Thirty
Ron: Pranksters and Prats
Ron took stock of the situation as he ducked behind a wide column to avoid the crush of bodies. Surely Amos Diggory was only weighing Hermione for a post with the Magical Creatures Department. The man was an upright bloke; his dad always said so.
Like a hippogriff catching sight of a fat ferret, Auntie Muriel’s overworked adage came to mind.
He flinched as a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
–Don’t lag behind, chum,†Neville’s familiar voice muttered in his ear. –They’re recruiting for the Auror Department in the Defense classroom. Flitwick’s been itching for this one all day!â€
Ron returned a blank look to Neville’s playful eyebrow wag. –Left those ambitions behind,†he acknowledged. With my carefree childhood, he thought to himself.
–I’m not looking to join up either,†Neville coaxed. –But they’ve gone and sent their sacrificial lamb.â€
The allusion was lost on Ron who just shrugged.
–Remember Proudfoot? One of those oafs who stumbled about Hogsmeade while Draco plotted Dumbledore’s demise unimpeded.â€
The light bulb clicked behind Ron’s eyes. The toerag who kept looking down his nose at Tonks because she was a bloody woman, his mind filled in. He gave his long-time friend a sloppy grin. –Going to take the piss out of him?â€
–Not me!†Neville protested as he set a quick pace. –Professor Flitwick was the one to make the connection. I’m just along for moral support.â€
Moral support, that was a laugh! Especially coming from someone who’d spent the past year like a thorn up the Death Eaters’ backsides. Stringing up Ministry morons would be a snap!
–Count me in,†Ron issued with relish. Besides, Hermione would be fine with the Headmistress on hand; McGonagall was as true as they came.
–That’s the spirit, sport!†Neville urged. –Luna offered to warm him up for us.â€
Despite the size of the cathedral-like room, the rows of desks were filling up fast. In anticipation of the extra bodies, folding chairs had been stacked neatly against the far wall. A hastily written sign hovered above: To avoid mid-air collisions, these chairs have been warded with an Anti-Levitation Charm. Ron chuckled as he recognized Flitwick’s rounded letters.
They wound their way to join Luna and Dean, wooden chairs tucked under their arms. Feeling at ease among the remnants of Dumbledore’s Army, Ron crossed his long legs before him and glanced about casually.
It was a chamber designed for grand displays of magical prowess, the high vaulted ceiling to further awe the students below. With the adjoining office at the top of a short flight of steps, it also made for dramatic entrances. Ron scowled at the memory of Gilderoy Lockhart flouncing down those very steps, oozing with false charm to the star-struck students before him.
Well, Hermione had been star-struck, Ron corrected himself. For whatever reason, Lockhart had come across as a phony-baloney to him from the start. And that was before the man’s lies had been revealed for all to see.
Well, he wasn’t some naïve second-year anymore. He was…. an overgrown seventh year who’d spent the better part of the previous year traipsing about the countryside -- aimlessly at times. Somewhere along the way, he’d learned to destroy Horcruxes, rescue swords from frozen ponds, and escape the gnashing jaws of evil more often than he liked to remember. Not to mention that he had an Order of Merlin to prove that these were acts of bravery, not just a string of questionable choices.
He might not have seen everything, Ron decided, but he’d seen enough to not act like a total rube anymore.
Barely standing higher than the stone railing, Professor Flitwick drew everyone’s attention as the growl of his throat clearing echoed with a last-minute Sonorus Charm. –Where would we be without the dark wizard-catchers who keep our lanes safe? Today we are pleased to host Mr. Fenton Proudfoot of the Auror Department.†With a magnanimous wave of his arm, he urged his guest forward.
Proudfoot nodded briefly and then took the stairs at a measured pace. Instead of mugging for the audience, he concentrated on navigating the worn stone steps.
A flash in the corner of Ron’s eye warned that Peeves was lurking just behind the carcass of a two-headed crocodile. Quick as a shadow, the poltergeist eased himself behind the stuffed pygmy bicorn. The creature’s small stature belies its deadly intent, Ron winced as the words of Flitwick’s lecture echoed in his brain. He crossed his legs more tightly as he recalled the professor pantomiming how the beast could rip open its enemy’s soft underbelly with one toss of its powerful head.
Were those Dungbombs Peeves was juggling inside the pockets of his garish trousers? Surely not ink pellets… Ron smirked at the possibilities, but regretfully Proudfoot managed to reach the front of the room without any mishaps.
The slightly rumpled Auror surveyed the crowd with the same suspicious look he gave his captives. Not that he seemed the type to have engineered many successful raids, Ron concluded inwardly. More like the sort who excelled at brown-nosing. His father had spoken enough about his Ministry co-workers for Ron to make the connection.
–I’m certain our students are anxious to hear how their classmate, Harry, is progressing in your department,†Flitwick urged.
Unsure whom to address, Proudfoot randomly decided the bookshelf on the left wall was the main focal point in the room. –Err, yes. Harry Potter is one of our newest recruits. Don’t personally deal with the trainees myself, though.â€
With that less than riveting beginning, Proudfoot launched into a meandering tale of how his Department’s functions dovetailed with the rest of the Magical Law Enforcement Division and the wizarding world at large. After the first few sentences, Ron labeled him a total bore. No, make that a bore rolled in stale flour and served with a side of ‘who cares?’ Why the man was even more monotonous than Professor Binns -- mainly because the professor had the novelty of being a ghost -- but it was hardly a flattering comparison.
Ron pasted the vaguely entranced expression on his face that he used to daydream in class without alerting the teacher. Not that it had ever worked on the likes of McGonagall. Or Snape; that man had a sonar detector in the back of his greasy head -- or so Seamus always claimed. Admittedly, Flitwick had never been fooled, either, Ron grimaced as he caught the professor’s eye.
Flitwick had the look of a garden gnome who was waiting for you to turn your back so he could chomp on a particularly ripe peony. Puckish, Hermione would say.
There was no denying that without Voldemort’s threats hanging over them all, Filius Flitwick had taken a new delight in life. Why Ron was fairly certain the tiny professor had been behind the ingenious prank involving the dragon skeleton suspended from the ceiling of this very room. After all, who else would’ve had such a golden opportunity?
It had started as a vague tickle in the back of his mind. Paying it no heed, Ron snuggled more deeply into his downy covers, the lingering smile on his face a product of a truly excellent Halloween feast followed by a relaxing snuggle before the fireplace with the Head Girl herself. He allowed the weight of the castle ramparts to embrace him as he drifted off to sleep together with the rest of Gryffindor House.
He squeezed his eyes shut when the indistinct echo came once again. Probably the autumn wind howling through the Forbidden Forest, was Ron’s foggy conclusion. His lips twitched at the thought of Crookshanks launching into a tuneless serenade if it grew any louder. That wretched cat had become increasingly demanding after being reunited with Hermione.
–Separation anxiety,†Professor Figg had called it with a knowing look. But Ron was of the mind that Figgy was apt to confuse cats with children -- which they most definitely were not!
The tickle grew into full-fledged screams, jerking Ron awake. In one fluid motion, he rolled into his slippers, clutching his wand in one hand as he struggled his other shoulder into a woolen jumper.
Silhouetted by the banked embers, Hermione and Dean were already in the common room, wands held low but at the ready. The low light caught the orange sequins of the festive top Hermione had worn to the feast, attesting that she had not yet turned in for the night.
Probably hard at work on an assignment, Ron considered. He’d long ago come to accept Hermione’s eccentric habits as part of the whole package. It really wasn’t much different than his mother reading detective novels late into the night when the house was quiet around her.
Even without looking over his shoulder, Ron could sense the younger students piling up behind him. Shadowy figures on the far side of the sofa revealed that more startled bodies had spilled out of the girls’ rooms as well.
With a draft of icy wind, the ghost of Sir Nicholas de Mimsey-Porpington whooshed through the wall. To judge from his cloak of sparkling net, his deathday party must’ve just ended. As his vaporous form drifted closer, Ron could see that the cape was constructed of spider webs.
With real spiders crawling over the surface.
Ron turned away in disgust as he managed to get his other arm through the jumper sleeve without losing his grip on his wand.
–It’s him!†Nearly Headless Nick moaned as he threw his insubstantial hands over his ears. The motion made his head wobble dangerously atop his neck, straining the remaining inch of skin that kept it attached. –He’s back from the dead because he wasn’t on the guest list!â€
–Who’d you snub, Nick?†Dean issued with a note of amusement.
The smile died on his lips as the ghost replied, –Riddle, Lord Voldemort, the Dark --†Frightened squeals and a few ragged sobs cut him short.
To her credit, Hermione issued a carefree, if somewhat artificial, laugh. –Why, Sir Nicholas, what a time for a ghost story! You would’ve been an instant sensation at the feast.â€
Ron hoped that no one else had noticed her frightened eyes and the way her throat continued to gulp noiselessly.
–Good one, Nick!†Ron gathered himself to stand at his girlfriend’s side. –You know, as well as we do, that old moldy Voldy’s pieces are so strewn about eternity that he’d never find a way to materialize!â€
He was rewarded with a few nervous titters. But before the tension had dissipated, an emerald flash in the hearth made everyone jump. Ron barely kept himself from clutching his chest in surprise. Not a good example to set, he reminded himself.
A collective sigh of relief greeted Professor Vector as she straightened to full height before the mantelpiece. Underneath her quilted dressing gown, the legs of her black satin pajamas were stitched to resemble the bones of a human skeleton.
She leveled a reassuring smile on her skittish charges. –Indigestion from all those sweets already?†she soothed. –Where are my brave little lions?â€
–In Africa,†a feisty lad no higher than Ron’s waist issued as he clung to the sleeve of the professor’s robes. –There haven’t been any lions in the British Isles for eons.â€
Professor Vector gave him an affectionate smile. –As well you should know, Patrick. Your zoology books are a source of entertainment for us all.†She lifted her head and gave the hovering Sir Nicholas a piercing look. –Deathday party over so early this year?â€
–It was an intimate affair,†Nearly Headless Nick sniffed. –Saving the big to-do for my 510th, but that’s still a few years off. Still couldn’t convince poor Cuthbert to join in…â€
–That’s Professor Binns to the rest of us,†Hermione supplied.
Nick nodded morosely. –Poor sod still hasn’t come to terms with being a ghost! Actually maintains in that whiny voice of his, ‘Everyone says that about me. I just have one of those non-bubbly personalities.’â€
Blimey, even the ghosts in this place were mental, Ron couldn’t help thinking.
–That’s too bad,†Professor Vector deftly played along. –I was hoping we’d all been roused by the thirteenth encore of that delightful banshee quartet from last year.â€
A tall fifth year named Formosa drew a few steps closer. –Totally unnerved those dreadful Carrows, too. Never did get a chance to compliment your excellent choice, Sir Nicholas.â€
Despite his translucent features, it appeared that Nearly Headless Nick was actually blushing. –Well, not everyone shares my superior taste in music.â€
–Certainly not the Headmaster,†snorted a robust third year. –He offered to douse them in kerosene and check the effectiveness of his wandless Incendio Charm.â€
Their Head of House gave an appreciative chuckle. –Professor Snape always had a overdeveloped flair for the dramatic. Don’t forget he was under a lot of stress.â€
The sound of concurring giggles from all sides helped to lighten the mood.
–Now, Sir Nicholas,†Professor Vector waved him closer, –some of the younger ones have never attended one of your soirees. I’m sure they’d love to hear more.â€
A wide-eyed second year gazed imploringly at the ghost. –Why do you celebrate the day you died?â€
Nearly Headless Nick gave her an indulgent smile. –Because that’s the day my existence changed forever. To a ghost, his deathday is like a combination of a graduation ceremony and debutante ball.â€
–What sort of entertainment did you have this year?†Formosa urged with curiosity brimming her dark eyes.
–Only the best for the Porpington clan,†Nick gushed. –I had the honor to host Sir Klewlis of Claymore. Surely, you’ve heard of his ground-breaking work with dissonant harmonies.â€
–Shattered a few eardrums, that one has,†Dean muttered so only Ron and Hermione could hear.
Nick waited for the students to shake their heads raptly before continuing, –If only Hogwarts’ curriculum included a course in musical appreciation. Why then you’d all know the sad tale of Sir Klewlis who wandered too near the snout of a sleeping dragon. One huge snore and he was sucked into the beast’s gullet, thereby discovering the musical range of the dragon dulcimer. Not that he lived to tell the tale, of course, but he’s a virtuoso among us ghosts.â€
–You don’t mean to say he smuggled a whole dragon into the Gryffindor dungeons?†Patrick asked with a keen expression that said he very much wished it to be so.
–Absolutely not!†Nick expounded. –Live dragons are never appropriate for indoor events, or even those too close to wooded areas. In this case, Sir Klewlis used a specially cured dragon ribcage. It was most entertaining to see him scurry about beneath those huge arches, knowing exactly which juncture produced the most piercing sounds. Did you know that Hebridian Blacks …â€
Ron caught the quick jerk of Professor Vector’s eyes, urging the three oldest students to ease out while the rest of Gryffindor House was entertained.
Once past the portrait hole, Hermione rounded on him immediately. –You know you’re no longer a Prefect, Ron,†she hissed.
–No, but I’m well acquainted with trouble,†he argued.
–And you think Dean isn’t?†she countered under her breath. –While we were sitting in our snug tent, Dean was dodging Snatchers at every turn with only the shirt on his back.â€
Ron recalled their tent had been drafty and smelled of mildewed socks when it rained, which it did for days on end. But he knew better than to interrupt Hermione when she had worked up a full head of steam.
How could he explain that he was not about to turn his back on her again? Once had been enough for him to recall the sour taste of self-loathing. Despite his sister-in-law’s skill with French recipes, nothing had tasted right during those weeks spent at Shell Cottage. Hermione could berate him all she liked, but he was intent on atoning for his earlier abandonment. Of course Ron wasn’t about to tell her as much. Only a world-class wanker like Malfoy would say such things aloud in order to worm his way into someone’s affections.
As it was, Dean took up for him. –Glad to have you lend a hand, mate. Face down whatever it is like you did the basilisk.â€
The way the disjointed sounds seemed to writhe through the walls reminded Ron of the Chamber of Secrets as well, so he didn’t mention that it had actually been Harry who’d fought the monster. Facing off against a deranged Lockhart was even more foolhardy come to think of it.
By then they had joined the other House Prefects and teachers in the corridor leading to the Dark Arts classroom. Must’ve woken up half the school, Ron concluded silently as he jockeyed for a clear view. It took him a few extra seconds to recognize the two students rambling about an avenging ice dragon as they clutched their frost-rimmed clothing to their bodies.
First on the scene, Hogwart’s own Prophet of Nonsense, Peeves the poltergeist, was whooping delightfully among the shadows that danced across the ceiling beams. –Icy love puppies,†he sang disjointedly. –Snowballs in purgatory. Naughty knickers in a knot.â€
–What’s the meaning of this cacophony!†McGonagall demanded as a path opened between the onlookers. Even with her hair in a long, pewter plait, the Headmistress still cut an imposing figure.
–Out of bed after curfew,†Filch growled with satisfaction. –Shall I take them to the dungeons, ‘mistress?â€
–That’s hardly --â€
The rest of her words were lost in the uproar as Peeves launched into an impromptu chorus of:
Out of clothes,
Out of luck…
For a split second, it seemed that the poltergeist might make an unfortunate, albeit accurate, rhyme. But finding Professor Sinistra’s wand in his face made him hesitate.
–Watch it!†she warned with thunderbolts for eyes. –I’ll report you to the Spirit Division! Care to spend the next century hauling perfumed toilet water for Moaning Myrtle?â€
Sticking his bottom lip out defiantly, the irrepressible troublemaker quickly changed tactics.
What will they find?
Will their parents be told?
Both expelled in the cold…
McGonagall gave a heavy sigh as she did her best to ignore the poltergeist’s tiresome meddling. Feeding on the mayhem around him, Peeves swirled gleefully from one end of the room to the other, back and forth like a tireless bird searching for the lone open window.
–WHO DARES DISTURB THE LAIR OF THE WHITE WORM?†The words seemed to come from everywhere at once. –SACRILEGE ON THE ONE NIGHT EACH YEAR THAT I’M ALLOWED TO RETURN TO MY FORMER ICE PALACES!â€
Caught in mid-swoop, Peeves hovered bare inches from the moving jaws of the immense hanging skeleton. The fangs looked like they could chomp through the castle’s granite walls. Peeves clutched his chest in abject fright as a lightning storm erupted all around him.
Ron caught one of the square slips that cascaded from the rafters. He couldn’t help smirking at the expression of shock the candid photograph had captured. Talk about turning the tables on Peeves for once. Unable to adequately process a spiritual being, though, the image was already beginning to fade.
McGonagall was engaged in summoning the remaining photos which littered the floor and desktops. Most of these showed Eustacia Grant and Heath McCrae, both of Slytherin House, in various positions of disarray. She clucked in disapproval as she shoved the images into the pocket of her tartan dressing gown.
–Has anyone seen Professor Slughorn?†she demanded to no one in particular.
–Right here, Headmistress,†Slughorn replied as he worked his way towards her. Ron nearly burst out laughing at the long nightcap which covered the portly professor’s bald head. –The cries seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the castle.â€
–I believe you’ve misplaced some of your charges,†the Headmistress scolded as she shoved the offending photographs into his hands.
Slughorn flipped through the images too quickly for Ron to get a good look, but it was clear Stace and the He-man had settled in for a rather rambunctious snogging session. The professor looked up with a deepening frown on his pinched features. –Frankly, I’m ashamed, Miss Grant. And Mr. McCrae, I’m fairly certain your mother taught you better manners than this.â€
–I trust you’ll escort them to their proper dormitories,†McGonagall directed. Turning towards the guilty couple, she added, –There’ll be time enough tomorrow to compose some strongly worded missives to your parents.â€
–Are you going to ship us home on the Hogwarts Express?†Stace moaned tearfully.
–Send an entire train for two brainless dolts?†the Headmistress sniffed.
–We could stuff them in burlap sacks and ship them out via Floo,†Filch supplied hopefully.
–Thank you for your input,†McGonagall replied. –But I’m certain Professor Slughorn can find a proper punishment…. Although, I’m certain Madam Pomfrey has some bedpans that need scrubbing.â€
–Absolutely,†the matron agreed from where she had been hovering expectantly. –Now that Quidditch season is underway, there’s always a stack of bedpans waiting for attention.â€
–I’m certain Miss Grant will be glad to report after breakfast tomorrow,†Slughorn returned. –Now for Mr. McCrae…â€
–Perhaps Hagrid could use some help with his vegetable garden,†Professor Sprout supplied.
–An’ rightly so,†Hagrid’s voice boomed from the back of the crowd. –Could use some nimble fingers around me rainbow rhubarbs. They’re mighty partic’lar ‘bout getting fertilizer on their delicate stalks.â€
Professor Sprout was having trouble controlling her grin as she added, –Are you still using dragon dung?â€
–Thestral,†Hagrid clarified. –Hasta be collected in the dead o’ night when they glows an eerie grey. We’ll hafta burn the reek off yer clothes afterwards, son, so make sure ta wear yer scruffiest.â€
Heath looked like he might prefer to sink through the castle bedrock as his Head of House assigned him to two weeks’ worth of fertilizing chores.
The crowd managed to keep its composure until Slughorn’s voice could be heard trailing off in the distance, –These are hardly the sorts of photographs that I want lining the shelf, I’ll have you …â€
Even the Headmistress’ lips twitched as she reminded those assembled, –Hope you enjoyed the floorshow, but it’s time everyone returned to their beds. Or at least their common rooms. And no souvenirs,†she admonished as she snatched a few errant photos which Peeves was trying to stuff into his pockets. A quick flick of her wand and the Headmistress handed the top one back. –There, that’s better.â€
–That’s quite good,†Flitwick crooned at the poltergeist’s elbow. With the proverbial steam let out of him, it came as a shock that Peeves was barely the taller of the two. –Fancy dress is always a welcome addition to our Halloween festivities. Wide-eyed like that, you make a quite convincing house-elf, Peeves. Next time, may I suggest draping yourself in the traditional towel, though?†Luckily, McGonagall was already out of earshot as Flitwick added, –The Headmistress has some with the school crest in her private lavatory.â€
Peeves gave the professor a withering look before whizzing off in a huff. Amid the nervous laughter that echoed in the suddenly quiet room, Hermione shared a pointed look with Ron.
–She wouldn’t have been so lenient if it had been one of us,†she whispered.
Dean nodded knowingly. –Point taken.â€
Hermione’s warm fingers curled around Ron’s affectionately. He gave her hand a squeeze in return to signal that he understood. Luckily, neither one of them was so rash. Even without the Marauder’s Map as a reference, Ron still had a working knowledge of the secret passages that crisscrossed the castle. Neither of them let things get out of hand: feet firmly planted on the ground and hands restricted to the outside of their clothing. Ron had accepted the ground rules Hermione had set from the start. After all, she had also reminded him that there was plenty of time for other things when they were well away from school.
It had not escaped Ron that some people were prone to say hateful things about Hermione because she was Head Girl … and, frankly, they were not. Despite the temptation to hex those prats into the next century, he refused to give them the satisfaction of having gotten under his skin. Plus he didn’t want to spend the remainder of the school year in detention.
Now a well-placed practical joke, on the other hand…. Harmless enough and it might just passed unpunished. Besides, Ron had long suspected that one of the major functions of the faculty staffroom was so that the teachers could laugh in private.
By the next day, though, Ron regretted not having scored one of those photos to use as a visual aid. Everyone wanted to know the details from eyewitnesses. Then they embellished to their hearts’ content: Stace was in the Hospital Wing from the ghostly silver dragon’s breath that had all but incinerated her bare torso. Heath was lucky his more tender bits hadn’t been in the direct line of fire.
Ron shook his head as he laughed long and loud at each new and improved version. To her credit, Hermione’s Head Girl dignity rose to the surface as she simply offered up a foreign phrase that Ron translated as ‘flagrantly indisposed.’ Even that was an exaggeration of sorts. Did no one realize that the two tossers would’ve been soundly expelled if half of those insinuations were true? But apparently, a realistic retelling was the last thing on anyone’s mind.
What most intrigued Ron was that no one had come forward to take credit for the prank, to claim the crown that had been handed down from the infamous Marauders to his own twin brothers. And as far as he knew, no one had ever managed to wind Peeves up before. To piss off, yeah; but to actually embarrass the shameless little berk, never. Merlin, he was going to miss this lunatic asylum after graduation!
Granted, it had taken a lot to convince Hermione that Flitwick himself had been the one to devise the prank. A veritable uphill battle complete with a gigantic boulder that rolled him back to the start each time. Not that many of his discussions with Hermione didn’t follow a similar pattern. A regular Quidditch match of friendly discord. She was outspoken, if nothing else.
But Ron didn’t mind. He’d grown up in a family who believed in a lively exchange of ideas. So much more preferable than the silent treatment Harry’d endured at the Dursleys -- as if he were nothing but an unsightly carpet stain which everyone was doing his best to ignore. Even a stern lecture from his mum was less disagreeable. Granted, he could’ve done without the Howlers.
True to her competitive nature, Hermione encouraged spirited debates and verbal chess matches that often spanned days. He soon learned that she genuinely respected him for voicing his opinion, even if she disagreed. Much to his surprise, he found he had opinions about all sorts of things. She might not see things his way -- and had no qualms about saying so -- but his contribution was always welcome. It was one of the things that he had come to treasure about her.
Other girls -- well, Lavender, to be exact -- hadn’t really cared what he thought about anything other than Quidditch -- and even then, not very often.
The path to the truth is seldom self-evident, Hermione would say. She particularly relished subjects they could chew at for weeks on end. So it had been with pinpointing the mastermind behind the Halloween prank. Since no one had been bold enough to confess, speculation was a popular topic in hushed corners.
–You have to admit, Hermione,†Ron whispered fervently, –Flitwick had the opportunity.â€
–And the motive, I know,†she allowed with a weary sigh. –But the world’s not like detective fiction, no matter what your mum thinks.â€
–So says someone who hasn’t a clue.â€
–True…but I can’t see a teacher of all people playing a practical joke on a student.â€
Ron had been expecting that, so he volleyed back, –No? What about when Snape threatened to poison someone to help the class master antidotes?â€
Hermione rolled her eyes. –A motivational technique, at best.â€
–Don’t forget the lesson on banishing boggarts.â€
–I hardly think…†she began only to be shot down almost immediately.
–Remus was a member of the renowned Marauders.â€
–Was being the operative word…â€
–Taught me to laugh at spiders,†Ron argued. –But even you have to admit Remus got Snape pretty good. Poor, hapless Neville as the instrument of his revenge was bloody brilliant!â€
–It wasn’t intentional!†Hermione maintained.
–He laughed along with everyone else.â€
–Would you have preferred he pass out detentions?†Hermione retorted.
–Don’t get your bun in a twist,†Ron chided playfully. –Rumor was that Snape had the paint peeling in the staffroom later that evening.â€
–Likely when the Headmaster told him he couldn’t flay Remus instead,†she chuckled unabashedly at the image. –Not that Snape couldn’t bubble the paint with one disdainful glance, I warrant… None of which proves anything about the latest prankster.â€
Ron waited for the proper moment to dredge up the subject a few days later. –What about the photos themselves?†he pressed his advantage. –You yourself said how unusual they were; that they didn’t move all over the place like most others.â€
–Are you suggesting it might be a Muggleborn then?†She was clearly intrigued by this new angle. –That certainly narrows the field.â€
–Anyone can have access to Muggle photo equipment.â€
–No, the photos were definitely from a wizarding camera. The victims were blinking in disbelief. But each only captured a second or two of time; usually there’s more movement,†she pondered. –Perhaps it was the presence of a motor drive.†For Ron’s benefit, she clarified, –A device that makes the shutter snap continuously. Each photo wouldn’t have had time to absorb much motion before it was already being spit out.â€
–Any idea how to bewitch a camera to do that?†Ron brought his point home.
–Clearly it wouldn’t be at all like enchanting a Muggle gadget to work by magic. It would take a powerful charm to over-ride the normal functions of a wizard-crafted object.â€
–See? You just proved my point. It has to be a teacher. And Flitwick is a master at charms.â€
–He has been particularly cheerful lately,†Hermione mused. –But all the teachers are now that those wretched Carrows aren’t breathing down their necks.â€
–No one would’ve suspected Flitwick spending some extra time in his own classroom.â€
By the small private smile she gave him, Ron knew he had finally won her over. –Not just that,†she confided lowly. –I think he’s secretly relieved that none of the members of his own house got caught.†She nodded towards the nauseating display of Orla and Stewart trading kisses between bites of their supper. –Last week, they were so wrapped around one another I was genuinely afraid they’d swallow each other’s lips!â€
At the front of the room, Proudfoot’s enthusiasm seemed to have run its course. He gave a wheezy cough as he looked for assistance from the wings.
With an innocent-looking smile, Flitwick obliged, –I believe one of our students has a query. Yes, Miss Lovegood?â€
–Auror Proudfoot,†Luna began in her trademark dreamy tone, –I have to say your face looks very familiar. Was that you I saw rooting about Hagrid’s back garden a few years back?â€
Caught off-guard, Proudfoot’s jaw worked soundlessly for a few seconds before spewing forth, –Musta been while my squad was stationed in Hogsmeade village. The Ministry assigned us to protect the school from dangerous intruders.â€
–And did you find any lurking about the elephantine cabbage?†From anyone else, it would’ve seemed an accusatory statement, but Luna made it sound like nothing more than polite small talk.
–Nothing to be found,†Proudfoot harrumphed. –We were misdirected at every turn.â€
–No one suspected Rosmerta of being part of the plot?†Flitwick volunteered.
–Didn’t seem the sort, if you catch my drift. Sure, she was appalled when her part in the whole sordid scheme came to light,†Proudfoot elaborated. –Not that she remembered anything, but there are other ways to identify those who were unwitting victims of the Imperius Curse.â€
Ron vividly recalled the explosive article in the Daily Prophet: long on speculation and short on facts. But the photo of Rosmerta’s anguished expression before the Auror squad said it all. Her throat worked in a silent wail as she bunched her apron between her hands. In the next moment, she had collapsed to her knees and was holding out her wrists to be handcuffed. The expression in her dull eyes made her look older than Ron had ever supposed.
–No indications in her behavior otherwise?†Flitwick prodded. –Anything that would’ve alerted you to keep a close eye on her?â€
–Well, you saw for yourself,†Proudfoot defended. –Three Broomsticks was bursting with business. If not the student hordes, then the townspeople from miles around. Seems they found the Auror presence put their minds at ease.â€
–As well it should have,†Dean groused. –The true danger was lurking within these very walls.â€
He had spoken under his breath, but enough of the nearby students overheard to rally with cries of, –Here, here!â€
–Perhaps you should share your observations with the rest of us,†Flitwick instructed. For Proudfoot’s benefit, he added, –That’s Dean Thomas, Head Boy.â€
Slowly, Dean rose from his seat. –I was just saying that the most evil collaborator was one of our own.â€
Proudfoot nodded glumly. –Never got a chance to question any of the students. Dumbledore forbade it outright. Said that was his jurisdiction.â€
–Did anyone actually suspect Malfoy?†Justin threw at him.
Seeing the morose look on the Auror’s face, Ron interjected, –Harry did. Kept telling everyone who would listen. He was dismissed at every turn for not having any hard evidence. Seems his hunch was right on the mark after all.â€
–The Headmaster dismissed the accusations because he already knew,†Professor Vector supplied from the back of the room. –Knowing what we do today, does anyone doubt that Professor Snape had briefed the Headmaster thoroughly?â€
–We might’ve been more successful if Dumbledore had turned the Malfoy lad over to the Aurors for questioning,†Proudfoot theorized. –Although that could’ve put the lad’s parents in jeopardy.â€
–A veritable tightrope,†Flitwick conceded. –Who’s to know how that abominable Unforgivable Curse could’ve snuffed Severus when anyone least expected it?â€
With a pained expression on his face, Proudfoot acknowledged, –It’s a fact of life for an Auror. Dark wizards will employ all sorts of underhanded tactics, but we must apprehend them in an upright manner without succumbing to the same lawlessness. Oftentimes, that can put us at an unfair disadvantage.â€
–What about Hit Wizards then?†Heath challenged from where he sat by himself. No one had really been surprised when his romance with Stacy couldn’t weather the humiliation of a well-executed prank. –Aren’t they allowed to use deadly force?â€
Proudfoot looked distinctly uncomfortable at this line of questioning. –Strictly speaking. But they’re kept on a very tight leash, as the saying goes. Offing one’s enemies is a good way to start -- or escalate -- a war.â€
–Shacklebolt’s the sort who always preferred subterfuge,†Flitwick put forth.
–Yeah,†Proudfoot agreed. –‘Aggression lacks finesse,’ he used to say when he was part of the rank and file. Many thought he was a bit out-of-touch, but now he’s the Minister for Magic.â€
–If you don’t mind me asking…†Augusta Longbottom took boldly to her feet. –How exactly are Hit Wizards recruited?â€
Proudfoot gaped at the elderly witch who didn’t stand much taller than the average fifth year. –Planning on a career change, Professor?†he teased.
Unfazed by the titters, Augusta volleyed, –It was a vague dream in my youth. That is until the rigors of raising a family derailed my ambitions.â€
–Have to say no one would’ve suspected you, madam,†Proudfoot smirked.
Her scowl could’ve burned through sheet metal. –Dawlish said the same thing when his ribs made contact with my Stunner,†Augusta allowed. –You will tell him that I didn’t realize he was undercover.â€
–Longbottom, isn’t it?†Proudfoot backpedaled. –Your son had a glowing reputation among those Aurors who still remember. Never had the privilege myself.â€
–Daughter-in-law and grandson as well,†Augusta crowed. –Stand up, Neville. I’m certain Auror Proudfoot will remember you.â€
–I wish you wouldn’t, Gran,†Neville grumbled under his breath. He rose only far enough to direct a curt nod in Proudfoot’s direction.
–That’s Professor Longbottom as well,†Flitwick explained. –A recent addition to our staff. Prefers working with plants instead of snakes these days.â€
By the widening of Proudfoot’s eyes, it was clear he had finally caught on that he was being out-flanked. Puffing himself up to full height, the Auror noted, –I believe you had a question about Hit Wizards.â€
–Thank you for remembering,†Augusta cooed. –The shriveling figs in my classes are dying to know; they just don’t want to be the ones to ask.â€
–Well, I hate to disappoint the laddies -- and young ladies, too,†he corrected himself at the last moment. –The Ministry does zero recruiting for Hit Wizards.â€
–Are they being fazed out?†came the rallying cry from the back.
–What if….?†Stew Ackerly posited with an audible gulp. –Are we so certain that evil is banished forever?â€
–Naw,†Proudfoot prattled. –If dark wizards die out, Aurors will too. Or we’ll be nothing more than over-trained crossing guards around Piccadilly Circus.†He waited for the giggles to die down before he confided, –Just like there’ll always be a need for Hit Wizards in the most extreme circumstances. But it takes a rare individual to stomach the spells which are part of an assassin’s stock-in-trade. Potential candidates are identified in the course of their Auror training…â€
Ron had little trouble grasping the distinction Proudfoot was struggling to make. It was the difference between tyranny and fairness, but it certainly made tracking down dark wizards too much like dodging school bullies. More than ever, Ron didn’t envy Harry’s posting with the Auror Department.
Yet the guileless prat droned on, –… able to blithely withstand the Unforgivables are either deemed too reckless and allowed to resign -- or funneled into the Hit Wizard squad.â€
Ron debated asking how the determination was made when a flutter of parchment wings alighted in his lap. Silently, the note unfolded so he could read the words within. He recognized his sister’s hurried scrawl without much difficulty.
we can make a grand entrance once everyone’s gone down
to supper. Oliver Wood’s with me, by the way. If you can
slip out unnoticed, we’re in the east anteroom. The door is
spelled to recognize you, but you must come alone.
G
He mumbled a few nonsensical syllables so those around him would just assume he was headed for the bog. Finding himself completely alone in the corridor, Ron took an unorthodox short-cut hidden behind one of the brocade tapestries.
Even the movements of the staircases seem foreign in this part of the castle. Granted, his last memories of this sector were of tumbled walls and choking dust from the Last Battle. But without the wide expanse of sky above, he found the corridors too much like catacombs for his liking.
Had he really grown that much since he’d wandered past the kitchens in his fourth year? Or was it yet another illusion from the Headmistress’ subtle reworking of the castle’s architecture? Hermione had been the first to remark upon the phenomenon, concluding that it was McGonagall’s way of urging them all to put that devastation behind them.
–Not that any of us would ever forget,†she’d qualified. –But those memories should be locked forevermore in our hearts where they belong.â€
He was deeply into Hufflepuff territory now; the next flight of short steps and a sharp turn to the left led directly to their underground common room. If he continued to the very end of the disused hallway, a crooked staircase provided an alternate route to the dungeons. Granted, no self-respecting Slytherin would take such a path to his common room, even if he knew the convoluted route. But thanks to the Marauder’s Map, Ron had sent Hermione and Luna by this route to spy on Snape’s office while Harry had accompanied Dumbledore to retrieve that worthless locket. It had seemed a clever ruse to keep the girls from encountering anyone else -- that is until the school’s protective charms had been breached by none other than Draco Bleeding Malfoy…
Ron’s thoughts were jarred back to the present by the portrait of satyrs dancing a jig in the middle of a forest clearing. Accompanied by one of their fellows on a fiddle and wild geese on the tambourines, their cloven hooves left dark marks in the soft ground which healed of their own accord. Hermione would’ve instantly censured it for omitting the pan flute which was a satyr’s favored instrument. Artistic license run amok, her voice rang clearly inside Ron’s mind.
He held out a tentative hand to the polished doorknob immediately before him. The door clicked open just as Ginny had promised.
There was little doubt that Ron had never been inside this room before; the gilded chairs with silk cushions seemed too fancy for student use. The far wall was dominated by a life-sized photograph of the Triwizard Champions who’d gathered in this very room while Harry’s fate as the fourth champion was being hotly debated. Ron clearly recalled a snarling Severus Snape warning all others to stay clear if they valued their lives. The threat in his coal black eyes had been hard to ignore.
No doubt about it, Harry had been right to focus on Snape from the very beginning. That onerous man had turned out to be the key to….everything. They should’ve heeded the words of the Potterwatch dedication and just trusted Harry’s instincts.
It was all so clear now: Snape laying out the false trail like some diabolical prankster, allowing himself to be swallowed by dark forces when it suited his purposes. They’d all taken the mickey from the very beginning, arguing that Harry was letting his own hatred of the man overcome common sense. Granted, that had been fueled by the legendary bad blood between Snape and Harry’s father, James. Oh, how cleverly the cards had been played.
But Harry had stuck to his initial impression, bucking them time and time again when they insisted that the real fly in the pudding was someone else. Even when Harry’d kept his feelings bottled up, the grim set to his jaw had said it all.
It was difficult not to stare at the photograph of his friend which had obviously been taken at the height of his teenaged awkwardness. As the youngest, Harry was in the foreground with eyes blinking dazedly into the camera. Immediately behind, Dumbledore’s likeness was conversing animatedly with Cedric who looked every inch the Hogwarts’ champion. Karkaroff was whispering urgently into Viktor Krum’s ear while the lad stood at rapt attention. Seated in the middle of the group, Fleur’s self-satisfied smile showed that she was truly at ease. Probably recognized that she couldn’t take a bad picture, Ron thought wryly.
How depressing to think that fully half of those pictured were no longer alive. Death had truly been their dogged camp follower as Harry maintained.
Taking a few steps into the formal room, Ron caught sight of Ginny and Oliver. Their uniforms of differing shades likened them to a pair of mismatched chess pieces.
Ginny was pacing a path in the hearthrug, doing her best to avoid looking at the imposing photograph. As often happened, Ron felt that Harry’s spirit had never left these hallowed halls. What was the expression Hermione used? Conspicuous by his absence; that was it.
Likely, Harry had been right about Ginny, too -- although his sister was too pig-headed to see it.
Did she really want the world to think she’d outgrown the Chosen One and good riddance? Or was it something else entirely as Hermione seemed to think? Ron was inclined to trust Hermione’s instincts rather than risk asking his mother and being told soundly to mind his own stinking business.
Catching sight of him, Ginny closed the distance between them and wrapped Ron in a bone-crushing hug. Even before she’d released him, his old housemate was pumping his hand effusively.
–Ginny tells me you’re Quidditch captain now,†Oliver began.
–Only this year,†Ron admitted self-consciously. He was about to add that Harry had been in charge during their sixth year, but one look at his sister’s fiery expression convinced him he wasn’t about to step into that quagmire.
–Good chances for Gryffindor then?†Oliver posed.
–I’d like to think so,†Ron tendered. –But the spring games are always the hardest to call. No sooner has the snow melted than we’re up to our broomsticks in mud!â€
Before the boys could descend into a rehash of every game they’d played, Ginny interjected, –Speaking of which, good thing we’re not scheduled for the pitch. Bleachers were still dripping when Hagrid led us through the back gate.â€
–Hardly,†Oliver countered, –they’ve worked up a nice sheen of ice by now.â€
–Wicked,†Ron chuckled appreciatively.
Ginny gave them that patented look of females everywhere that seemed to imply that men were an alien race onto themselves.
–Did you bring a recruiter with you?†Ron asked as he looked about the room hopefully.
–Not this time. They prefer observing matches when no one suspects,†Oliver supplied. –We’re here on a goodwill mission of sorts.â€
–McGonagall thought we’d be an inspiration to our classmates,†Ginny volunteered as she chewed her lip apprehensively.
The look she flashed him said it all. –No other alums, sad to say,†Ron provided with feigned casualness. –Lots of recruiters, though. Hermione’s meeting with one at this -- â€
Before he could finish, the fire flashed a bright green, causing them all to jump back in surprise.
The Headmistress’ square-framed spectacles looked up at them from the emerald embers. –I see you’re all settled then.†Turning her head, she issued, –No need for cloaks, Kreacher. Filius will have used his Climate Control Charm to warm the tower ramparts... Yes, I’ve found the others just where they should be.â€
In the next instant, McGonagall was shaking the last of the sparkly dust onto the oval Axminster which graced the center of the room. –I’m so pleased you were able to get word to your brother,†she effused. –Things are a bit of a circus today.â€
Tartan skirts barely arranged in the nearest armchair and the Headmistress motioned towards the sideboard where a silver teapot began pouring tea of its own accord. Deftly the cups floated to hover just before their recipients. A three-tiered cake stand didn’t have to bump Ron’s elbow twice for him to snatch a few choice morsels. Oliver did likewise, but Ginny just waved it away with a wistful look.
–Now, I’m sure you’ve already been briefed about how you’re to swoop over everyone’s heads,†McGonagall instructed.
–Like two overgrown owls delivering the morning post,†Oliver chuckled.
Before the Headmistress could provide any more last minute instructions, the door to the outside corridor creaked open just enough to allow Filch to trot in like a bandy-legged bulldog.
–Sorry to interrupt,†he grunted. Despite his servile tone, the man’s beady eyes regarded the three of them suspiciously.
Nothing would delight him more than if he discovered we’d nicked the silver, Ron grumbled to himself.
–If you’ll excuse me,†the Headmistress supplied as she herded the caretaker out of earshot. Over the crackling of the cheery fire, they strained to overhear. –… certain? It’s been a century at least since anyone wandered there! … no real danger, still… excuse the workmen for the remainder of the day…â€
Filch was still whispering hurriedly into the Headmistress’ ear when the door opened once more to admit Madam Hooch. She hesitated when she saw the worried crease on McGonagall’s brow. –Change of plans?†she inquired.
–Just another matter that needs my immediate attention, I’m afraid,†McGonagall issued with an apologetic quaver. –Mr. Filch, will you see that our honored guests are properly attended during the cocktail hour. Have Professor Sinistra open a few more bottles of sherry. Allow the guests to enjoy the first evening star peaking over the violet dusk.â€
Filch gave a quick nod then flung a sour parting look over his shoulder at the others.
Mrs. Norris padded silently to join him, her tail swishing with disdain.
The moment the door closed, the Headmistress turned directly to Ron. –Mr. Weasley, we seem to have uncovered an artifact from your first year. Your expertise would help me out greatly.â€
–Sure, yeah,†Ron stammered. –Whatever I can do to help.â€
–Sorry to cut your reunion short,†she demurred.
Not to be outmaneuvered, Ginny sprung to her feet, –Could I come along, too, Headmistress? I’m trying to stay in training and that cake stand is rather persistent.â€
McGonagall returned an indulgent smile. –If you don’t mind a bit of a walk. Is that all right with you, Wood?â€
–Of course, Professor,†Oliver returned.
–I’ll make sure Mr. Wood is well entertained in the meantime,†Madam Hooch issued with a silky smile aimed in Oliver’s direction.
Imagine that, Ron smirked to himself, even the starched Games Mistress has her favorites. Now that was one for the record books.
He tore his eyes away to observe the Headmistress walking the perimeter of the room. –Now what’s the best route that won’t ruin your surprise visit?†Her finger tapped her lower lip in thought.
–No fireplaces nearby?†Ron suggested hopefully. This could be a rare treat as the school’s private Floo network only recognized teachers; students could only use it to communicate with their families.
–Anything that far underground would be prone to cave-ins, bats, or worse,†McGonagall supplied.
Ron’s fertile imagination didn’t have any problem filling in the rest: Acromatulas as large as his father’s Ford Anglia. He gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of giant webs spanning abandoned chimney ways. The likes of them would be caught in a giant, sticky trampoline.
Abruptly the Headmistress stopped before an ornate tallboy. –I hope you’re not adverse to stairs,†she muttered. After a few moment’s consideration, she opened three small drawers seemingly at random and then stepped back. Nothing happened. She raised a granite eyebrow in query, but there was no reaction.
–Could be it’s a bit rusty from disuse,†Madam Hooch volunteered.
–Do you think?†McGonagall considered. With a flick of her wand, she Transfigured the milk jug into a oil can. Her wand guided it to where the cupboard rested against the flocked wallpaper.
The cabinet issued a low groan as the drawers banged shut with a clap of oaken thunder. Like a giant concertina, the sides folded in upon themselves with a sharp snap. Where moments before there had been a piece of furniture, now stood a door recessed into the wall. The lock responded to a large key which McGonagall withdrew from the antique ring at her waist.
–Just give the lights a moment to warm up,†the Headmistress issued of the pitch-black opening before her.
Ron gulped at the spiral row of brackets that descended into the very bowels of hell. Their bluish cast reminded him of that dastardly round room in the Department of Mysteries. What a cock up that had been!
He cleared his throat nervously. –Er, Headmistress, ma’m, if you don’t mind me asking, shouldn’t we call on Hermione?â€
McGonagall laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, –In this case, Mr. Weasley, it’s you who possess the necessary knowledge -- even if you don’t recognize it. But I don’t mind including Miss Granger if you wish.â€
Her lips pursed into a tight frown as she consulted the personal hourglass which hung from her neck. With a sure hand, the Headmistress dispatched triple cat Patronuses: one to locate Hermione, the other to alert the kitchens to hold supper back another half hour, and the third to advise the Deputy Headmaster to provide the opening remarks in the Great Hall if she was further delayed.
–I’ll send my trusty kestrel to let you know when the hour draws nigh,†Madam Hooch assured Ginny. –These stairs also lead to the unused gallery where you and Oliver will launch. I can Levitate you up the stairwell if its too tight to fly your broomstick.â€
–Best you save the aerial risk-taking for a more appropriate time,†the Headmistress warned with a frosty glance aimed at the Games Mistress.
Ginny took one look at the tight confines of the corkscrewing steps and sent her broomstick to the nearest corner with a mighty swish. –I’ll trust my own legs, thank you very much. Just allow me an extra five minutes.â€
In single file, they followed the Headmistress’ catlike tread with Ron bringing up the rear. The temperature dropped perceptively as the dampness leached through his woolen trousers. The sprightly Quidditch prattle in the background faded away to be replaced by echoes of dripping water, providing a hollow cadence to their somber descent.
Why did he always get drawn into these dodgy situations? At the instance of the Headmistress, no less. Ron was uncertain whether or not that heightened the element of danger. Either way, he found that his curiosity overshadowed any sense of dread -- just as it always had.