunno. . . ." Harry shrugged.
"Oh and he says to keep your head high and make Prongs proud of your prancing," said Hermione with a grin, and both Harry and Ron snorted. "He probably guessed you'd be sulking and being affected by the death glares."
"How are you not affected? You're mental by association, too," asked Harry, trying to sulk but the message from his Godfather was really effective so he couldn't help but let his lips twitch.
"Like this," said Hermione, dramatically shrugging her shoulders, and Ron choked on his juice—which made Harry laugh as he clapped his back.
Hermione looked around and spotted Professor McGonagall moving along the table handing out schedules. A grin grew on her face and she stood up and ran to hug the old Professor.
"MINIE!" Hermione exclaimed only to remember something and pulling away. "No—I can't do this—You! You betrayed me!" she said dramatically.
"Whatever are you on about, Miss—Granger?"
"Did you or did you not make me a prefect?" Hermione tested, and the older woman pursed her lips and rolled her eyes.
"Honestly," she mumbled and handed three schedules to Hermione as she swept away.
Hermione laughed as she sat down again and handed each schedule to its proper owner.
"Look at today!" groaned Ron. "History of Magic, double Potions, Divination, and double Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . Binns, Snape, Trelawney, and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred and George'd hurry up and get those Skiving Snackboxes sorted. . . ."
"Do mine ears deceive me?" said Fred, arriving with George, and squeezing onto the bench beside Hermione—which made her lips twitch—, George by his side. "Hogwarts prefects surely don't wish to skive off lessons?"
"Look what we've got today," said Ron grumpily, shoving his schedule under Fred's nose. "That's the worst Monday I've ever seen."
"Fair point, little bro," said Fred, scanning the column. "You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat cheap if you like."
"Why's it cheap?" said Ron suspiciously.
"Because you'll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, we haven't got an antidote yet," said George, helping himself to a kipper.
"I'll take it!" Hermione said, looking up at Fred with pleading eyes.
"No can do, Granger," he tsked, "They're still not ready."
"WhaAat? You were gonna give it to Ron!"
"He's our brother, Mimi," said George looking between Hermione and Fred suspiciously. "Do you want it?" he asked Ron.
"No," said Ron moodily, pocketing his schedule, "I think I'll take the lessons."
"But you will get me some later on, right?" Hermione asked the twins.
"Of course," said Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet. "You're starting your fifth year, you'll be in need of a Snackbox before long."
"Why?" asked Harry.
"Fifth year's O.W.L. year," said George.
"So?"
"So you've got your exams coming up, haven't you? They'll be keeping your noses so hard to that grindstone they'll be rubbed raw," said Fred with satisfaction.
"Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to O.W.L.s," said George happily. "Tears and tantrums . . . Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint. . . ."
"Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d'you remember?" said Fred reminiscently.
"That's 'cause you put Bulbadox Powder in his pajamas," said George.
"Oh yeah," said Fred, grinning. "I'd forgotten. . . . Hard to keep track sometimes, isn't it?"
"Anyway, it's a nightmare of a year, the fifth," said George. "If you care about exam results anyway. Fred and I managed to keep our spirits up somehow."
"Yeah . . . you got, what was it, three O.W.L.s each?" said Ron.
"Yep," said Fred unconcernedly. "But we feel our futures lie outside the world of academic achievement."
"We seriously debated whether we were going to bother coming back for our seventh year," said George brightly, "now that we've got—" He broke off at a warning look from Harry. "—now that we've got our O.W.L.s," George said hastily. "I mean, do we really need N.E.W.T.s? But we didn't think Mum could take us leaving school early, not on top of Percy turning out to be the world's biggest prat."
"We're not going to waste our last year here, though," said Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great Hall. "We're going to use it to do a bit of market research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts student requires from his joke shop, carefully evaluate the results of our research, and then produce the products to fit the demand."
"Huh, you're actually smart," said Hermione with a smirk, impressed. Fred and George promptly rolled their eyes, but the former pinched her leg, making Hermione gasp slightly while Fred grew a slight grin on his face.
"What's wrong, Mia?" Harry frowned, looking at her.
Hermione subtly elbowed Fred in the ribs and put on an innocent smile. "Nothing. I just remembered that really cute sixth-year who wanted to ask me out."
"You did, did you?" Fred asked with pursed lips and Hermione nodded, her lips twitching up when she felt him squeeze her hand from under the table.
"But I said no," Hermione said promptly. "I've got my eyes on a cuter seventh year."
"Okay. . . .?" Ron frowned, not sure about what just happened.
"C'mon, George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a few Extendable Ears before Herbology," Fred said with a broad grin.
Fred and George stood up and began walking away, each carrying a stack of toast.
"You know, I've been wondering about that," said Ron, his brow furrowed. "They bought me a new set of dress robes this summer, and I couldn't understand where they got the Galleons. . . ."
"D'you reckon it's true this year's going to be really tough? Because of the exams?" said Harry steering the conversation away making Hermione roll her eyes.
"Oh yeah," said Ron. "Bound to be, isn't it? O.W.L.s are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for and everything. We get career advice too, later this year, Bill told me. So you can choose what N.E.W.T.s you want to do next year."
"D'you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?" Harry asked the other two, as they left the Great Hall shortly afterward and set off toward their History of Magic classroom.
"Not really," said Ron slowly. "Except . . . well . . ." He looked slightly sheepish.
"What?" Harry urged him.
"Well, it'd be cool to be an Auror," said Ron in an offhand voice.
"Yeah, it would," said Harry fervently.
"But they're, like, the elite," said Ron. "You've got to be really good. What about you, Hermione?"
"I dunno. . . . I could do something in muggle world or go to Romania and take care of dragons, though I'm kind of lazy—"
"Kind of?" both of them snorted and Hermione glared at them.
"—I dunno. Maybe I'll just—Uh—won't work, or create a secret society that will take down the Ministry, something cool."
"An Auror's cool!" said Harry.
"Duh, but it's a lot of work," said Hermione thoughtfully. "Besides it's more your thing. . ."
When she entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that afternoon—after a pretty interesting Ancient Runes class with Blaise and Daphne—, she found Professor Umbitch already seated at the teacher's desk, fluffy pink cardigan on display, and a black velvet bow perched on top of her head. Hermione had to remind herself not to hurl and went to sit down next to Harry.
The class was silent as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew yet how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.
"Well, good afternoon!" she said when finally the whole class had sat down.
A few people mumbled "Good afternoon," in reply.
"Tut, tut," said Professor Umbridge. "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.' One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"
"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted back at her, Hermione keeping her mouth shut.
"There, now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."
Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order "wands away" had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Hermione put her wand in her boot and hastily grabbed the book, putting it on the table along with a pen and a notebook. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:
Defense Against the Dark Arts A Return to Basic Principles.
"Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "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 again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:
Course aims:
1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.
2. Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.
3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.
For a couple of minutes, the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. Hermione picked up her pen and promptly wrote Bullshit on top of the paper—Harry silently laughed beside her. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three-course aims she said, "Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.
"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' or 'No, Professor Umbridge.' So, has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"
"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.
"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, 'Basics for Beginners.' There will be no need to talk."
Hermione did not open her textbook. Instead, she tried really hard to remember what the original Hermione had said, and once she was pretty sure she knew the course of the conversation she raised her hand. Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all with those pouchy toad's eyes.
Hermione's arm was starting to ache but she still stood resolutely staring (or glaring) at the toad, waiting for an acknowledgment. After several more minutes had passed, however, Hermione had gained an audience. The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye than to struggle on with "Basics for Beginners."
When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer.
"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her.
"No," said Hermione.
"Well, we're reading just now," said Professor Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. "If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class."
"It's about the course aims," said Hermione. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows.
"And your name is—?"
"Hermione Granger," said Hermione.
"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully," said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.
"Well, I don't," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing about using the spells."
There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three-course aims still written on the blackboard.
"Using defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"
"We're not going to use magic?" Ron ejaculated loudly.
"Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.—?"
"Weasley," said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air.
Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione.
"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"
"Duh," said Hermione. "Isn't the whole point of DADA to teach us to defend ourselves?"
"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.
"No, but neither are you," Hermione stated bluntly and Umbridge gave her a tiny strained smile.
"What, Miss Granger?"
"I said neither are you, Professor. Aren't you working for Fudge—"
"—The Minister, Miss Granger."
"How do you qualify, if your job is to sit behind a desk watching over papers?" Hermione asked and the class went quiet.
"I am much more experienced and older than you, Miss Granger. I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the 'whole point,' of any class is, either. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"
"What use is that?" said Harry loudly. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a—"
"Hand, Mr. Potter!" sang Professor Umbridge.
Harry thrust his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him again, but now several other people had their hands up too.
"And your name is?" Professor Umbridge said to Dean.
"Dean Thomas."
"Well, Mr. Thomas?"
"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Dean. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free—"
"I repeat," said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"
"Yes," said Hermione bluntly and Umbridge turned to her with an over sweetly face.
"Hand, Miss Granger." Hermione gave her a sarcastic smile and put her hand up. Umbridge ignored her.
"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," she said, an unconvincing smile stretching her wide mouth, "but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention," she gave a nasty little laugh, "extremely dangerous half-breeds."
"If you mean Professor Lupin," piped up Dean Thomas angrily, "he was the best we ever—"
"Hand, Mr. Thomas! As I was saying—you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group, and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—"
"No, we haven't," Hermione said, "There's a war coming—"
"Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!"
Hermione put up her hand again; Professor Umbridge turned away from her.
"It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you—"
"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" said Dean Thomas hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads —"
"Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!" trilled Professor Umbridge.
"Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?" she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up.
"Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the countercurses and things?"
"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," said Professor Umbridge dismissively.
"Without ever practicing them before?" said Parvati incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?"
"I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—"
"And what good's theory going to be in the real world?" said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again.
Professor Umbridge looked up.
"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world," she said softly.
"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"
"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."
"Oh yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point.
"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.
"Hmm, let's think . . ." said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice, "maybe Lord Voldemort?"
Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter."
"What a load of bullshit!" Hermione exclaimed making Umbridge turn to her.
"Ten points from Gryffindor for use of foul language, Miss Granger."
The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry or waiting for Hermione to butt in. "Now, let me make a few things quite plain."
Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.
"You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"
"He wasn't dead," said Harry angrily, "but yeah, he's returned!"
"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not- make-matters-worse-for-yourself," said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark Wizard is at large once again. This is a lie."
"It is NOT a lie!" said Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"
"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat this is a lie. The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means, come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, 'Basics for Beginners.' "
Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk again. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated.
"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped unconscious of his own accord, did he? Or Barty Crouch Sr. was kidnapped for no reason? Along with the real Moody?" Harry asked, his voice shaking.
"That was the job of a lunatic," she said coldly.
"Yes, Voldemort," said Harry. He could feel himself shaking. "Voldemort came back, and you know it."
Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment Hermione thought Umbridge was going to scream at him. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear."
He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk.
Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him.
He took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, and slamming the classroom door shut behind him.
"Anyone else has anything to say?" She asked overly sweetly.
"Actually —" Hermione was about to say something but felt Ron kicking her chair from his place behind her, prompting her to shut up.
"Miss Granger, what is that you're wearing?" Umbridge asked her attention focusing on Hermione's leather jacket after Hermione had yelped.
"Clothes."
"That jacket is not part of the uniform, Miss Granger," said Umbridge with a sly disgusting smile, and Hermione could feel everyone's gaze on her.
"Well, you'll have to excuse me but that outfit shouldn't even be part of this world," Hermione said in the same sickly sweet tone. Umbridge gave a strained giggle and went over to her desk. Like Harry, she wrote a note for Hermione and then handed it to her.
"Take this to Professor McGonagall, Miss Granger," said Umbridge glaring at her but still a smile on her face. Hermione returned it sarcastically and stood up. Before she could open the door however Umbridge said, "And should I see you wearing that jacket again, there will be a bigger punishment."
Hermione gave her a sarcastic smile and rolled her eyes as she started to walk through the corridors. She shoved the note for McGonagall in her pocket and started to make her way to the latter's office. Hermione opened the door to McGonagall's office and the two figures inside went silent and looked at her. Harry was biting down a grin at seeing Hermione beaming in the door and Minnie looked as if she was fighting an incoming migraine.
"Second time," she muttered as Hermione took a chair beside Harry, "Second time with a Potter and a Black," she sighed rubbing her forehead and Harry and Hermione couldn't help but burst out laughing along with James Potter who was watching the whole scene unfold. "Why is it you're here, Miss Granger?"
"Well, Professor Toad sent you this note." Hermione smiled, giving the note to Minnie, and noting how she ignored the name she called the pink blotch.
"Well?" said Professor McGonagall, rounding on her. "Is this true?"
"Which bit?" Hermione asked, trying to peer at the note over the table as she bit down her smile.
"Is it true that you—like Mr. Potter—shouted at Umbridge?"
"Uh-huh."
"You used foul language?"
"Well justified, but yes."
"You told her, her outfit was a monstrosity?"
"You said that?" Harry laughed—his mood lighting up—as he looked at Hermione, who smiled sheepishly.
"Those weren't my exact words but yes. She criticized my leather jacket!"
Then Professor McGonagall said, "Have a biscuit, Black."
"Yay!" Hermione cheered and took a biscuit from the tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk.
"Like I was saying to Mr. Potter, you must be careful around Dolores Umbridge." Professor McGonagall looking very serious. "It says here she's given you detention every evening this week, starting tomorrow, Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said, looking down at Umbridge's note again and moved her gaze to Hermione's. "For you Miss Granger, two detentions."
"What?"
"Every evening this week!" Harry repeated, horrified. "But, Professor, couldn't you—?"
"No, I couldn't," said Professor McGonagall flatly.
"But—"
"She is your teacher and has every right to give you detention. You will both go to her room at five o'clock tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: Tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge."
"But I was telling the truth!" said Harry, outraged. "Voldemort's back, you know he is, Professor Dumbledore knows he is—"
"For heaven's sake, Potter!" said Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort's name). "Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It's about keeping your head down and your temper under control!"
She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and he stood too. "Have another biscuit," she said irritably, thrusting the tin at him.
"No, thanks," said Harry coldly.
"Harry don't be a prat!" Hermione snapped at him and McGonagall's lips twitched.
He took one.
"Thanks," he said grudgingly.
"Didn't you listen to Dolores Umbridge's speech at the start-of-term feast, Potter?"
"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah . . . she said . . . progress will be prohibited or . . . well, it meant that . . . that the Ministry of Magic is fuc—I mean—messing with Hogwarts," Harry corrected himself as he was about to repeat what Hermione had said and she almost laughed.
Professor McGonagall eyed him for a moment, then sniffed, walked around her desk, and held open the door for him.
"Well, I'm glad you listen to Miss Granger," she said, pointing him out of her office. She then came to her desk again and eyed Hermione seriously.
"In my defense, my brain can't process the difference between a pink blotch and a human," Hermione said sheepishly and Minnie rolled her eyes.
"Miss Black," began Professor McGonagall, and Hermione knew that by the name used there was a speech coming, "I know it is hard and it's probably genetic—"
"—Thanks Minnie," both Annora and Reggie scoffed from behind her.
"—But you need to get your head in the game. You, of all people, know how dangerous this world is becoming, and I know you like to. . . . fool around and not take things seriously. This is a good thing, Miss Black" McGonagall said when Hermione opened her mouth to protest, "But you should learn when to speak your mind, or rather, not speak your mind, in this case, and be more responsible."
"With all due respect Minnie, I am responsible when it comes to serious matters," said Hermione seriously with a nod. "I may not act like it, but I am. And when I need to, I can be serious. But in all honesty, sometimes it's better to act aloof. People don't expect so much of you, then."
"I'm merely warning you, Miss Granger," McGonagall said standing up and going to the door, "From the years I've known you—though, insufferable at times—I know you have a good heart and know what you're doing. You're very much like your mother and father in that aspect." The teacher smiled tightly and opened the door. Hermione beamed up at her, glancing sideways at her mother who was smiling proudly, and stood up.
"Thank you, Minnie," said Hermione before hurrying off.
That night, after dinner, Hermione was up in her room before anyone could say anything. She picked up her things and sat on her bed doing homework before sleeping. For the first time ever, Hermione was doing homework sooner than it was due, all because of detention with the pink toad.
She was in the middle of her Potions assignment when she felt the bed dip and she looked up to see Marlene grinning at her. Though she had met and talked with the older woman multiple times before, Hermione never spent that much time alone with her.
"Hey," she said off-handily as she finished the sentence she was writing, and then looked up at the blonde. "What's up?"
"Eh—I was bored," Marlene said shrugging, and Hermione laughed. "What are you doing?"
"Writing my will," said Hermione without skipping a beat, leading Marlene to start laughing. The rest of the evening they made small talk as Hermione finished her assignments and Marlene went away when Hermione started yawning. She quickly put on her pajamas and got into bed as Parvati and Lavender came into the room.
The following day dawned just as leaden and rainy—but still no lightning storm!—as the previous one. Double Charms was succeeded by double Transfiguration. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall both spent the first fifteen minutes of their lessons lecturing the class on the importance of O.W.L.s.
"What you must remember," said little Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books so that he could see over the top of his desk, "is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come! If you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I'm afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!"
They then spent more than an hour reviewing Summoning Charms, which according to Professor Flitwick were bound to come up in their O.W.L., and he rounded off the lesson by setting them their largest amount of Charms homework ever.
It was the same, if not worse, in Transfiguration.
"You cannot pass an O.W.L.," said Professor McGonagall grimly, "without serious application, practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve an O.W.L. in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work." Neville made a sad little disbelieving noise.
"Yes, you too, Longbottom," said Professor McGonagall. "There's nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So . . . today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which you would not usually attempt until N.E.W.T. level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your O.W.L."
Vanishing spells weren't all that difficult. At least Hermione thought so. She had managed to make Bob—her snail—vanish by the second trial, which she was extremely proud of—Minnie apparently was too, seeing as she gave her twenty-points bonus for Gryffindor. Thankfully she wasn't given any homework—special privileges because McGonagall loves her—which was good since she did not want to work that day—hence why she finished her homework the previous day.
Hermione spent her lunchtime with the Slytherins since Seamus—and Dean by association—was ignoring her and Harry and Ron had to go on a homework spree in the library. While Theo and Blaise smoked in their spot, Daphne and Hermione started listing off reasons why they shouldn't, then proceeding to talk about their funerals once they died of lung cancer—though Hermione had to explain what it was at first. The two boys watched in amusement as Daphne and Hermione were arguing over which music to play at their funerals, while they were being lowered into their graves—in reality, both girls didn't care much that the boys smoked, but teasing them was entertaining. Daphne was saying something about some Walberk chick and her music, and Hermione was horrified by the names she heard, hence why she finally conceded giving away her ideas for her own funeral. Suggesting the music My Way (Frank Sinatra). Now you may think this conversation is dark but. . . . well, it is, but it's also a joke Hermione can only make with her Slytherin friends since the Gryffindors don't really want to talk about their future funerals. . . .
After lunch was over the four of them headed to Care of Magical Creatures and after a really interesting class with bowtruckles and drawings, Hermione joined Ron and Harry and the three made their way to Herbology.
Hermione and Harry both had detention after dinner (at five o'clock) so when the class was over both of them headed straight for dinner without dropping off their bags in the Gryffindor Tower.
They had barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, however, when a loud and angry voice said, "Oi, Potter!"
"What now?" he muttered wearily, causing Hermione to whack him in the head, as they turned to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper.
"I'll tell you what now," she said, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. "How come you've landed yourself in detention for five o'clock on Friday?"
"What?" said Harry. "Why . . . oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!"
"Now he remembers!" snarled Angelina. "Didn't I tell you I wanted to do a tryout with the whole team, and find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn't I tell you I'd booked the Quidditch pitch especially? And now you've decided you're not going to be there!"
"I didn't decide not to be there!" said Harry, stung by the injustice of these words. "I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth about You-Know-Who—"
"Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off on Friday," said Angelina fiercely, "and I don't care how you do it, tell her You-Know-Who's a figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure you're there!"
She stormed away and Hermione laughed so hard she had to hold onto Ron who had just caught up with them.
"You know what?" Harry said to Ron and Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. "I think we'd better check with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood's been killed during a training session because she seems to be channeling his spirit."
"I told you she'd be worse than him. . . ." Hermione snickered making Harry glare at her.
"What d'you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting you off on Friday?" said Ron skeptically, as they sat down at the Gryffindor table.
"Less than zero," said Harry glumly, tipping lamb chops onto his plate and starting to eat.
"Better try, though, hadn't I? I'll offer to do two more detentions or something, I dunno. . . ." He swallowed a mouthful of potato and added, "I hope she doesn't keep me too long this evening. You realize we've got to write three essays, practice Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, work out a countercharm for Flitwick, finish the bowtruckle drawing, and start that stupid dream diary for Trelawney?"
Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the ceiling.
"And it looks like it's going to rain."
"And no fucking lightning storm," huffed Hermione, causing them to groan in realization.
At five to five Harry and Hermione bade Ron goodbye and set off for Umbridge's office on the third floor. When Harry knocked on the door she said, "Come in," in a sugary voice. Both of them exchanged revolted glances before they entered cautiously, looking around.
Hermione's first reflex when she entered the horrid office was to throw up in the pink pot next to her, but she had to throw that urge aside.
The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, each residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. Hermione was so disgusted by her environment she almost didn't see the toad. Almost.
"Good evening, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger."
They both snapped their heads to her.
"Evening," Harry and Hermione said stiffly.
"Well, sit down," she said, pointing toward two small tables draped in lace beside which she had drawn up two straight-backed chairs. A piece of blank parchment lay on each table, and Hermione couldn't help to gulp down and unconsciously grab her hand—thankfully Umbridge didn't seem to notice.
"Er," said Harry, without moving. "Professor Umbridge? Er—before we start, I-I wanted to ask you a . . . a favor."
Her bulging eyes narrowed.
"Oh yes?"
"Well, I'm . . . I'm on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o'clock on Friday and I was—was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it—do it another night . . . instead . . ."
"Oh no," said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. "Oh no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one's convenience. No, you will come here at five o'clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it is rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you."
Hermione had already taken her seat on a table and watched as Harry slumped down on his chair.
"There," said Umbridge sweetly, "we're getting better at controlling our temper already, aren't we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Miss Granger and Mr. Potter. No, not with your quill," she added, as Harry bent down to open his bag. Hermione didn't even reach for it, she was waiting for the blasted torturing quill to be handed to her. "You're going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are."
She handed them a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point.
"I want you to write 'I must not tell lies,' " she told Harry softly. "And you Miss Granger, I want you to write, 'A lady must dress and act properly,'." Hermione gritted her teeth together, her fist clenching under the table.
"How many times?" Harry asked, with a creditable imitation of politeness.
"Oh, as long as it takes for the message to sink in," said Umbridge sweetly. "Off you go."
She moved over to her desk, sat down, and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking. Hermione grabbed her quill—which was really weird as she wasn't used to using one, and was about to start writing when Harry talked.
"You haven't given me any ink," he said.
"Oh, you won't need ink," said Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.
Hermione placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote: A lady must dress and act properly. She felt the words cut into the skin on the back of her hand but she was doing the best she could, not to let Umbridge get a reaction out of her. She wouldn't give Umbitch the satisfaction.
The skin healed over and over again as she continued to write. After a few lines, Hermione felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find Annora glaring at the toad, while James and Lily did the same over Harry. They were shouting profanities at her and that was what Hermione decided to focus on instead of the pain.
It seemed to work. She would grab the quill hardly, writing the dreaded phrase as she heard James going on a full speech about how he wanted to kill the woman with a spoon, and that seemed to be more entertaining than her aching hand. Her mother's hold on her shoulder also helped.
Darkness fell outside Umbridge's window. Neither Hermione nor Harry asked when they would be allowed to stop.
"Come here both of you," she said, after what seemed hours.
Hermione stood up along with Harry and one by one they extended their hands to the pink blotch. The frog looked over both their hands and shook her head.
"Tut, tut, I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet," she said, smiling. "Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? You may go."
They left the office without a word and walked silently for a while. The school was quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. They walked slowly up a corridor and when Umbridge could not hear them Harry turned to Hermione.
"You knew! How could you know and still get yourself in detention?!" he asked horrified.
Hermione shrugged numbly, "You know I can't keep my mouth shut, Prongslet. Go ahead I'm gonna go to the bathroom, I'll see you tomorrow."
Harry seemed to be about to protest as he opened his mouth, but eventually, he shut it close and nodded as he walked fast towards the Gryffindor Tower.
Hermione did as she said she would and walked through the corridors until she reached the girls' bathroom. She approached the sink and finally took a look at her head. There were red lines, visible enough to read the words she had written, and besides the dried blood in her hand from the droplets that fell as she wrote, there was still some blood threatening to pour out. Hermione must've written harder than she should, as she focused on anything other than the pain, causing the phrase to be more prominent on the back of her hand. Hermione cleaned her hand and put pressure on the wound until it stopped bleeding, finally making her way back to the common room.
After mumbling the password to the Fat Lady, Hermione walked through the portrait hole and was about to go up the stairs when she felt her wounded hand being grabbed causing her to wince and tear it away.
"What's wrong?" Hermione looked up to see Fred peering down at her, worry all over his face. "I called you three times."
"You did?" Hermione asked confused as she tried to understand how he had gotten a phone.
"Just now. Didn't you hear?"
"No, sorry—What are you doing up, anyway?" Hermione asked trying to sound casual.
"I was waiting—What's that?" Hermione was about to run a hand through her hair when she felt it being snatched, and, in moments, Fred was examining it. His jaw clenched and his brows furrowed and he looked at Hermione again. "Who did that?"
"No one. It's not important," mumbled Hermione trying to tear her hand from his hold, only for Fred to tighten his grip—careful not to touch the wound.
"Not important? Someone fucking wrote on your skin, Mia," said Fred hotly. "Wait—Was this Umbridge?"
"Not exactly," said Hermione biting her lip, "It was a quill she gave me and Harry to write lines. . . ."
"That's illegal!"
"I know. . . . I'll deal with it later."
Fred narrowed his eyes at Hermione, and, after a moment, reluctantly nodded as he took a seat on the couch next to them and pulled Hermione along with him on his lap. "How come you got detention?" he mumbled in the crook of her neck.
"I can't keep my mouth shut and use a leather jacket," Hermione shrugged as she leaned back, watching as Fred took her injured hand and traced the skin around the wound.
"You know this is rubbish, right?" he asked after a while and Hermione nodded.
"Yeah, I know. . . ."
"If Umbridge thinks she's a proper lady then society is ruined," Fred snorted and Hermione laughed slightly.
The next morning Hermione woke up and opened her eyes to find herself cuddled with Fred on the scarlet couch they fell asleep in the night before. The common room was empty, except for a couple of Second Year girls who were giggling at them—the reason Hermione woke up.
"Morning. . . ." Fred mumbled as he opened one eye to look at her with a smile, pulling her closer to him.
"Morning," Hermione said as she felt her cheeks burn slightly. "Come on, we need to go before people wake up."
"Nooo. . . ." Fred whined as he grabbed her waist when she tried to leave and pulled her closer making Hermione squeal.
"We have to, Freddie," Hermione laughed, "Come on, I'm starving!"
"Fine. . . ."
Hermione and Fred stood up from the couch and she giggled as he pulled her towards him and pecked her lips before letting her go up to the dorms. Hermione got dressed in another set of her uniform and wrapped a bandage around her hand, having in mind to start telling people she fought a crocodile (as a joke, of course).
The detention that day was not so bad. Hermione was more careful with the strength she put on the quill and was writing with the looser grip she could. Tonight's show was Evan and Regulus having a discussion on how the pink blotch was not human:
"But have you seen her mouth?"
"Uh-huh, it stretches until her ears!"
"She looks like one of those—"
"Don't say anything else! You'll insult whatever creature you're naming!"
While James and Marlene went on and on with speeches on how to kill her:
"Look an Avada Kedrava would work—"
"—yes but it's too painless, I would know!"
"Then what do you suggest? Drowning?"
"Marls! She's a toad she'll survive underwater!"
"Slicing her?"
"See? Now you're thinking!"
And Lily and Annora gripping their children's shoulders—though Harry couldn't feel anything nor see.
That night Fred was waiting for her again, but as she walked in with Harry, they had to wait for him to go up. Once he did, Fred only sat her in his lap again and they talked as he rubbed circles around the wound, subduing the pain.
Then came Keeper tryouts and a party for Ron who was able to get on the team. Unfortunately for Harry, he was still having detentions with Umbridge, and Hermione couldn't help but be sorry for him—so, she drank a lot of firewhiskey and woke up on a couch of the common room the next day—Fred and George piled on the floor beside her, Dean with his feet on her face and Lavender sitting on top of Dean and her—that day, she had a major headache and was teased the entire morning by Harry and Ron for starting a Macarena dance in the common room, trying to start a revolution against pink. But she just smiled as she remembered sneaking off with Fred and snogging in a broom cupboard until Draco found them, being scared for life—the twitchy ferret only looked pale as he closed the door again and walked off, making Hermione and Fred burst into laughter.
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