𝐍 𝐄 𝐅 𝐄 𝐋 𝐈 𝐁 𝐀 𝐓 𝐀
𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 November came a shapeless, monochromatic sky, bearing warnings of incoming showers and speculation.
Hogwarts talked of nothing but Sirius Black for the next few days. The theories about how he had entered the castle became wilder and wilder; Hannah Abbott, from Hufflepuff, spent much of their next Herbology class telling anyone who'd listen that Black could turn into a flowering shrub.
Melody had written to Petar about the situation the very moment she returned to the common room after her night in the Great Hall. His response had been worried, but she assured him she'd be alright — or at least, she hoped she would.
The Fat Lady's ripped canvas had been taken off the wall and replaced with a new portrait; one of Sir Cadogan and his fat gray pony. Nobody was very happy about this. Sir Cadogan spent half his time challenging people to duels, and the rest thinking up ridiculously complicated passwords, which he changed at least twice a day.
"He's a complete lunatic," said Seamus Finnigan angrily to Percy. "Can't we get anyone else?"
"None of the other pictures wanted the job," answered Percy. "Frightened of what happened to the Fat Lady. Sir Cadogan was the only one brave enough to volunteer."
Sir Cadogan, however, was hardly a front-runner of Melody's newest worries — both she and Harry were now being closely watched. Teachers found excuses to walk along corridors with them, and Percy Weasley (acting, Melody suspected, on his mother's orders) was tailing them everywhere like an extremely pompous guard dog.
To cap it all, at the end of the week, Melody's grandmother called Harry up to her desk, bearing an incredibly somber expression.
They had just finished a Transfiguration lesson —an outstandingly simple one, Melody thought, covering the history and background of the Draconifors Spell— and Harry shot her a very frightened look before gathering his books and making his way to the front of the classroom.
Little by little, the rest of the third years trickled out into the hallway on their way to History of Magic, but Melody stayed glued to the ground, taking much longer than necessary to pack away her books. Finally, when only she, her grandmother, and Harry were left in the room, she heaved her bag off of her desk, and pranced over to the shoulder of her best friend.
"If this involves Harry, it involves me as well," Melody announced, surveying her grandmother's stony-faced appearance.
"I assure you, it doesn't," her grandma said gravely. "Please go to your next class, and shut the door behind you."
With a dramatic sigh, Melody plopped her bag onto her grandma's desk. "I already know what you're about to say, and I'm positive he does too." She cast Harry half a grin, if not deluded with slight unease — mass murderers tended to have that effect on people.
"I seriously doubt that," her grandma replied. "As I said, this is a matter for Potter alone—"
"We know Black's after him," said Melody wearily, eyes dimming at the name. "And I don't know what he's got to do with me, but please tell the teachers to stop stalking my every move."
Melody's grandma stared at her.
"We heard Ron's dad telling his mum," Harry explained quickly. "Mr. Weasley works for the Ministry of Magic."
Melody's grandma seemed very taken aback, as though she hadn't considered that yes, her granddaughter was still quite the eavesdropper. She gazed at them for a moment longer, then said, "I see! Melody, Black has nothing to do with you, of course, but you'll understand why I don't think it's a good idea for you to be practicing Quidditch in the evenings. Out on the field with only your team members, it's very exposed—"
"We've got our first match on Saturday!" shouted Harry and Melody in unison, outraged. They would hear of no such thing.
"I've got to train, Professor—"
"—are you serious? I didn't know you wanted Slytherin to win the Cup—"
"—I'll be okay, our teammates'll watch out for any danger—"
"—this is appalling!"
"Enough," Melody's grandma chided, in a dangerous enough voice to inspire the pair into silence.
She considered them intently. Melody knew she was deeply interested in the Gryffindor team's prospects, perhaps more than anything else — it had been she, after all, who'd suggested Harry as Seeker in the first place. In the silence, she waited, casting half a glance out the window to the Quidditch pitch.
Melody's grandma followed her gaze, brows furrowed at the field just visible through the rain. "Well, goodness knows, I'd like to see us win the Cup at last . . . but all the same, I'd be happier if a teacher were present. I'll ask Madam Hooch to oversee your training sessions."
Melody grinned. "Deal."
She gave her grandma a wave, hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and turned on her heel. As she led the way out of the classroom, Harry hastening after her, she didn't look back.
Minerva knew she wouldn't, and that was okay — but for the briefest of moments, she found herself wishing that perhaps she would.
𝐓𝐇𝐄 rain steadily digressed into thunder-ridden deluges as the first Quidditch match drew nearer.
Despite Melody's generally awful reception to the storms, the Gryffindor team was training harder than ever under the eye of Madam Hooch. Their first match had been slated as Gryffindor versus Slytherin, but during their final training session before the game, Wood gave them some very unwelcome news —
"We're not playing Slytherin!" he exclaimed, looking very angry. "Flint's just been to see me. We're playing Hufflepuff instead. His excuse is that their Seeker's arm's still injured, but it's obvious why they're doing it. Don't want to play in this weather. Think it'll damage their chances . . . We've been practicing all those moves assuming we're playing Slytherin, and instead it's Hufflepuff, and their style's quite different."
"I don't know why you're worried, Oliver, Hufflepuff is a pushover. Last time we played them, Harry caught the Snitch in about five minutes, remember?" George said impatiently.
"We were playing in completely different conditions!" Wood swiftly transitioned into a shout, his eyes bulging slightly. "Diggory's put a very strong side together! He's an excellent Seeker! I was afraid you'd take it like this! We mustn't relax! We must keep our focus! Slytherin is trying to wrong-foot us! We must win!"
"Oliver, calm down!" interjected Fred, looking alarmed. "We're taking Hufflepuff very seriously. Seriously."
Melody hadn't really been listening —the skies above were dark and clouded, rumbling with thunder— but Harry would repeat the information to her later. When he did, from within the comfort of the Gryffindor common room, she leapt out of her armchair, pounded her fist into her hand, and exclaimed, "There's nothing wrong with that belligerent bacteria's arm! I'll take on him and his whole pathetic team myself!"
(A blaze of lightning illuminated the common room, and she cowered back into her seat.)
𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 to Melody's regret, the sun didn't show itself in the days to follow, not even on the day before the match.
It was Friday, and she was more than ready for the weekend, even if it meant playing in gloomy, dangerous, and overall panic-inducing conditions. It was so dark inside the corridors and classrooms that extra torches and lanterns were lit — focusing in classes was out of the question, and she busied herself by filling out the Daily Prophet's crossword. After she had finished, she resorted to a cutthroat chopsticks tournament with Harry beneath their desks.
Oliver Wood kept hurrying up to them between classes and giving them tips — the third time this happened, he talked for so long that Melody suddenly realized that Defense Against the Dark Arts started in two minutes.
She tugged Harry with her and they set off at a run, Wood still shouting after them, "And Diggory's got a very fast swerve, Harry, so you might want to try looping him—"
The two skidded to a halt outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, pulled the door open, and dashed inside. They slammed into their seats just as the bell rang, breathless, but not late.
Around them, other Gryffindors were murmuring excitedly, in the hopes that the coming lesson would be fun.
But then, with a loud bang, another teacher slammed the classroom door and strutted to the front. Black robes billowing behind him, he flicked his wand and shut all the windows, making the classroom even darker.
"Turn to page 394."
Melody glared at Snape, their apparent substitute, then dropped her book onto her desk with a dramatic and completely unnecessary thud.
Beside her, Harry seemed to have caught his breath. He must have been feeling extra brazen, because his voice was laced with a twinge of sarcasm when he asked, "Excuse me, sir, where's Professor Lupin?"
"He says he is feeling too ill to teach today," Snape replied with a twisted smile. "But that's not really your concern, is it, Potter?"
Melody glared, a memory coming to mind — Lupin's potion on Halloween. After Sirius Black's break-in, she had forgotten to find out what it might have been, or ask Hermione. Regardless, she had a very strong inclination that Snape had slipped a toxin into that smoking goblet, and she wouldn't let it go unnoticed.
"What's wrong with him?" she demanded, raising her eyebrows in challenge.
"Nothing life-threatening." Snape's black eyes glittered. Melody exhaled — he had definitely done something to that potion, and she would find out what. "Professor Lupin has not left any record of the topics you have covered so far—"
"We've done boggarts, Red Caps, kappas, and grindylows, sir," said Hermione quickly, "and we're just about to start—"
"Quiet," droned Snape coldly.
Melody's head had whipped around at the sound of Hermione's voice, as had the heads of several other Gryffindors. She hadn't been seated beside Ron a moment prior, yet there she was now.
"When did she come in?" whispered Ron nervously to Melody, his face contorted. "Did you see her come in?"
Melody shook her head, but Snape was still on the hunt: "I did not ask for information," he said, "I was merely commenting on Professor Lupin's lack of organization."
"He's the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had," said Melody boldly, and there was a murmur of agreement from most of the class.
Snape looked more menacing than ever. "You are easily satisfied. Lupin is hardly overtaxing you. I would expect first years to be able to deal with Red Caps and grindylows. Today we shall discuss werewolves," he said.
"But, sir," insisted Hermione, seemingly unable to restrain herself, "we're not supposed to do werewolves yet, we're due to start hinkypunks —"
"Miss Granger," interrupted Snape in a voice of deadly calm, "I was under the impression that I am teaching this lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page 394." He glanced around again. "All of you! Now!"
With many bitter sidelong looks and some sullen muttering, the class opened their books.
"Ugly greasy-haired gargoyle," Melody contributed to the murmur, earning a grin from Harry seated beside her.
"The only thing that could save that sneer is an Invisibility Cloak," he whispered back.
Melody desperately attempted to stifle her laughter, and, ribcage heaving, fell silent before Snape's next utterance.
"Now, which one of you can tell me the difference between an Animagus and a werewolf?"
Melody neglected to raise her hand, out of spite rather than ignorance. An Animagus was a wizard who could turn into an animal at will, whilst a werewolf was a wizard who had no choice but to become a psychotic manhunter at every full moon.
She had to admit, she wasn't exceptionally familiar with werewolves, but Animagi? Every piece of information about them was scorched into her skull, from the transformation process to the implications behind each given form. She supposed her fascination with the topic came from her grandmother; an Animagi in the bloodline. Defense Against the Dark Arts didn't cover much about them, as the topic was mainly tied to Transfiguration, so perhaps that's why everyone in the class sat in motionless silence.
Everyone, that is, except Hermione, whose hand had shot straight into the air.
"No one?" Snape said, ignoring Hermione. A twisted smile formed on his face. "Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between—"
"We told you," Melody cut in, "We haven't got as far as werewolves yet, we're still on—"
"Silence!" snarled Snape. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third-year class who wouldn't even recognize a werewolf when they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are . . ."
"Please, sir," Hermione broke in earnestly, "an Animagus is a wizard who elects to turn into an animal. A werewolf has no choice. With each full moon, when he transforms, he no longer remembers who he is. He'd kill his best friend if he crossed his path. Furthermore, the werewolf only responds to the call of its own kind."
On the other side of the room, Malfoy howled mockingly, still clutching his arm as if it was about to fall off.
"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said pointedly. Then, he turned back to Hermione. "That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger," he continued. "Five points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."
Hermione went very red, put down her hand, and stared at the floor with her eyes full of tears. At once, Melody's glare had sunken into a terrifying glower, whether she noticed it or not — nobody talked to Hermione that way.
She wasn't the only student bearing this expression, either. It was a mark of how much the class loathed Snape that they were all scowling at him, because every one of them had called Hermione a know-it-all at least once, and Ron, who told Hermione she was a know-it-all at least twice a week, said loudly, "You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don't want to be told?"
Melody did her best to conceal a grimace — she knew instantly he'd gone too far, even if he'd been right. Snape advanced on Ron slowly, and the room held its breath.
"Detention, Weasley," Snape said silkily, his face very close to Ron's. "And if I ever hear you criticize the way I teach a class again, you will be very sorry indeed."
No one made a sound throughout the rest of the lesson. They sat and took notes on werewolves from the textbook, with Melody scratching down the occasional sentence and whispering a great deal of new insults about Snape to Harry.
Snape, meanwhile, prowled up and down the rows of desks, examining the work they had been doing with Professor Lupin.
"Very poorly explained . . . That is incorrect, the kappa is more commonly found in Mongolia . . . Professor Lupin gave this eight out of ten? I wouldn't have given it three . . ."
Melody liked to consider herself a dreamer; an adventurer in the clouds of her own imagination; a nefelibata who needed only herself and several good people. Snape definitely did not lead a similar lifestyle, and that was fine — what upset her was his constant cruelty and ferocity. It always felt unprovoked, baseless, even. Perhaps there was a background she was missing, or perhaps he was just a pathetic excuse of a human being.
His mere existence made her blood boil — the eerily sallow skin, the violently hooked nose, the pure malevolence flashing through his eyes. She often wondered, in times like these, if they had some previous, ancestral connection of hatred. It would certainly explain the disdain she felt for him, and why her expression wouldn't morph from its glower until the end of the class.
When the bell rang at last, Snape held them back.
"You will each write an essay, to be handed in to me, on the ways you recognize and kill werewolves. I want two rolls of parchment on the subject, and I want them by Monday morning. It is time somebody took this class in hand."
Melody's jaw dropped, and she saw Harry's do the same. He was quicker than her, however, in exclaiming, "Sir, it's Quidditch tomorrow!"
Furiously, Melody nodded in agreement and crossed her arms. "I'd hate to have to take this issue to the Headmaster, sir," she said. "Quidditch takes extreme precedence."
"Then I suggest you both take extra care," retorted Snape, unfazed. "Loss of limb will not excuse you. Page 394."
He spun around, and stalked back to the front of the classroom. Melody, out of snappy comebacks and ideas, made a face in his direction, cursing him under her breath. She shoved her textbook and parchment into her bag with great brutality, and practically sprinted to the door.
"Weasley, stay behind, we need to arrange your detention!" Snape added as Ron tried to follow behind her.
Melody felt Harry catch up with her outside the classroom, and she didn't turn to look at him. Her jaw was set, still, as a result of the lesson's events. They walked in silence until they were well out of earshot, then burst into identical seething tirades about Snape.
"Snape's never been like this with any of our other Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, even if he did want the job!" Harry said angrily, coming to a sharp halt outside an empty classroom. The rest of the Gryffindors brushed past them, offering glances of mutual understanding.
Melody gave Lavender and Parvati a quick grimace, then spun back to him. "I know! And two whole rolls of parchment!" she sighed dramatically. She threw her face into Harry's shoulder, thinking of nothing except how brutal this essay would be.
"Looks like another all-nighter on Sunday," said Harry, patting her sympathetically.
"Why's he got it in for Lupin, anyway?" she muttered against his robes. "Do you think this is all because of Neville's boggart?"
"I don't know," said Harry pensively, as Melody pulled away from him. "But I really hope Professor Lupin gets better soon."
"That reminds me," she registered, looking up at him, "I've got to figure out what was in that potion Snape gave Lupin on Halloween. It must have something to do with his sudden illness."
Harry furrowed his brow, and nodded. "You're right. Snape would know how to poison something and make it undetectable," he said. He adjusted his glasses absentmindedly, and glanced at her. "Let me know if you find anything."
"Always," she smiled, meeting his gaze. Her grin grew as she did, fluttering into a frenzy of cloudless nights and sweet, starry lullabies.
The nefelibata within her was suddenly crafting dreams: never-ending, soft, honeyed dreams about the pair of them that she hadn't agreed to. For whatever reason, his emerald gaze inspired such waltzes within her, yet she didn't have time to linger over the feeling—
"Oi!"
Ron came barrelling around the corner, an indignant look on his face.
"D'you know what that" —he called Snape something that made Melody snicker and nod in agreement— "is making me do? I've got to scrub out the bedpans in the hospital wing. Without magic!" He was breathing deeply, his fists clenched.
Melody glanced at Harry, disgusted, but he was looking at the ground. His cheeks looked pinker than Ron's, she noticed, but her cousin was already leading the way down the corridor.
"Why couldn't Black have hidden in Snape's office, huh?" he snarled angrily, speeding past classrooms and students. "He could have finished him off for us!"
Melody followed suit, letting all nefelibata-induced fantasies flit away, regardless of their unavoidable path into the still-raging storm outside. There was too much to think about, and not enough time for distractions . . . time, time, time. Never enough of it — tomorrow was the big Quidditch match, after all, and it was already time for dinner.