Hermione strode along the corridor to the Potions dungeon on Wednesday night, dressed in jeans and a red jumper, her hair bristling with aggravation. She had spent hours preparing for that night's PORN session on Charms. The dust-up with Astoria and the second encounter with Malfoy had rattled Hermione, driving her back to her studies and PORN with an intensity that startled her friends. She still carved out time for Ron, however, aware that only a few days remained with him. Ron was developing a line of mischievous quills that wrote improper phrases into students' notes or randomly broke out into song, and Hermione was helping him perfect the charms. One must be supportive, after all.
Hermione had also been anxiously awaiting McGonagall's response to her attack on Astoria; she fully expected Astoria to report her and was prepared to accept any consequences. She even drew up a list of appropriate punishments, such as marking papers for professors or writing essays on violence as a social problem. But it was all for naught. Instead of informing a teacher, Astoria went around telling people that Hermione had lost control of her wand, which absolutely nobody believed. So now the story sweeping the castle was that Astoria and Hermione had been dueling for Theo's affections. Which made even less sense than the truth, in Hermione's opinion, and the truth was ridiculous enough. Theo found this rumor quite amusing and began referring to himself as "the spoils of war."
It was all terribly embarrassing. Obviously, there was a middle ground between bookishly prim and bat-shit crazy that other witches seemed to navigate with ease, but Hermione had never been good at finding a happy medium. So she'd been counting on her Wednesday PORN session to present a calm, academic persona to balance out her recent ... ah ... spirited behavior.
But then that son-of-a-banshee Ernie Macmillan called an emergency prefect meeting Wednesday night to discuss his accursed Halloween Festival, stealing away half of Hermione's group and forcing her to cancel PORN. Worse, Slughorn had learned of the cancellation and asked Hermione to oversee a "special detention" in the Potions dungeon so he could go schmooze at some Ministry event.
Hermione was livid; she'd spent over an hour creating 57 little origami shapes, each one representing a different charm, and all for nothing. And now she had to waste time disciplining rule-breakers. Honestly, why couldn't people just behave themselves? If those were the Squeaky Mice down there in the Potions dungeon, fresh from their latest prank, they were going to regret the day they received their Hogwarts letters. Malfoy had been entirely too easy on them; they'd find her less accommodating, let's see how they liked writing 6-foot essays on ...
The dungeon door was ajar, which meant the students were already inside, probably trashing the place and plundering Slughorn's stores again. Hermione charged forward and slammed open the heavy door with enough force to rattle nearby tables and stools.
She halted in the middle of the room, mouth open, for instead of a pack of schemy little badgers, the dungeon held only two students: both tall and hulking with comically small heads on their muscled shoulders. They were the former Slytherin Beaters who had injured Malfoy, still serving their twice-weekly detentions until Christmas.
The two huge boys leaped to their feet at Hermione's entrance, eyeing her warily. Nobody knew who had choked them on the pitch (except Neville, Ginny and Malfoy), but Hermione's name had been whispered. She stepped forward and the boys cringed slightly, backing away. Hermione rolled her eyes. Obviously, she wasn't going to hex them now.
With an effort, she recalled their names. "Mr. Bloom, Mr. Pratt, sit down, please." The two instantly obeyed.
Hermione set her bag on Slughorn's desk and eyed them thoughtfully. Despite Malfoy's protests that night in the infirmary, Hermione had gone to McGonagall the following week anyway, demanding to hear the school's response to Malfoy's injury and the death threats. The Headmistress' answer had been less than reassuring: Bloom and Pratt had simply sought payback for years of Malfoy's bullying in Slytherin House, and the death threats had been a crude effort to scare Malfoy off the team. Hermione had sniffed skeptically and hounded McGonagall with questions until the Headmistress tossed her out of the office, along with a veiled warning about using her wand "responsibly."
Now the Beaters were shifting nervously on their stools under her stare, and the blond one (Bloom?) raised his hand. She nodded.
"M-Miss Granger," he said. "Uh, would you like us to start scrubbing now?"
"Scrubbing? Scrubbing what?" she asked.
"We've been scrubbing the giant cauldrons," Bloom said. He swallowed. "Without magic."
Hermione looked toward the back of the dungeons, where three monstrous cauldrons squatted. Ancient and hulking, the iron cauldrons were covered in infinite layers of grime and scorched potions, constantly emitting vile fumes. Nobody ever used them. Not even the strongest Scourgify could clean them, and the most back-breaking scrubbing would make little difference.
She bit her lip, considering. While the thought of these two spending the evening in hopeless toil warmed her heart, there were other, more productive, options. Hermione stepped up to their table and the two boys shrank back, looking down at her uneasily.
"Perhaps," she said coolly. "You two would prefer to do something else."
Bloom and Pratt's eyes widened hopefully. "Really, Miss Granger?" Bloom asked. "That'd be fucking—" He cleared his throat. "That would be great." Pratt nodded eagerly.
Hermione squinted up at them. "You could ... write sentences."
"Fuck, yeah," Pratt said. Bloom gave him a furious look and Pratt flushed. "Sorry, Miss Granger."
Hermione pulled out her wand (the Beaters flinched) and a sentence appeared on the board: "I will not lose control of my broom and slam into annoying but occasionally useful Seekers at high speed."
Bloom raised his hand. "Uh, Miss Granger?" He flinched again as she looked at him. "We didn't lose control of our brooms."
"That's right," Pratt said. "We didn't."
Hermione blinked slowly at them, a trick she'd picked up from Astoria, of all people. Quite effective, really. "Well, it's very important that the sentence be accurate. Wouldn't you agree?" Pratt and Bloom both nodded, happy to help.
She waved her wand again: "I will not slam into annoying but occasionally useful Seekers at high speed for no good reason."
"We had a good reason!" Pratt protested.
"Rupert!" Bloom hissed.
"Did someone make you do it?" Hermione asked.
Pratt shook his head, his face grim. "No, but that poncy git bullied us for years, Miss Granger. Every day, he'd call me prat—"
"Isn't that your name?" Hermione asked.
Pratt glowered. "It was the way he said it. Bum and prat, he called us." Bloom nodded agreement.
Hermione's mouth fell open. Merlin help her, she almost believed them. That sounded just like Malfoy. She waved her wand again: "I will not purposely slam into annoying but occasionally useful Seekers at high speed, in response to years of bullying, without proper warning."
"We did warn him!" Pratt cried.
"Rupert!" Bloom hissed. "Don't listen to him, Miss Granger—"
"It's very simple, Mr. Bloom," Hermione said sternly. "You can either write me accurate sentences or ..." Her eyes drifted back to the three giant, filthy cauldrons. The boys shuddered.
Bloom sighed. "We may have sent the git some letters. We hoped he'd just quit."
Hermione waved her wand again: "I will not purposely slam into annoying but occasionally useful Seekers at high speed, in response to years of bullying, after sending pitiful letters that would scare nobody."
"Oi!" Pratt cried.
"We can't write that, Miss Granger!" said Bloom, stung. Apparently, the former Beater took pride in his death threats. "We wrote Malfoy that if he tried to play in the Slytherin-Gryffindor match, they'd be scraping his ass off the pitch!"
"Charming," Hermione said faintly.
Pratt beamed. "Tell her the other one."
"I don't think it's appropriate, Rupe," Bloom whispered loudly.
"I think we're beyond that," Hermione said.
"We ... we wrote that if he tried to play, we'd use his bollocks for Bludgers."
"Lovely," Hermione said. She waved her wand one more time. "I will not purposely slam into annoying but occasionally useful Seekers at high speed in response to years of bullying after sending several stylish and imaginative death threats."
Bloom and Pratt both nodded, pleased.
"Very well." Hermione left their table and sat down behind Slughorn's desk. "Write that sentence twenty times—neatly, and with proper punctuation—and I will excuse you from the cauldrons this time. Go on now." She pulled out her study schedule and began plotting ways to add an extra PORN session to her calendar.
The former Beaters obeyed, and the dungeon was quiet except for Pratt's muttered swearing whenever he splattered ink blots on his parchment, which was often. Hermione twirled a curl with a finger, thinking. It looked like Malfoy's injuries were the result of rampant stupidity, from all parties involved. Honestly, Quidditch should be banned at Hogwarts. Hermione was trying to think of legal precedents for such a ban when a squabble—delivered in what the boys fondly thought were whispers—caught her attention.
"Oi, Alf."
"Piss off, Rupert."
"She's fit."
"Shut up, you fucking moron."
"Don't you think she's fit?"
"Yeah, but she's dead scary too, so shut up!"
"I hear she likes Slytherins."
"You have a fucking death wish."
"I ain't scared of Nott."
"I'm talking about her, you fucktwat."
"Do you think she likes younger—"
"Alright, boys!" Hermione said loudly as she stood. "That's enough for tonight—bring me your sentences!" She was not sitting here listening to this.
Pratt and Bloom looked surprised but handed over their parchments, thanking her again and practically running out the door. Hermione was tucking their sentences into her bag (Bloom had managed five full lines and Pratt had written two) when she heard a thud that sounded suspiciously like Bloom slamming Pratt into the corridor wall. Hermione could only approve.
***
Ron left Hogwarts Friday evening. His plan was to slip out of the castle after curfew and meet McGonagall at the entrance. From there he'd take a thestral carriage to Hogsmeade and floo to the joke shop in Diagon Alley, sharing the flat above the shop with George.
McGonagall had objected to this "cloak-and-dagger" way of departing, fearing that it would seem like a disgraced exit and hurt Ron's reputation. But Ron hadn't told his family yet and feared any public exit would be reported in The Daily Prophet, which obviously still had spies in the castle. Hermione privately agreed with McGonagall but told the Headmistress in her office that Ron should be allowed to handle this in his own way. Ron had looked at her in gratitude and squeezed her hand, and McGonagall had reluctantly approved.
"You have performed invaluable services to this castle, and I won't allow anything to overshadow that, Mr. Weasley," she said.
Hermione "helped him pack," which meant sitting his bed and trying not to sniffle as Ron gleefully turned his school uniforms and robes into marshmallows, squashing them flat under his shoe and then Incendioing them. He kept his prefect badge, however, and other mementos, even a "Potter Stinks" badge. Then they sat together and looked at pictures. One from First Year, when they were so little, made Hermione sob outright, as did the picture of her and Ron dancing at Bill and Fleur's wedding before the Death Eaters arrived. Suddenly she couldn't stop crying, and Ron held her like he did at Dumbledore's funeral.
"I don't want you to go," she sobbed. "I feel like I just got you back!"
"I have to, Mi," he said.
Hermione buried her face in the Quidditch jersey he'd given her. She just felt so alone, with Ron leaving. She had Ginny, of course, and Neville, and Theo was a quiet, regular presence. And Malfoy ... well, she tried not to think of Malfoy. She hadn't told anyone, not even Ginny, the details of her confrontation with Astoria or recent encounters with Malfoy. Hermione knew she'd been cold and hurtful to him, she had implied to Astoria that marrying him would be a degradation. She should apologize, but wouldn't that only make everything worse?
Harry was due to visit Hogwarts the next day, and Hermione had asked Malfoy during Potions to meet them at the lab at noon. Malfoy just nodded shortly and turned away. Hermione didn't know how she'd handle Potions with only him and Lavender—Lavender had suddenly turned smug and sneering this week, reminding Hermione of Sixth Year, when Lavender was dating Ron.
Ron was sitting cross-legged on the floor now, sorting through books. Nearly all of them would be donated to the small Gryffindor library in the common room.
"Ron," she said suddenly, "have you noticed anything odd about Lavender lately?"
He blinked up at her. "Yeah, she's been acting a little strange."
"I wonder what she's doing."
"I wonder who she's doing," Ron said darkly.
"What do you mean?"
He shrugged and tossed another book into the "common room" pile. "That's Lav. It's all about blokes to her. She's shagging somebody and it's got her feeling on top." He gave her a roguish look at the innuendo, and Hermione couldn't help smiling. Did he really have to leave now?
"Hey, look!" Ron held up a lumpy blue hat. "One of your first knitted hats for SPEW!"
"Social Promotion for Elvish Welfare," she said, still smiling.
"I'm keeping this," Ron declared, putting it on top of his jumpers.
In the end, the trunk was only half-full when they finished, and Ron dragged it out of the room. He was wearing jeans and a Weasley sweater and already looked more relaxed. This was the right choice.
He had already said goodbye to Ginny, so Hermione walked him to the entrance, using the Marauders' Map to avoid anyone, and McGonagall led them outside. The night was clear and bright, and the thestral was practically invisible. Ron shook McGonagall's hand.
"Best of luck in all your endeavors, Mr. Weasley, and don't let me see any of your products in my school," she said. Ron gave her a very Fred-and-George smile.
He turned to hug Hermione. "I'll see you Sunday," he said, kissing her lightly on the mouth. "Be careful. That message on the walls—it's a real threat, and all you've got is that Malfoy ..."
"And Harry," she said. "He's coming tomorrow to look at our potion."
"I'll owl you some good stuff from the shop," he whispered in her ear. "It'll cheer you up."
"Ron!" she protested. He winked at her and climbed into the carriage and flew away. Hermione burst into tears again. They'd treated each other abominably for much of the term, and now he was gone.
"Now, now, Miss Granger," McGonagall said. "That young man knows how you feel. You must forge your own paths."
"I wish I could have loved him," Hermione whispered, too low for the Headmistress to hear, or so she thought.
"We can't fight our hearts," the Headmistress said, and Hermione stared to hear her talk this way. McGonagall's hat created a tall, pointed silhouette against the flickering lights of the castle. "Not even you, Miss Granger."
***
Hermione was up early Saturday morning, after a restless night of sleep. Most Gryffindors thought Ron was just gone for the weekend, all except Hermione, Ginny and Neville. Hermione spent a solid hour with her LOOP notebook, listing 38 ways she would stay in touch with Ron. She transfigured a picture frame for the photo of herself, Harry and Ron in First Year and put it on her desk beside her otter paperweight and Theo's wood box containing the Bagshot letter. Then she put on her own Weasley sweater and Ron's book pin and walked down to the potions lab. Her hair was tied back with a broad red ribbon; she hadn't worn Malfoy's diamonds since Slughorn's party. Her eyes were still puffy from tears, but she didn't feel any need for glamours.
At least the potion looked good. The murlap mixture had simmered down to a dull brown powder. She was carefully scooping the powder into a large bottle when Malfoy appeared in the open doorway, wearing his Quidditch jersey again.
He didn't look so well himself, she noticed. Maybe being engaged to a rabid sex fiend was catching up with him, she thought waspishly. His eyes were heavy with dark circles and his face was alarmingly pale; he looked a bit like he had in Sixth Year.
"What happened?" he asked, reminding her of Monday's encounter by Hagrid's hut and sending a shiver down her back.
"Nothing," she said. She couldn't betray Ron's confidence.
"Fine," he said indifferently and moved to the other side of the narrow table. His eyes looked dull, almost empty.
"Harry's coming today to see our potion," she said, stoppering the bottle.
"Why?"
"Harry wants to help us," she said. "Don't worry—Kingsley doesn't know. If we get a lead from this potion, we might need Harry to chase it down. We need him. Malfoy, I can't do this alone. I need you both." She looked at him pleadingly.
Something moved behind Malfoy's eyes and he nodded. The room suddenly felt too small again. Hermione cleared her throat.
"Quidditch practice today?" she asked, just for something to say.
"Yes," he said, putting on gloves to handle the nightshade. "And please, I don't need to hear all the ways I could die horribly."
Hermione shrugged. "It's likely you'll survive, since Pratt and Bloom apparently acted alone."
Malfoy put down the nightshade leaves. "How do you know that?"
"I have it in writing." She pulled Bloom's scroll out of her bag. "They did detention with me on Wednesday."
Malfoy stripped off a glove to take the scroll. "I will not purposely slam into annoying but occasionally useful ..." He read the rest of the sentence and looked up, scowling. "You made them write this?"
"We worked on it together," she said, shaking a vial of thestral blood. "I told them the sentence had to be accurate."
"This is anything but accurate," Malfoy huffed.
"It's accurate enough," Hermione said. "That was terrible, what happened to them."
"Yes, it was, my knee still—to them?" Malfoy's voice hit a surprisingly high register on the last word.
"Bullying them like that, no wonder they threatened your bollocks—"
"They told—"
"And bullying only perpetuates a cycle of violence, as you have now discovered," she finished.
"I am not talking about this," Malfoy said, shoving the scroll back at her. "Save your lectures for the Weasel."
Hermione turned her back on him, clenching her hands, while Malfoy finished chopping the nightshade and added the leaves. She took a few deep breaths, then opened the vial of thestral blood.
"I'll add the blood while you stir," Hermione said, pleased that both her voice and hands were steady.
Malfoy nodded, careful to finish the proper one-and-a-half counter-clockwise stir after each tablespoon. As with Fiducia, the potion's intricate steps soothed both their nerves. They took turns repeating the spell after each spoonful of blood, but it was tiring work, and they were both relieved when the potion emitted the proper yellow steam. Hermione could catch a faint whiff of that rotting meat smell.
"Quick, distilled clover juice," Hermione said, and Malfoy emptied the bottle into the cauldron and stirred. The smell vanished and they smiled triumphantly at each other, everything else forgotten for an instant, then looked away.
"Well, that was amazing," said a deep voice. Harry was standing in the doorway—leaning, actually, like he'd been there a while. "The way you two work together, it's spooky."
"Harry!" Hermione slid over to him for a quick hug. "Have you seen him?" she whispered in his ear.
He shook his head. "Tomorrow."
Malfoy cleared his throat and Hermione and Harry broke apart. "Tell me about the potion," Harry said. He wore jeans and a black, hooded sweatshirt with white letters reading "GO AHEAD, RUN FOR IT."
"It's about ten days from completion, if what we did today works out," Hermione said as Malfoy divided a cup of the potion into two tiny cauldrons and set them simmering. "We have a few more ingredients to add. Each of these ..." she held up two small bottles, "contains a bit of those bloody letters on the walls. We can add them now."
Harry and Malfoy watched as she shook some dried scrapings into each cauldron. The potion inside both bubbled and turned identically grey.
"Is that good?" Harry asked.
"Very good," Malfoy said.
"The blood from the walls combined with thestral blood absorbs any other animal blood, leaving just magical blood behind," Hermione said. "That's why the liquid went from black to grey. That means magical blood was used to write the letters. This also shows that both messages were created using the same blood."
"When the potion is finished, we'll spoon a little into a vial," Malfoy said. "Then we can add somebody's blood. If the new blood doesn't match the magical blood in the potion, nothing will happen."
"But if they do match, it will turn a deep purple," Hermione said.
"So if we have a suspect, we can test their blood against this potion to see if it matches the bloody message. Perfect, Hermione!" Harry cried. He tried to pace, but the room was too small, so he contented himself with shifting his feet. "This has amazing implications for the auror department. So many threatening messages are written in blood ..."
"And while muggle scientists have faster and equally valid ways to identify blood, the Ministry would never accept them," Hermione said. "What we're brewing here is the magical equivalent."
"Are we finished here?" Malfoy asked.
"Yes, of course," Hermione said. She cast a protective spell on the cauldrons and she and Malfoy began their now well-practiced regimen of cleaning spells. When they finished, Malfoy pocketed his wand. "Granger, Potter," he said, and left.
Harry stared after him. "He was almost human."
Hermione sighed. "Yes, he quite often is."
"You work that way together all the time? Like you can read each other's mind?"
Hermione shrugged and led the way out of the dungeon. "We've been Potions partners for a while now. We have a rhythm."
"I'll say. I can't believe I'm asking this, but you two are really not—"
"No," Hermione said shortly. "Actually, I have a date with Theo tonight."
"Good," Harry said. Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I don't have anything against Nott—horrible family and Slytherin, of course—but you can handle yourself."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "What a relief it is you think so, Harry. I was ready to cancel if you objected."
He ignored this. "You and Ron are coming to lunch tomorrow, right?" he asked. She nodded again. Harry glanced at his watch—a birthday present from Hermione, who had inlaid various charms on an ordinary muggle Rolex. "I have to meet Ginny by the lake. Skeeter's been sniffing around the Aurors Office and I don't want her to hear about Chloe from The Daily Prophet."
"All right," Hermione said.
"That's an incredible potion you created," he said, shaking his head. "I still can't believe it."
"It might not help much," she warned. "We can't exactly draw blood from the entire student body to test. But we know already that messages weren't created with simple deer blood, and that's something."
They had climbed the stairs from the dungeons and stood in the entrance of the castle. Harry was beginning to attract looks from passing students. "Do you think those messages might be curses?" he asked her, keeping his voice low.
She shrugged. "Maybe. Our DADA fairy doesn't think so, however. Either way, whatever blood was used was from a powerful wizard or witch."
Harry frowned.
"I've been reading into blood magic," she went on. "It stands to reason. The more powerful the blood, the more powerful the magic."
"I'd like to think there aren't any powerful Dark wizards or witches at Hogwarts, but I'm sure that's not true," Harry said grimly. "You could be in real danger, like all the muggle-borns. Be careful."
Hermione smiled. "I'm always careful," she said, and turned back toward Gryffindor Tower.