~ chapter seven: mudbloods and murmurs ~
before this chapter starts, i just want to say that i have read all of your guys' comments and i actually died laughing—like they were so funny i can't- ☠️
all jokes aside, thank you so much for commenting on my story! it really means a lot.
Harry and Y/N spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever they saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry and Y/N's schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry? Y/N?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back, however exasperated they sounded when they said it. Harry had even less time in second year than in first year to snap photos of Y/N and add them to his scrapbook, but every once in a while, when she was completely 'alone', he snapped a photo and printed it out in the library.
Hedwig was still angry with Harry (and Hades with Y/N) about the disastrous car journey and Ron's wand was still malfunctioning, surpassing itself on Friday morning by shooting out of Ron's hand in Charms and hitting tiny old Professor Flitwick squarely between the eyes, creating a large, throbbing green boil where it had struck. So with one thing and another, Harry was quite glad to reach the weekend. He, Y/N, Ron, and Hermione were planning to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Harry, however, was shaken awake several hours earlier than he would have liked by Oliver Wood, Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.
"Whassamatter?" said Harry groggily.
"Quidditch practice!" said Wood. "Come on!"
Harry squinted at the window. There was a thin mist hanging across the pink-and-gold-sky. Now that he was awake, he couldn't understand how he could have slept through the racket the birds were making.
"Oliver," Harry croaked. "It's the crack of dawn."
"Exactly," said Wood. He was a tall and burly sixth year and, at the moment, his eyes were gleaming with a crazed enthusiasm. "It's part of our new training program. Come on, grab your broom, and let's go," said Wood heartily. "None of the other teams have started training yet; we're going to be first off the mark this year—"
Yawning and shivering slightly, Harry climbed out of bed and tried to find his Quidditch robes.
"Good man," said Wood. "Meet you on the field in fifteen minutes."
When he'd found his scarlet team robes and pulled on his cloak for warmth, Harry scribbled a note to Ron explaining where he'd gone and went down the common room, his Nimbus Two Thousand on his shoulder, and saw Y/N standing near the portrait hole, rubbing her eyes.
"Woken up early too, huh?" he asked as he approached her, and mentally slapped himself. 'You bloody idiot, of course she's been woken up early—'
"Yep," she said with a half-smile, knocking him out of his thoughts. She yawned. "Angelina woke me up a few minutes ago—"
There was a sudden clatter behind them and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
"I heard someone saying both of your names on the stairs! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you both—"
Harry and Y/N looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under their noses.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging on arms they realized as their own. They were pleased to see that their photographic selves were putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As they watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" said Colin eagerly.
"Sorry, Colin," Y/N said, glancing around the room to check if it was really deserted, "but we're kind of in a hurry—Quidditch practice, y'know—"
They both climbed through the portrait hole.
"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!"
Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
"It'll be really boring," Harry said quickly.
"Yeah, I can barely keep my eyes open," joked Y/N—and Harry whispered, "Really selling the theatrics there," while having to choke back a laugh—but Colin ignored them both, his face shining with excitement.
"You two were the youngest House players in a hundred years, weren't you, Harry and Y/N? Weren't you?" said Colin, trotting alongside Harry. "You two must be brilliant. I've never flown. Is it easy? Are those your own brooms? Are they the best ones that there are?"
Even though Y/N didn't know the kid, she liked him since he seemed friendly enough—but it was like having an extremely talkative shadow.
"I don't really understand Quidditch," said Colin breathlessly. "Is it true there are four balls? And two of them fly around trying to knock people off their brooms?"
"Yes," said Harry heavily, resigned to explaining the complicated rules of Quidditch. "They're called Bludgers. There are two Beaters on each team who carry clubs to beat the Bludgers away from their side. Fred and George Weasley are the Gryffindor Beaters."
"And what are the other balls for?" Colin asked, tripping down a couple of steps because he was gazing open-mouthed at the other two.
"Well, the Quaffle—that's the biggish red one—is the one that scores goals. The Chasers on each team throw the Quaffle to the other and try and get it through the goalposts at the end of the pitch—they're three long poles with hoops on the end."
"And Y/N's one of the best Chasers this school's ever had, isn't she?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Colin," the girl protested, feeling her cheeks warm up at the praise. "I'm surely not the best Chaser this school's had, no matter what Wood says—"
"Oh, stop being modest, Y/N," Harry said sternly. "You are the best Chaser this school has had."
Y/N felt her cheeks getting warmer when he said this.
"Anyway," she started, trying to ignore it, "the fourth one is the Golden Snitch, and it's very small, very fast, and difficult to catch. But that's what the Seeker—Harry's the Seeker for Gryffindor—has got to do, because a game of Quidditch doesn't end until the Snitch has been caught. And whichever team's Seeker gets the Snitch earns their team an extra hundred and fifty points. There's also the Keeper," she added as the three left the castle and started across the dew-drenched grass. "They guard the goalposts. That's it, really."
But Colin didn't stop questioning them all the way down to the sloping lawns to the Quidditch field, and Harry and Y/N only shook him off when they reached the changing rooms; Colin called after them in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Harry, Y/N!" and hurried off to the stands.
"Well," Y/N said, "that was something."
"Tell me about it," Harry agreed.
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who truly looked awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to fourth-year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. It was evident that, like Harry and Y/N, they had also been woken up—and they didn't look happy about it.
"There you are, you both, what kept you?" said Wood briskly.
"You don't want to know," Harry yawned.
Y/N slapped his arm. "Be nice."
"I am, though—"
"Now," Wood cut in, "I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get on the field, because I spent the summer devising a new training program, which I really think will make all the difference...."
Wood was holding up a large diagram of a Quidditch field, on which were drawn many lines, arrows, and crossed in different-colored inks. He took out his wand, tapped the board, and the arrows began to wiggle over the diagram like caterpillars. As Wood launched into a speed about his new tactics, Fred Weasley's head dropped right onto Alicia Spinnet's shoulder and he began to snore.
The first board took nearly twenty minutes to explain, but there was another board under that, and a third one under that one. Harry and Y/N both sank into a stupor as Wood droned on and on.
"So," said Wood, at long last, jerking Y/N from a wistful fantasy about what she could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle. "Is that clear? Any questions?"
"Yeah, actually, I've got a question, Oliver," said George, who had woken with a start. "Why couldn't you have told us all this yesterday when we were awake?"
Wood wasn't pleased.
"Now, listen here, you lot," he said, glowering at them all. "We should have won the Quidditch Cup this year. We're easily the best team. But unfortunately—owing to circumstances beyond out control—"
Y/N and Harry shifted guiltily in their seats. They had been unconscious in the hospital wing for the final match of the previous year, meaning that Gryffindor had been not one, but two players short and had suffered their worst defeat in three hundred years.
Wood took a moment to regain control of himself. Their last defeat was clearly still torturing them.
"Don't blame them, Oliver, they were unconscious," Alicia said softly.
"Right." Wood nodded. "Well, this year we train harder than ever before.... Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!" he shouted, seizing his broomstick and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.
"How the fuck does anybody have that much energy in the morning?" Harry asked, rubbing his eyes as he walked alongside Y/N.
"Morning person?" she suggested with a shrug.
They had been in the locker room so long that the sun was up completely now, although remnants of mist hung over the grass in the stadium. As Harry and Y/N walked onto the field, they saw Ron and Hermione sitting in the stands.
"Aren't you finished yet?" called Ron incredulously.
"Haven't even started," said Y/N, looking jealously at the toast and marmalade Ron and Hermione had brought out of the Great Hall. "Wood's been teaching us new moves."
She and Harry mounted their broomsticks and kicked at the ground, soaring up into the air. The cool morning air whipped their faces, waking them far more effectively than Wood's long talk. It felt wonderful to be back on the Quidditch field. This year, Y/N thought as she soared right around the stadium at full speed, they would win the Cup for sure, and as for Lockhart, with any luck he'd be gone by the end of the year.
"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as he hurtled around the corner.
Y/N and Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.
"Look this way, Harry, Y/N! This way!" he cried shrilly.
"Who's that?" said Fred.
"No idea," Harry lied, putting on a spurt of speed that took him as far away as possible from Colin.
"What's going on?" said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. "Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."
"He's in Gryffindor," said Harry quickly.
"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.
"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.
"Because they're here in person," answered Y/N, pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.
"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!"
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Y/N, Harry, Fred, and George followed.
"Where do you think you're going?" Wood snapped at the Slytherin Captain.
"Quidditch practice."
"I booked the pitch for Gryffindor today," Wood countered.
"Easy, Wood. I've got a note," Flint shot back, handing the Gryffindor Captain a rolled-up scroll. Wood took it and opened it, reading it out loud.
"'I, Professor Severus Snape, do hereby give the Slytherin team permission to practice today, owing to the need to train their new Seeker,'" Wood read before looking up. "You've got a new Seeker," he said, "who?"
Flint stepped aside, and Malfoy stepped out toward the Gryffindor team members.
"Malfoy?" Y/N and Harry said together.
"That's right," Malfoy announced, smirking. "And that's not all that's new this year."
The members of the Slytherin team held out their broomsticks. Highly polished, brand-new handles, and sets of good lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.
"Those are Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones," Ron, who had now joined them with Hermione, said. "How'd you get those?"
"A gift from Draco's father," the Slytherin Captain replied for him.
"You see, Weasley, unlike some, my father can afford the best," Malfoy boasted, smirking.
"Oh, yeah?" Y/N shot back. "Well, unlike some, we actually have decency. Maybe you should try having some sometime. Maybe then you won't become such a daddy's boy."
The Gryffindor team—and Ron—burst into laughter as Malfoy's face became red and he and the Slytherin team scowled at Y/N, who was smirking.
"And at least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," said Hermione sharply. "They got in on pure talent."
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," Malfoy spat.
Harry and Y/N knew at once that Malfoy had said something really bad, because Ron plunged his hand into his robes, pulling out his wand and snapping, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy! Eat slugs!" and pointing it at Malfoy's face.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending his reeling backward into the grass.
"Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" squealed Hermione.
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap.
The Slytherin team were paralyzed with laughter. Flint was doubled up, hanging onto his new broomstick for support. Malfoy was on all fours, banging the ground with his fist. Soon, Y/N snapped, headed straight for Flint, and slapped him straight in the face as he gasped and toppled to the ground. She headed for Malfoy, giving him a kick in the stomach so he fell to the ground. Flint was about to get up when Y/N whirled around to give him a death glare—it worked, since Flint looked horrified and stayed down—doing the same to Malfoy before giving the same look to the Slytherin team, whom had now stopped laughing and looked absolutely horrified. Y/N smirked before hurrying to Ron, who kept belching large, glistening slugs.
"We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest," she said to Hermione and Harry, both of whom nodded bravely, and the three of them pulled Ron up by the arms.
"What happened, Harry? What happened? Is he ill, Y/N? But you both can cure him, can't you?" Colin had run down from his seat and was now dancing alongside them as they left the field. Ron gave a huge heave and more slugs dribbled down his front.
"Colin, get out of the way," Y/N instructed sternly.
"But—"
"Now," Y/N snapped. She, Harry, and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.
"Nearly there, Ron," said Hermione's as the gamekeeper's cabin came into view. "You'll be all right in a minute—almost there—"
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.
"Quick, behind here," Y/N hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush. Harry ducked behind the bush as well. Hermione followed suit, somewhat reluctantly.
"It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. "If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one—I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!" And he strode away toward the castle.
Harry and Y/N waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid's front door. They knocked urgently.
Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.
"Bin wonderin' when you'd come ter see me—come in, come in—thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again—"
Harry, Y/N, and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn't seem perturbed by Ron's slug problem, which Harry and Y/N hastily explained as they lowered Ron into a chair.
"Better out than in," he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of him. "Get 'em all up, Ron."
"I don't think there's anything to do except wait for it to stop," said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. "That's a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand—"
Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Y/N.
"So, Hagrid, what did Lockhart want with you?" Y/N asked, scratching Fang's ears.
"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about some banshee he vanished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle."
This remark caught Y/N, Harry, and Hermione by surprise; it was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Y/N and Harry looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair. Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job—"
"He was the on'y man for the job," said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. "An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. So tell me," said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. "Who was he tryin' ter curse?"
"Malfoy called Hermione something—it must've been really bad, because everyone went wild."
"It was bad," said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty. "Malfoy called her 'Mudblood,' Hagrid—"
Ron dived out of sight again as fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outraged.
"He didn'!" he growled at Hermione.
"He did," she said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course—"
"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," gasped Ron, coming back up. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born—you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards—like Malfoy's family—who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood." He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued, "I mean, the rest of us know it doesn't make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom—he's pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up."
"Don't be mean to poor Neville." Y/N frowned.
"I'm not being mean, I'm being honest, and how can you be mean to someone who's not even here—"
"Are you seriously that stupid, Ron—"
Harry looked to the side so the others couldn't see the scowl that was etched on his face. He didn't like Y/N defending other boys—well, except for Ron. Ron was his best friend.
His best friend would never betray him, would he?
At the thought of a boy's name that wasn't his or Ron's coming out of her mouth was enough to make his blood boil and his hands clench into fists. He wanted to kill whose fucking name came out of her mouth.
"An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do," said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.
"It's a disgusting thing you call someone," said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. "Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It's ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles we'd've died out."
He retched and ducked out of sight again.
"Well, I don' blame yeh fer tryin' ter curse him, Ron," said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. "Bu' maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. 'Spect Lucius Malfoy would've come archin' up ter school if yeh'd cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble."
Harry would have pointed out that trouble didn't come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but he couldn't; Hagrid's treacle toffee had cemented his jaws together.
"Harry, Y/N," said Hagrid abruptly as though struck bt a sudden thought. "Gotta bone ter pick with yeh both. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?"
Furious, Harry wrenched his teeth apart.
"We have not been giving out signed photos," he said hotly. "If Lockhart's still spreading that around—"
But then he saw that Hagrid was laughing.
"I'm on'y jokin'," he said, patting Harry and Y/N genially on the backs and sending them face first into the table. "I knew yeh hadn't really. I told Lockhart yeh didn' need teh. Yer both more famous than him without tryin'."
"Bet he didn't like that," Y/N said, sitting up and rubbing her chin.
"Don' think he did," said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. "An' then I told him I'd never read one o' his books an' he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?" he added as Ron appeared.
"No thanks," said Ron weakly. "Better not risk it."
"Come an' see what I've bin growin'," said Hagrid as Y/N, Harry, and Hermione finished the last of their tea.
In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid's house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Harry and Y/N had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.
"Gettin' on well, aren't they?" said Hagrid happily. "Fer the Halloween feast....should be big enough by then."
"What've you been feeding them?" Y/N asked.
Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.
"Well, I've bin givin' them—you know—a bit o' help—"
Harry and Y/N noticed Hagrid's flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back wall of the cabins. Both of them had had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, they had the strong impression that Hagrid's old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn't supposed to use magic. He had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Harry and Y/N had never found out why—any mention of the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously dead until the subject was changed.
"An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?" said Hermione, halfway between disapproval and amusement. "Well, you've done a good job on them."
"That's what yer little sister said," said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. "Met her jus' yesterday." Hagrid looked sideways at Harry and Y/N, his beard twitching. "Said she was jus' lookin' round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin' she might run inter two people at my house." He winked at them. "If yeh ask me, she wouldn' say no ter a signed—"
"Oh, shut up," said Harry. Ron snorted with laugher bf the ground was sprayed with slugs.
"Watch it!" Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.
It was nearly lunchtime and as Harry and Y/N only had one bit of treacle tart since dawn, they were keen to go back to school to eat. They said good-bye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasioanlly, but only bringing up two very small slugs.
They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, "There you are, Potter, Black—Weasley." Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. "You three will do your detentions this evening."
"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.
"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley—elbow grease."
Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.
"And you, Potter, Black, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," said Professor McGonagall.
"Oh n—Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" Y/N asked desperately.
"Certainly not," said professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o' clock sharp, all three of you."
Y/N, Harry and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. Y/N didn't enjoy her shepherd's pie as much as she'd thought. She, Harry, and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.
"Filch'll have me there all night," said Ron heavily. "No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."
"I'd swap anytime," said Y/N hollowly. "Anything to get away from Lockhart.... He'll be a complete nightmare...."
Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Y/N and Harry were dragging their feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office.
"Are you sure we can't just dip?" Y/N asked Harry as they stood in front of the door.
"As much as I'd love to," Harry replied, "if we did and got caught, we'd probably get more detention." He gritted his teeth and knocked on the door.
The door flew open at once, and Lockhart beamed down at them.
"Ah, here're the scalawags!" he said. "Come in, Harry, Y/N, come in—"
Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.
"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told them both, as though this was a huge treat. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her—huge fan of mine—"
The minutes snailed by. The two let Lockhart's voice wash over them, alternating between responding, "Mmm" and "Right" and "Yeah." Now and then they caught phrases like, "Fame's a fickle friend, Y/N, Harry," or "Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that."
The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching them. Y/N was tasked with addressing the letter to Veronica Smethley. She moved her aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope she'd addressed, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. 'It must be nearly time to leave,' she thought miserably, 'please let it be nearly time....'
And then she heard something—something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans.
It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a vice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.
"Come... come to me.... Let me rip you.... Let me tear you.... Let me kill you...."
And judging by Harry's face at that moment, he had heard the voice as well. They both gave huge jumps—and for Y/N, a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.
"What?" they both said in unison.
"I know!" said Lockhart. "Six solid months at the top of the book-seller list! Broke all records!"
"No," said Y/N frantically. "That voice!"
"Sorry?" said Lockhart, looking puzzled. "What voice?"
"That—that voice that said—" Harry stammered. "Didn't you hear it?"
Lockhart was looking at Harry and Y/N in high astonishment.
"What are you talking about, you both? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott—look at the time! We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it—the time's flown, hasn't it?"
Harry and Y/N didn't answer. They were both straining their ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling them they mustn't expect a treat like this every time they got detention. Feeling dazed, they both left.
It was so late that the Gryffindor common room was almost empty.
"D'you think it was just a joke someone was playing on us?" Y/N asked Harry.
"I dunno," Harry frowned, "but it's weird..."
"I know it's weird. Everything weird seems to happen to us."
They bid their farewells and headed to their dormitories. To Y/N's surprise, Hermione was sitting on her bed, reading a book—probably one of Lockhart's—but her head snapped up when she heard the door open and saw Y/N standing there.
"So?" she asked excitedly, closing the book with a snap, setting it aside, and running up to Y/N, practically bouncing on her toes. "How was it? Normally I'd be mortified at getting detention—after all, it is a punishment—but if I get to do detention with Lockhart then maybe it wouldn't be so bad...."
Her friend said nothing, instead walking over to the seat next to the window and sitting down, staring up at the starry sky, but she didn't need to. Her silence said it all.
"Well," Hermione said, sounding much more Hermione-like, "maybe this will teach you not to break school rules more often, after all, you do look like you hated detention—"
"No," Y/N cut her off, shaking her head as she kept staring at the sky. "I mean, yes, I did hate detention—would've hated it more if Harry wasn't there, though, and shut up, don't give me that look," (for now Hermione was smirking with her arms crossed), "but something weird happened."
"Really?" Hermione asked, walking over and sitting across from her friend, her arms no longer crossed and her smirk gone. "How so?"
In a low voice as not to wake the other girls in the dormitory, Y/N told Hermione exactly what she and Harry had heard. When she had finished, she waited for a minute to see her friend's reaction.
Hermione's expression mirrored her confusion perfectly. Her eyebrows were knitted, and Y/N—when she looked back at her friend— saw her frowning in the moonlight. "Well, it could have just been a prank, but none of the students should have been able to do it, since the door was closed, and it couldn't have been any of the ghosts since you would have been able to see them. I just don't get it."
"I know," said Y/N as she looked back at the starry sky. "I don't get it either."