Hermione scoffed in Ron’s direction as he was absent-mindedly following McGonagall’s slow pace at the fore of the room. “It doesn’t look too bad anymore,” she muttered, indicating Harry’s black eye that had faded into a grotesque yellow color.
Harry merely glowered and continued taking notes on Animagi.
He didn’t care to have the fact that he and Ron had fought carried on his face all day for several days. Thankfully, the bruise seemed to be fading.
Still, Hermione would occasionally bring up the subject of his kissing and it never ceased to make him want to hide in a broom closet. Ron hadn’t said anything else before taking a swing at Harry’s face. He had somehow expected his friend to do something like that. What truly crawled under his skin was that, for the first time, Harry couldn’t do anything. He felt impotent. It never even occurred to him in that moment to grab his wand. He’d just stood there . . .
Sunday was rather tense until Ginny had pulled Ron away and spent half of the day alone with him. When they came back, Ron seemed much better, but Ginny was distant. She had yet to do more than tough his hand.
Somehow, this all seemed to be her doing. She’d kissed him, she’d caused the fight, she’d stopped Ron, and then she was the one avoided even getting close to Harry. Frustration boiled in his belly.
In all of this, Hermione still wasn’t speaking to Ron.
“ . . . Bear in mind, this is extremely advanced magic. It takes years of intense study to master the art. Yet, many a good wizard has died in the attempt to become an Animagus . . .” McGonagall’s lecture barely filtered through his thoughts.
“Are you listening?” Hermione hissed from his left.
“To Professor McGonagall? Yes. She said “ “
“Not her! Me!”
“Must’ve missed it,” Harry said with a delicate touch of sarcasm. Ever since Saturday, Hermione latched herself to him in valiant efforts. She was stalwart in her stance . . . the problem was that Harry was sure no one knew what her stance was. He had a feeling it was something between Hermione and Ron, and left it at that. Harry surmised that they would always be either just in or just out of a battle, and as long as he had both friends, he wouldn’t bother with it.
Looking as if she could clutch a ball without the use of any of her limbs, Hermione tore a piece of parchment and scribbled furiously before pushing it at him and once again paying attention to McGonagall’s speech on the historical uses of animagi talents.
Harry read it reluctantly.
After classes today, we’re going to go check the portraits for transfigured ones.
He discreetly allowed an eyeball to roll back. The girl never rested! Everything had to be studied extensively before she would ever be satisfied. As he recalled the lesson in which McGonagall mysteriously alluded to the possibility of transfigured portraits in the castle, his curiosity on the subject once again piqued. He allowed his mind to wander and guess at the true forms of the paintings in the castle.
He was still imagining creatures that would spring forth from the frames on the fifth floor in Potions. Strangely violet goblins scampered through the corridors of his mind throughout class (it was a good thing that the potion was meant to turn that color at a point).
“I certainly hope you are dreaming of making good marks in my class, Potter. It doesn’t seem to be likely that your petulant mind could possibly pull it off in this reality. After all, your existence in my class was the work of a brainless non-entity. At least the others in this class earned their position. You, however . . .” Professor Snape lurked over Harry’s shoulder as a vulture. Harry could feel his staccato breathing wafting on him, despite the fact that he was sitting much lower than the professor’s head. Shivers crawled down his spine and he ached to poke him with his wand, if only to push him a yard back. Instead, he grumbled, “I earned the marks for this class.” He left off the fact that he didn’t want to be there any more than Snape wanted him there.
“Twenty points from Gryffindor!” he announced to the class.
“For what?” he spat while fighting to control his features.
“For insubordination,” the older man purred.
“But I didn’t . . . insubordinate,” he refuted as the class snickered. Hermione nudged him gently in the side and he opted for a moment of glaring silence instead.
Someday, Snape, you’ll need me. Then we’ll see.
His opinion and mood had not improved when Hermione all but forced him out of the common room that evening and into the hallways.
“Tell me why we’re doing this again?” Harry asked as they strolled a bit quickly down the hallway.
“Because it’s interesting, and we may find something important, and it gives us something to take our minds off.”
“Off what?”
Hermione ignored him and kept a pace ahead, walking with a purposefulness that Harry simply could not understand. “Have you got a clue where to start?”
“Yes!” she exclaimed breathlessly. She must have done some studying, because when she got like this, there was no stopping her. She knew something. It was only a matter of time until she let the rest of the world in on her knowledge. “I’m…not really sure if you are supposed to be here with me. If we find “ “
“Find what?”
“Anything. Turn here.”
Harry was quite tired of her incomplete thoughts, but was bewildered when they ended up on the fourth floor. “Are we going to the library?”
Hermione beamed at him. “No!”
“Then . . .”
“Yes! Take a look at all these paintings. I was thinking earlier today that if we were going to learn anything in this castle, it would be on the same floor as the library.”
“What? That makes no sense. It doesn’t mean we’ll find anything up here.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit odd that the Mirror of Erised was on this floor, or that the library is?”
“No.” Harry crossed his arms. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so against the idea, but felt as if Hermione was grasping at straws. She had been a bit frightening as of late as well. He was beginning to question her mental state.
She threw a frown in his direction. In a painfully familiar pose, she put her hands on her hips. “Can you think of a better place to start?”
She’d got the best of him. Well, at least a part of her mind was still present and accounted for. “No.”
“Right then. What are the signs or clues to finding a portrait that is a transfigured object?”
“Professor McGonagall said there was a clue in the grain of the frame. As if it was a bit odd. I’m not sure, really. I think it was more like we had to look at them individually and see if there was anything strange about them.”
Hermione pursed her lips. “All right. I think it would be best if we just start at opposite ends of the hall here. If either of us sees anything, we’ll shout. Sound good?”
Harry nodded and watched Hermione dash down the corridor. Why is this all so rushed? There’s something she’s not telling me. Why did she make me come? I would have been perfectly happy to sit around the common room. Maybe then I could find out why Ginny all of a sudden can barely sit near me.
His brow furrowed as he turned to study the first painting. It was of a young girl, her bonnet sitting askew on her head. Her gentle smile was bewildering, belying the dangerous shadow that lurked just out of view. Harry knew it. He could feel it.
“Bullocks,” he mumbled to himself. “I’m a magnet for eerie feelings today.” He rolled his eyes and moved on to the next painting. The air around him seemed to buzz. He could hardly stand it. His previous meal was ill in his stomach and his hands were shaking. He risked a glance down the hallway and found Hermione intently studying a landscape portrait of some land far to the west. It’s going to be a long night.
There were literally hundreds of paintings littering the walls of each shadow-infested corridor at Hogwarts, and this one was no different at all. It was nearly an hour before his neck was so sore, he could barely creak it back into its rightful position. The tiniest of gasps hit his eardrums and caused his heart to hammer. “Honestly, that’s the last time I eat curry chicken,” he scorned himself, annoyed at the anxiety his body was displaying.
“Harry,” floated to his ears from only a bit down the passageway, and he turned to meet up with Hermione. She stood before a painting of an isle with veils of gray enveloping whatever mystery lay inside. Water lapped up onto the rocky shore. There, in the painting, stood a hooded figure.
“What is it?” asked Harry, seemingly intrigued by the figure, yet feeling a sense of foreboding.
“It’s a druid,” she nearly whispered. It was as if they were suddenly surrounded by the dead, and she was dreadfully opposed to waking them. Her eyes were wide and there was a sheen to her skin. “And Harry, look.” She pointed toward something on the druid’s finger. A gold sparkle. The menacing figure moved its hand just so, and suddenly, Harry realized it was a ring. “It’s your ring.”
“Everyone probably has a gold ring. What makes you think it’s mine?” He dropped his voice to match hers.
“I thought about that, but look here.” The figure in the painting straightened, its cloak falling slightly open at the clasp.
Curiosity was getting the best of him. “She’s a woman.” Somehow, this was surprising to Harry. The stature had looked so strong and powerful, he was expecting something of a warrior.
“A priestess. Some women were allowed positions of power in the priestly classes. That’s not it though. Look closely at her chest.”
Not a problem, thought Harry. As his eyes focused, he noticed something peculiar. There, upon the pale skin of the woman, he saw a tattoo.
“Very common among the Celts.”
Then he remembered. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it immediately! Harry wrenched the ring off of his finger, and examined it in the light that flickered from the torch on the opposing wall. His throat squeezed every bit of air from his lungs.
“It’s the same.”
“How do we change it back?” Hermione gushed quickly. It was as if she was running out of time, and Harry felt it too.
“I-I can’t remember. Hold on, let me think.” His brain didn’t seem to be cooperating. “We have to sort of know what it is first.”
Hermione growled in frustration. “What could it be?” In a low whisper to herself, she paced, and continued, “What could it be. What could it be.”
“Right. So it has something to do with my ring, the Celts, and this Druid priestess.” The clicking he had just become accustomed to stopped. “Hermione?”
“How specific do we have to be?”
“Er…well, I don’t know . . .”
“Can we try a few?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s do that. Alright. You try it first. Try it with . . . oh, I don’t know, ‘stone’.”
“Alright.” Harry took out his wand and pointed it at the painting, not quite sure what to expect. “Ir-Irrecastum granula.”
Nothing.
“Perhaps you said it wrong,” Hermione chirped unhelpfully. “Let me try. Irrecastum stone.”
Nothing.
“Oh, it was me, wasn’t it?” Harry quipped wryly.
She waved him off with a hand, and put herself to thought once more. She spoke a long string of words to only herself. “So if it was written about 1000 A.D., then perhaps…Yes. It could be that way. After all, in Egypt…and then the other was in Greece.”
She spun to face the painting. In swift movements, she swished her wand appropriately and said, “Irrecastum parchment!”
Nothing.
The more annoyed she became, the more Hermione’s hair saw fit to drift into her line of vision, prompting her to huff it away with a gush of hair from her lungs. Harry thought it was a bit funny (and fitting) how bothersome it so obviously was.
“Wait.”
Harry stared at her, waiting for her to finish the thought. The aggravation she was feeling visibly melted from her features. Silence hung heavily in the air. Once more, she faced the painting. “Irrecastum Lingua.”
It fell onto the floor with a clap that echoed off the high ceiling. Both lower jaws hung as far as their facial muscles would allow. Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand and held tight. Her grip was astounding, and more than slightly painful.
At first, nothing happened. They gaped at it with confusion until slowly, lines began to fade. Then, whole spots faded. When all was complete, it looked like a parchment lay on the cold, stone floor. “I thought we tried ‘parchment’.”
Hermione bent over and skimmed her finger across the surface. “We did. It didn’t work because . . .” she held it out to him, “it’s written on skin.”
Harry walked through the classroom. The D.A. members were improving “ there was no doubt about that. Nearly all took turns, taking care not to harm their partners. Most stood laughing occasionally and trading barbs.
All except those two.
It’d been like this for weeks. McKee and Draco would stare each other down, appraising abilities in a cold, calculating manner. Draco always appeared to be fit to burst with the anticipation of firing a curse at her. Harry couldn’t really understand why he didn’t. Even though Lupin was always alert to any trouble, he was sure the git of a Slytherin was semi-capable of quietly cursing.
While Draco’s eyes would quietly flicker toward the perpetually open office door, Mckee would simply stand there with her arms crossed. She never actually participated in the lessons. No, that wasn’t correct. She would occasionally practice lazily if Ginny insisted. (Why they were even friends, Harry couldn’t fathom). However, as everyone else loathed the two, they were doomed to each other’s presence.
They’ve been acting like this since the first day. I thought they would’ve fought or got over it by now.
As Harry strolled, he passed close by the two people he couldn’t stand. They were hissing comments toward one another. His ears began to take in their conversation on their own accord.
“Don’t talk to me, Mudblood.”
“If I’m a Mudblood, who is my Muggle father?” McKee wore a grotesquely sweet grin that Harry did his best to avoid looking at.
“Probably slinging mead in a filthy tavern. Probably the same wretched, low-life building you were conceived in,” Draco stated matter-of-factly.
“Oh, are we speaking of my mother now? Honestly, despite her upbringing, she caught a dead fish, wouldn’t you agree? I can see even your father taken with the slags of all varieties. Perhaps . . . like father, conspicuously like son?”
“As if I would dirty my hands with the common wizards in this school.”
“Wizards?” McKee’s voice lilted upwards along with the corner of her lip.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “In the gender neutral manner.”
“I’m sure . . .” Her eyes unseeingly grazed the room.
“Shut up, you pathetic little ingrate! The only reason why I don’t curse you now is because,” he suddenly perceived the uncomfortable corner he’d backed himself into, “because I . . . have better things to do.”
“Like sitting here and shouting at me about your sexuality?”
“No, like getting rid of Mudbloods like you!”
“Like you?”
“No, like you! How dare you suggest any different!”
“I dare, because I care-“
A flash of light, and McKee was on the floor, crouched, tightly wound, and ready to spring.