Chapter Seventeen.
The common room in Gryffindor Tower was in uproar. McGonagall had given up trying to calm them, and had rolled up her scroll, pressed her lips together disapprovingly at them, and stalked out through the portrait hole. Out of courtesy to the Fat Lady, she didn’t slam it, but it was clear that she wanted to.
“Be reasonable, Ron,” said Hermione consolingly. “You can’t blame Professor McGonagall for this. She’s only the messenger.”
“I’ll blame whoever I want,” snapped Ron. “It’s not fair. How could she do this to us?” He glared at Harry and Hermione, clearly upset. “It’s alright for you,” he said to Hermione. “You’re of age. But Ginny and I-”
“Still have to do whatever we’re told,” Ginny finished. The scowl on her face was a match for her brother’s, and it was echoed in at least half the faces around the common room. In a corner, Harry could see Seamus Finnegan kick a cushion in frustration, and it sailed through the air, rebounding flatly off a wall. “Ron’s right,” Ginny went on moodily. It’s not fair.”
“You can understand why your parents would do it though,” Hermione said quietly.
“They’re certainly not the only ones who did.” It was Halloween, and all the students had been looking forward to the traditional trip to Hogsmeade. The atmosphere of the castle had been growing steadily more oppressive, with copies of the Daily Prophet arriving daily, pages dripping with paranoia. It was becoming much harder to laugh at those letter-writers who were seeing death omens in their vegetable patches and Voldemort at the garden gate when news of actual attacks kept coming in. Oddly enough, the scariest thing about it was that they didn’t seem to be real attacks at all “ people would come home to find the Dark Mark over their houses, with their families inside as normal, not even aware of what was hanging over them. The Aurors at the Ministry of Magic were being run ragged chasing up panicked calls that never really amounted to very much, and Harry couldn’t help but remember what Lupin had told him after he had come to collect Harry from the Dursleys. Lupin had theorised that Voldemort would basically soften up the wizarding world by terrorising them without much actual damage, and that the resulting uproar would take the pressure off him and give him time to rebuild his army. From the rate of events “ a new ‘attack’ at the very instant the fuss from the previous one had almost settled “ it seemed that he was right. Harry had seen him walking tiredly down the corridors, lips pressed together grimly, and all the teachers looked haggard. It was wearying for all the students, who were beginning to jump at every strange sound, a fact that Peeves, at least, was exploiting to the fullest.
Harry had been looking forward to escaping the tension of the castle, but had been privately wondering whether the teachers would allow anyone to go at all. McGonagall’s announcement, to the gathered Gryffindors, had almost been worse. It had turned out that the trip was still on “ for those that were able to go. At least half of the students at Hogwarts were unable to, due to the fact that their parents, in response to the various reporting and rumours of the Daily Prophet, had owled Hogwarts and rescinded the permission slips for their children.
“It’s all Mum, you know,” said Ron, chuntering on. “You’d think that she’d realise we could take care of ourselves “ at least, I can-”
Ginny snorted, interrupting him. “Oh, just you then? You weren’t the only one who-”
“Shut up,” said Ron rudely, interrupting her in turn. He turned to Harry, as if trying to explain, and Harry was more than willing to let him do it. Hermione was right, the business with the necklace had blown over within a week, and both Ron and he had tacitly refused to talk about it. Pretending that nothing had happened worked just fine for them, Harry had reasoned, especially when it was combined with the fact that Gryffindor had beaten Hufflepuff hollow at Quidditch a couple of weeks later. Ron had saved seven goals, and his happiness was such that he had been willing to bury the hatchet with anyone.
“After all,” Ron was saying, “How many times have we gotten out of trouble? How many times have we been into the Forest? You’d think she’d stop treating us as if we were little kids eventually.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Harry, as neutrally as he could manage. He remembered Mrs. Weasley’s insistence, over the summer holidays, that he not drag Ron and Ginny into danger with him, and he felt that it was entirely within character for her to keep them within the reach of Dumbledore’s arm. He would never forget the look on her face when she had tried to banish the Boggart, and had been confronted with the image of her children’s bodies. Seeing Ron’s face darken, he hastily continued, in a lower voice, casting a significant glance at Hermione, “At least they’re still around to care about you.”
“I suppose so,” said Ron after a second, grudgingly, but trying to put a good face on it.
“Besides,” said Harry gloomily, “I don’t get to go either.”
“Are you sure about that, Harry?” Hermione said. “I’m not certain, but I’m fairly sure that you’re allowed to go.”
“No permission slip,” said Harry flatly. “It’s a shame, really. I really did want to get out of here for a bit.”
“Don’t worry about it, mate,” said Ron bracingly. “At least we’ll be stuck here together.” He cast a look at Hermione. “You still get to go, at least. Could you pick me up some stuff from the sweet shop while you’re there?”
“We could always try the tunnel,” said Harry to Ron.
“Won’t work,” said Ginny. “You heard McGonagall, she’ll be checking up to see that the people who are meant to be here really are here.” She looked annoyed. “You’d think she didn’t trust us.”
“Yeah,” said Ron dryly. “It’s not as if we’ve run off before or anything.” Ginny scowled at him, and Ron shrugged his shoulders, much calmer now. “Look, I don’t like it much either. But I don’t see that there’s anything we can do about it really. At least Hermione’s still going, and I don’t think that Neville’s been banned either.” He scanned the room. “Oi! Neville!”
Neville shuffled over to them, ducking to avoid the cushion that someone had just thrown, bad-temperedly, back at Seamus. “What?”
“Your Gran’s still letting you go, right?” said Ron. Neville shrugged.
“Yes. She’s actually gotten a lot more laid back since, well, since the end of last term.” He gave a half-hearted smile. “She’s probably the only one that has. I think she’s just relieved that I’m not a total squib.”
“You were never a squib, Neville,” said Hermione. She looked at Harry. “You know,” she said speculatively, “I’m fairly sure you can go if you want to.”
“He doesn’t have a permission slip anymore,” said Ron, looking a bit awkward. “I think you’re just wrong, there.” He changed tack suddenly. “Could you pick me up some Chocolate Frogs as well?” Hermione just ignored him.
“I’ll have to check on it,” she said to Harry. “But I think I’m right.”
“Hope so,” said Harry cautiously, trying not to get his hopes up. After a moment or two, however, he figured that Hermione was nearly always right as it was, and he was sure that she wouldn’t hold an opportunity like this out in front of him unless she was certain. “Alright,” he said suddenly. “I believe you. Still, it’s not me you’ve got to convince.” Beside him, Ron made a small disappointed sound. “Don’t worry,” said Harry quietly, out of the corner of his mouth. “Just give me a list of the stuff you want, I’ll get it for you. You know what Hermione’s like, you’ll end up getting those flossing mint things and nothing else.”
“I heard that,” said Hermione severely. “There’s nothing wrong with them. They’re really good for your teeth.”
Next morning, Hermione was absent from the breakfast table. Harry and Ron had stumbled down, Ron grumbling that it wasn’t fair that he still had to get up in time for breakfast on a holiday that he was prevented from enjoying. “They should serve it at ten,” he argued. “You lot could eat at Hogsmeade…”
Harry passed him over a plate of kippers. It was fair to say that Ron wasn’t what you’d call a morning person, but his mood always improved after he’d eaten. He spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate. “What’re you going to do today?” he asked, around a mouthful of toast.
Ron shuddered. “Astronomy. I know, I know. But we’re really behind “ Malfoy’s not pulling his weight, the git, though he’s actually not been too bad lately. I mean, he’s as bloody awful as ever, but at least he’s taking notes while he complains. And they’re running a catch-up session today. Sinistra says that we may as well “use our time wisely”. Bollocks to that.” Ron looked up philosophically, mouth full of bacon. “Still, what can you do, eh?” Harry just grinned at him “ the transformation between pre- and post-breakfast Ron was amazing, and it never failed. He shuffled over on the bench when Dean and Neville appeared, still looking half-asleep. No-one in Gryffindor Tower had gotten much rest the previous night; arguments about McGonagall’s edict had raged until early morning.
“Hey Neville,” said Harry, “D’you want to come to Hogsmeade with us today?”
Neville looked at him oddly. “Uh, are you sure? I thought you were going with Hermione.”
“Yeah,” said Harry. “So?”
Neville and Dean shot each other a quick look. Harry noticed that both of them carefully avoided looking at Ron. “Well,” said Neville reluctantly, “If you’re sure. I don’t want to get in the way or anything.”
“Why would you be in the way?” Ron interrupted loudly, head swinging between Neville and Harry. His eyes were narrowed, and he didn’t look very happy.
“You wouldn’t be in the way, Neville,” said Harry honestly, a bit puzzled. Dean snorted quietly into his breakfast. “What?” he said.
“Yeah. What?” repeated Ron aggressively.
“Nothing,” said Dean quickly.
“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “That’s alright then, isn’t it?” No-one answered him. Neville and Dean were staring at their plates. Ron was glaring at his. Harry tried again. “I might not be able to go, anyway. I mean, I trust Hermione and all, but I’ve still got to get past McGonagall…”
It turned out to be almost easier than he had expected. Their Transfiguration Professor was busy collecting permission slips from a group of over-excited third years when Harry, Neville and Hermione slipped into the Entrance Hall and sneaked out of the door. Hermione had joined them at the last minute, her face pink from running through the corridors of Hogwarts.
“I told you it would be fine,” said Hermione a little nervously. “Professor MacGonagall probably already knows you should be allowed to go.” But Harry couldn’t help but notice the way she kept glancing back. He walked a little faster, forcing both his friends to speed up to keep up with him.
“That wasn’t so bad,” he commented happily, as they reached the bottom of the driveway with no sign of pursuit. “You were right after all, Hermione.”
“Stop right there, Potter!” McGonagall’s voice cracked down to the gates. Harry turned in resignation.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” he said gloomily. “She’s never going to let me go without a permission slip, and Uncle Vernon wouldn’t sign one if his life depended on it.”
“I told you, you don’t need a permission slip,” said Hermione. “Where do you think I’ve been all morning?”
Harry had no idea. He cast his mind about. “Er… library?” he hazarded.
Hermione glared at him. “Lucky guess.” She wrapped her coat more firmly around her. “Do you want to go to Hogsmeade or don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” said Harry. “I suppose there’s always the Invisibility Cloak.”
Hermione snorted. “Why make things more complicated than you have to? If you’d just-”
“McGonagall’s coming,” interrupted Neville in a small voice. “Look, we don’t have to go today. A lot of people aren’t, you know.”
“I want to go,” repeated Harry stubbornly, and it was true. Ever since he had first come to Hogwarts, the castle had been the place that had felt most like home to him. Of course, when you lived with the Dursleys, nearly anything was an improvement, but Harry had always enjoyed being at the school, always enjoyed the sense of belonging that it gave him. However, over the past few months, that belonging had come to seem stifling to him, and he was forever dreaming about getting off the grounds. At least, getting out of the way of the other students, he acknowledged to himself. It was bad enough having them always tiptoe around him “ or, in the case of the Slytherins, try to trip him up everywhere he went “ but he had begun to get used to that over the past few years, or if he wasn’t exactly getting used to it, simply ignoring them. But now that he knew about the Prophecy, he couldn’t help but see every one of them as a reminder of what he would one day have to face. He couldn’t help but look at them and wonder what they would do if he failed.
It was all just too depressing to contemplate, and Professor McGonagall jerked him out of his thoughts before he could depress himself any more.
“What do you think you’re doing, Mr Potter?” she asked him, her beady eyes narrowed. In one hand she clutched a ream of permission slips, and a group of small third years skittered past her to the carriages, making sure to give the three older students a wide berth.
“I was going to Hogsmeade, Professor,” Harry said quietly, trying to keep a sullen note out of his voice. He felt uncomfortable, as if she had caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to do, like sneaking supplies out of a store cupboard. It made him feel embarrassed and grumpy, especially as he was doing something that he wasn’t supposed to do, Hermione’s reassurances aside.
The beady eyes softened somewhat. “I’m sorry Potter, but as you know, students may not leave the grounds without the express permission of their guardians, and-”
“And Sirius is dead,” said Harry bluntly. “So his permission doesn’t count any more.” He knew he was right, but he wanted to hear her admit it, and felt a sort of savage pleasure in making her do so.
“Actually, it does,” said Hermione coolly, before Professor McGonagall could reply. “I’ve been looking it up.”
“Potter is under-age, Miss Granger,” said McGonagall, in a voice that was dangerously low, “And his guardian is dead. I’m sorry, Harry, I wish it wasn’t so, but that’s the case. And as I have no permission slip from either your Uncle or Aunt, then I am afraid that you may not leave the grounds.”
“Prove it,” said Hermione flatly. She shot Harry a remorseful look. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” she asked. “I wanted to tell you earlier…”
“Prove what?” snapped McGonagall, her temper clearly slipping. Hermione might have been her favourite student, but even so, their Transfiguration teacher would only give her so much leeway. Hermione glanced at Harry again, and he nodded at her, puzzled. He had the feeling that he wouldn’t like what she was about to say, but Hermione wouldn’t do anything without a good reason. He knew that much.
“Prove that Sirius is dead,” said Hermione, very fast. Her face was red, and she looked very unhappy. McGonagall just gaped at her, and Harry felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. Neville just looked at the ground, scarlet.
“Hermione,” he said, “Hermione, Sirius is gone.”
“Yes he is,” said Hermione. “I know it. We all know it. But we can’t legally prove it. Not without a body, anyway.”
“If we can’t prove it, then why did Gringott’s read his will?” said Harry loudly.
“They’re allowed,” said Hermione. “They’re goblins, they’ve got their own way of doing things. But goblin magic doesn’t stand up in a wizarding court “ they don’t know how it works, and frankly they just don’t think it’s that important. It’s a bit of a sticky area, actually, but in 1743 a ruling by the Wizengamot said, and I quote, ‘What happens in that bloody bank stays there. Do we look like we’ve got goblin teeth to you?’” She stared painfully at McGonagall. “Under wizarding law, in the absence of a body, all documents of the presumed deceased are held to be legal for the period of one year. After that, the wizard or witch is declared legally dead and the documents null and void.”
“Hang on a minute,” said Harry, catching on. “In a year I’ll be of age anyway.”
Hermione nodded. “That’s true. But until then, the permission slip that Sirius signed for you still stands. Legally, that is.” She was very pink, and didn’t seem to want to look McGonagall in the eye. The elderly witch glared at her, clearly unhappy, but Harry could have sworn that he saw a glint of admiration in the old eyes.
“Very well, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter,” she said. “I stand corrected.” She gave the three of them a wintry smile. “Enjoy yourselves, and stay out of trouble.”
“Yes, Professor,” said Hermione meekly, and the two boys echoed her. As soon as McGonagall’s back was turned, they raced for a carriage, and piled in. Out of the window, Harry could see his Transfiguration teacher haranguing a group of fifth years about appropriate skirt lengths. As the carriage pulled away, he could hear her raised voice carry past them, lecturing on the need for standards that reflect the reputation of this school. The fifth years were looking sulky, and Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for them.
“I’m sorry,” said Hermione quietly from the corner of the carriage. Her hands twisted in her jumper. “I didn’t want to just blurt it out in front of you like that.”
“It’s okay,” said Harry, and meant it. “I’m glad you know this stuff. I just really didn’t want to stay in today.” He grinned at her and Neville, and if it was a little forced they had the grace to pretend not to notice. “Besides,” he said, a little too heartily, “I want to get some Cockroach Clusters for Ron. Might make up for him not being able to come.”
“I’m not sure anything could make up for having to spend the day with Malfoy,” Neville observed, and Harry, snorting, had no choice but to agree.
The three of them spent an awkward half hour wandering round the streets of Hogsmeade, trying to pretend that all was normal. The little village was usually bustling on the days when students were allowed to visit, but now the streets were eerily empty, with small knots of students hurriedly moving from shop to shop. The doors and windows on the buildings were shut, instead of being as welcomingly open as normal, and event he normal residents of the village seemed dour and worried. All in all, Harry was beginning to wish he had stayed at the castle, but the feeling wore off when Hermione and Neville dragged him into the Three Broomsticks. Granted, it was quieter than normal, but still bright and warm, and they snagged a table in a corner from where they could watch people come in and out, and Neville went to the bar and snagged them some Butterbeer and some hotpots. The noise and the warmth were relaxing despite the sombre nature of the village, and Harry felt himself drifting off slightly. He wasn’t required to talk anyway “ Hermione was holding forth about a trip to the bookshop, trying to convince them to come with her. Harry grunted non-committally, and privately resolved to take Neville to look for some sweets while she was browsing. He’d made the mistake of visiting a bookshop with Hermione before, and though he knew that Neville was too polite and too shy to disagree with her, he thought that he could sneak the two of them off someplace interesting while Hermione was engrossed in the stacks.
As it turned out, they never reached the bookshop.
Hermione had marched off before them, and Harry and Neville were trailing behind her, somewhat reluctantly, with their collars pulled high around their necks. Autumn was definitely upon them, and Harry wished he had thought to bring a scarf with him.
“At least the bookshop will be warm,” Neville said quietly to him, seeing him shiver.
“If nothing else.” Harry smirked at him.
“What was that?” floated back to them.
“Nothing, Hermione,” they chorused back, sniggering to themselves, and trying to look innocent. Harry was sure they wouldn’t have fooled anyone, and indeed Hermione was looking at them with one eyebrow raised.
“Shall I meet you in half an hour?” she asked, shaking her head in mock disgust, and leaving them to escape. They hadn’t gone more than a few feet when Neville sagged against Harry, a small choked sound coming from him. A horribly familiar feeling swept through Harry, cold and terrifying. He stumbled for a moment under Neville’s weight. It didn’t help when Hermione started shaking him.
“Harry! Harry, you’ve got to snap out of it! You too, Neville,” she said briskly, pulling him up. In a moment Harry was himself again. He was getting all too used to the feelings that Dementors gave off, but he had to admit that it made him a lot better to see Hermione’s face. At any other time, her seeming indifference to the Azkaban guards would have made him nervous, but when he looked into her eyes he could see no sign of confusion or panic at all. It made him feel stronger.
“Where are they?” he said wildly, spinning around.
“They?” said Neville. He sounded as if he was going to be sick. “You mean there’s more than one?”
“It’s stronger than it was in the Forest,” said Harry, almost to himself. He twisted again. “I just can’t see them.” He couldn’t hear them either, he realised, but he could hear the rest of Hogsmeade. Screams and panicked yelling were coming from the streets and shops around them, as the chill spread by the Dementors spread through the village. At the edges of his hearing, he could also make out small muffled pops, the sound of people disapparating, and the slams of doors and windows. Suddenly the village seemed all too deserted, although he knew that it couldn’t be true.
“Everyone’s leaving,” said Neville slowly, as if waking from some horrible nightmare. “Can’t you hear them?” He looked over at Harry and Hermione, and there was no colour in his face. “They’ve gone to get help, haven’t they?”
Harry didn’t know what to say. He hoped that was the case, but he couldn’t be sure. He had seen enough wizards and witches react to the threat of Dementors or Death Eaters, and he knew that panic often overrode their better instincts. Especially now, when panic was the one thing that Voldemort was trying very hard to spread. He thought of Lupin suddenly, and it strengthened him. Lupin had been so sure that Voldemort would hold his forces in reserve for a while longer, and Harry believed that he was right.
If Lupin was right, then this would be more of the same. A quick raid, and not a frontal attack. Harry didn’t want to let himself consider what minimal damage could mean in this case. He tried to calm himself and think, think before rushing into things as was his usual wont. Hermione tugged at his arm.
“Harry,” she said briskly, as if asking him to pass the salt over dinner, “Harry, we’ve got to find the other students.”
“They’ll be halfway back to Hogwarts by now, if they’ve got any sense,” said Harry. He sincerely hoped that he was right, and that his fellow students, like the rest of the village, had either run or found a place to hide. He knew that it would only take one of them to get to Dumbledore for the rest to stand a greatly improved chance of surviving. He looked at Hermione and Neville, and dismissed the thought that Hermione was probably better equipped to deal with Dementors than he was. It seemed that he was always leading them into danger, and he suddenly felt very strongly that the most sensible thing to do right now would be to get straight back to Hogwarts. He felt no inclination to be a hero and go stalking Dementors through the streets of Hogsmeade.
“Come on,” he said. “Quickly. We’re going back to Honeydukes. We can get to Hogwarts from there.” Neville looked puzzled, but he knew that Hermione understood about the tunnel in the cellar.
“We’ll check the streets on the way,” she said calmly, and frowned at him when he gave her a look. “I’m a Prefect, Harry. I’m responsible for them, I need to look. Just in case. It won’t take long.” Beside her, Neville nodded. He still looked like he was going to be sick, but he nodded.
“She’s right, Harry.” And he was forced to agree.
Wand out, a part of him wondered if she wanted to meet a Dementor.
A few minutes later, Harry scrabbled at the floor of the cellar, his fingers scraping on the wood. Dimly, a part of him knew that he would have splinters later. A bigger part of him was just grateful to be able to breathe again, although he was till wheezing, half-winded. Some hero I am, he thought bleakly, and half-snorted at the ridiculousness of the situation. Dementors at the door and here I am worrying about how I must have looked! After all, the third year “ whatever her name was, he still didn’t know “ was here with them, and not cowering in the streets of Hogsmeade with a twisted ankle. So what if he had more dragged her through the streets than carried her. He wasn’t bloody Dudley, with more muscle than brain.
The trapdoor lifted beneath his fingers. Silently he thanked Fred and George for their dedicated rule-breaking. He had no desire to be trapped in a shop “ even if it was Honeydukes “ with Dementors at the door and no way out. He hauled on the arm of the girl he had rescued, ignoring her whimper. A sprained ankle was likely to be the least of her worries if she didn’t get a move on “ there was no way that he was going to try and carry her back to the castle, hero complex or not. “Hurry up,” he said to them all. “We need to get down here as soon as possible.”
“What’s down there?” said Neville. He looked pale and shaken, but his voice was steady.
“Tunnel,” said Harry briefly. “Goes right back to Hogwarts.” He grabbed his friend by the arm and propelled him towards the trapdoor. “Get them there as fast as you can.” They had indeed come across a small group of third years, the same group that Harry had seen passing their permission slips to McGonagall. Third years, who Lupin had said there wasn’t enough time to train in the D.A., and who couldn’t produce a Patronus. They had been cowering behind old boxes at the back of the sweet shop. Neville had heard them crying as they approached. Unfortunately, so had the Dementors. “As fast as you can. And find one of the teachers, if they don’t know already.”
“Where will you be?” Neville asked.
“Right behind you,” said Harry fervently. “Trust me, Neville, I’m not about to play the hero this time. Hermione and I will find a way to block the door then we’ll run for it.”
“You never know, Neville,” Hermione interrupted. “We might just catch you up in the end.” She started down through the trapdoor herself, and Harry heard her reach bottom. There were voices beneath him “ they seemed to be arguing. He threw himself through the hatch after them, and pulled it down firmly behind him, sliding the bolts across. It wouldn’t stop the Dementors for long, but it might slow them down a little. Already he could feel them moving through the pub, and grimaced. The outer door hadn’t held for long. He hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Flume and the rest of the customers had found somewhere safe to hide, but he wasn’t about to go searching them out. They hadn’t exactly bothered to help him, after all. When they had pushed through the door, the sweetshop had been deserted, and no-one had answered his calls for help.
He turned, and his eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the tunnel. Both Hermione and Neville had theirs wands lit, but the small lights only made the surrounding darkness seem blacker. “Neville, what the hell are you still doing here?” he snapped.
“They’re not moving, Harry,” said Neville despairingly, and looking beyond him Harry could see the third years, huddled together in a small group. They looked terrified. “I’ve tried to tell them that we have to go,” said Neville urgently, “but they just stand there and stare at me.”
Harry pushed past him, and stared at them, shoving down any sympathy he felt. “Right,” he said. Behind him, he could hear Hermione casting the Colloportus charm on the hatch, and not a moment too soon. Doors rattled above them, and for a split second Harry felt nothing but blind panic “ but he knew that Hermione’s spells were strong enough to hold for a short while, and he pushed it aside. “Right. Listen to me, all of you. This isn’t a game. There are Dementors up there and if you don’t start running back to Hogwarts now, you might not be running anywhere ever again. Now move!” His voice got steadily louder, and echoed in the tunnel, but the third years just huddled down further against each other, and sobbed. Harry looked at them hopelessly. He knew that he couldn’t blame them “ after all, at his first encounter with a Dementor he had fainted, and he had had far more experience with the dark arts than them at the time. “Look,” he said hurriedly, starting again, and trying to keep his voice calmer. To his surprise, Hermione stepped up beside him.
“What are you still doing here?” she snapped, in an eerie impression of Professor McGonagall. There was a break in the sobbing, and several jaws dropped open. Harry saw Neville shoot him a half-terrified, half-amused glance. Hermione swelled in a manner that reminded Harry inescapably of Mrs. Weasley whenever she found her children doing something wrong. “I am a PREFECT,” said Hermione, bitingly, glaring at each child. “And if you don’t get yourselves down that tunnel right now, you’re all getting detention. For a week.” She stuck her hands on her hips. “With Professor Snape. Do I make myself clear?”
Ten seconds later they were scuttling down the tunnel, Neville bringing up the rear with his arm around the shoulder of the girl with the twisted ankle.
“Hermione,” Harry blurted, shaking his head as they were trying to strengthen the charm on the hatch. “I don’t know what to say…” Inwardly half of him was noting that the younger students had responded much better to the more familiar threat of Snape (but he supposed that they had practice in dealing with that one), and the other half was wondering, almost sniggering, over the fact that Hermione probably believed that it was the Power of the Prefect that had got them moving. Dimly, stupidly, he wondered if he should have contacted Percy and gotten her an entirely different book for her birthday.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Hermione answered grimly, confirming his suspicions. “I’m not allowed to put them into detention for a week. Only a teacher can make them do it for that long.” She glanced at him, a worried expression on her face. “D’you think they’ll tell Professor McGonagall?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Harry grunted. “I really think we’ve got bigger things to worry about, Hermione.” Exhausted, he lowered his wand. “This isn’t working. We can’t keep it up much longer.”
“Colloportus wasn’t meant to stand up to much, really,” answered Hermione, her voice tinged with panic. Harry couldn’t quite understand why, given that the Dementors had proved to be not that keen on her in the greater scheme of things. In irritation, he supposed he would have felt better about it if had any idea what was going on with her, or with anything. Harry felt like he was at the point where he was about to stop being fussy when it came to information. He was getting damn tired of secrets, whether they were for the supposed “greater good” or not. He wished that he hadn’t promised Hermione that he wouldn’t pry “ the frustration was getting too much for him; it made him want to explode “ or at least explode something.
The thought caught at his mind, and he grabbed Hermione’s arm, hauling her back a few feet from the trapdoor. “What are you going to do?” she asked him tiredly.
“Reducto,” said Harry briefly, and raised his wand.
“What?” said Hermione, half-shrieking. “You’re going to blow the trapdoor apart? They’ll come right for us!”
Harry gaped at her for a moment, dumbstruck. He had an eerie half-second of flashback to the time when he and Ron were in first year, and trapped in Devil’s Snare with a witch who needed to light a fire but was shrieking that she had no wood. The rattling of the trapdoor jerked him out of the memory. The wood was beginning to give and the tunnel beneath it was growing distinctly colder.
“No,” he said, almost absent-mindedly. “I’m not going to blow the trapdoor apart. I’m going to blow the tunnel apart.” Ignoring Hermione’s expression of utter dismay, he pulled them both back further and aimed his wands at the sides of the tunnel a few feet ahead of them. As he cast the spell, first one wall and then the other collapsed in a deafening rumble, completely blocking the tunnel and cutting them off from the Dementors. Harry lowered his wand, coughing on the dust. The tunnel was dark, and silent apart from the final sad sound of the last streams of dirt sliding onto the floor. He heard Hermione mutter something under her breath, her voice as strained from coughing as his was, and a small light appeared at the end of her wand, illuminating them and the dead end in front of them. Her face was pale and dusty, and Harry knew that his must look the same.
Hermione tugged at his hand, drawing him back through the rest of the tunnel to Hogwarts. He resisted for a moment, a foolish thought hitting him, and Hermione turned to look at him questioningly. “What is it?” she said, sounding scratchy.
Harry waved his wand aimlessly at the blockage. “Fred and George are never going to forgive me for this,” he said.
“I really think we’ve got bigger things to worry about,” Hermione said tiredly, but there was a touch of amusement in her voice nonetheless. “Don’t you, Harry?” She tugged at his hand again, and this time he let her lead him away.