As was common practice at Hogwarts, the dorm Harry shared with Ron, Dean, Seamus, and Neville stayed in the same room they had occupied last year, with just the signage on the door changing to now read second years. While the other boys went right to bed following the Welcoming Feast, Harry took some time to unpack some of his things into his desk and chest of drawers, and do a little decorating—specifically with Puddlemere Uni paraphernalia, as Harry found he was quite proud of his team and of the contributions he brought to it. Uni was currently at the top of the league, and Harry had overheard coaches talking amongst themselves about players they felt had a real shot at making the English National Under-17 team for this year's Underage World Cup.
This morning, however, it was simply Hogwarts as usual. Harry was the first Gryffindor at breakfast, a feat he had somehow never managed to accomplish last year, despite his need for only a few hours of sleep a week. Instead of choosing a seat at the Gryffindor table, however, Harry saw Luna sitting by herself at the Ravenclaw table and decided to say hello. He walked over, her eyes following him the whole way, and sat down next to her, facing backwards on the bench.
"Hi Luna," he said. "Are you feeling good about Ravenclaw?"
"Oh yes," Luna said, her gaze flicking back and forth between Harry's eyes. "I like the Sorting Hat very much."
Harry smiled and nodded, even if he was not quite sure what she meant.
"It is odd, though, isn't it? Having to live in a room with others when you're used to living by yourself?" Luna said somewhat philosophically. She had told them on the train that she was an only child, and Harry recalled reading about her mother, Pandora, having died two years ago during an unfortunate accident while experimenting with creating a spell.
Harry nodded, understanding Luna's perspective.
"I found myself eventually getting used to it," he told Luna. "It's nice, in some ways, to see how other kids… I dunno, just deal with everyday things. It gives you exposure to new perspectives, which is a lot different from what I was used to."
Luna tilted her head and looked at him. Harry toned down his hearing, as her blinks made seemingly impossibly-loud slapping sounds.
"Do you spend most of your time in your dorm room, or your common room?" Luna asked.
Harry thought about it, and also thought about the likely reasoning behind her question.
"I think at first… I stayed in my dorm room more, but that was only for a couple of days, getting used to things. You get to know and meet a lot more people in the common room, not to mention picking up useful hints from the older students, even if they don't realize they're providing them. I wouldn't know half the secret passageways I do now if I hadn't eavesdropped on Fred and George Weasley in the common room."
"Hm. I wonder if Ravenclaw has a Fred and George Weasley," Luna said, stirring her porridge absently while still looking at Harry.
He chatted further with her until everyone else began showing up, at which point he retreated back to the Gryffindor table. As he walked away, he heard the other Ravenclaws starting to chat Luna up about how she knew him.
"I don't see why they can't send the schedules during the summer," Hermione was complaining when Harry sat down across from her and Ron. She was looking to the High Table with anticipation, but Professor McGonagall was just sitting down to breakfast in no apparent hurry to come around and pass out their class schedules.
Ron shrugged. "Wanting to get all their cats in a row first, I guess."
Harry and Hermione looked at him, which he eventually noticed as he helped himself to some bacon.
"Erm… I thought Dad said that was a Muggle figure of speech," he muttered.
Hermione smiled, and Harry nodded sympathetically. "You were close," he told Ron, now filling his own plate. "It's ducks in a row."
"Oh," Ron said. "Oh—wait, yeah that makes much more sense!"
They spent the next few minutes trading idioms from both cultures, others around them joining in. Only when a rushing sound overhead signaled the entrance of the morning post owls did the levity die down, the hall now filling with sights of letters and parcels being delivered to the chattering crowd. A big, lumpy package bounced off Neville's head and, a second later, an owl with rather tall legs fluttered down between Ron and Hermione.
"Where'd the ostrich come from?" Seamus asked, staring at the owl, whose legs Harry had to agree gave it an odd look.
"This is Tipper," Ron said, unfastening the letter attached to one of the owl's gangly legs.
"Oh no, did Errol…" Hermione started. Errol had been the Weasley's owl for years, and usually delivered any letters from the Burrow.
"Retire to the back garden? Yeah, he did. And he's just as useless but does seem a right bit cheerier not having to lug things around." Ron opened the letter, immediately grunting acknowledgement and refolding it as soon as he looked at it.
Hermione seemed unable to quell her curiosity. "Erm… short letter?"
Ron, already taking another bite of food, unfolded the parchment and showed it to those around him. There was only one word on it, in Mrs. Weasley's handwriting, in the center of the page: "Explain."
"We forgot to write your parents about the barrier," Harry realized aloud, grimacing. They had planned to tell them why they had nearly missed the Hogwarts Express, but had gotten caught up in all of the back-to-school distractions.
Ron shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "I'll send them a letter."
"I recommend sooner than later before Mum decides to send a Howler," George suggested.
An enveloped charmed to loudly below the correspondence of its author, exploding if not opened immediately upon arrival, a Howler was not the type of communication a Hogwarts student enjoyed receiving at breakfast. Ron's unperturbed demeanor shifted, and he turned to Hermione.
"Don't happen to have a quill, do you?"
But Ron had little time during which to write his letter; Professor McGonagall was finally moving along the Gryffindor table handing out course schedules. Harry took his and saw that they had double Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the castle together, crossed the vegetable patch, and made for the greenhouses, where the magical plants were kept.
As they neared the greenhouses, they saw the rest of the class standing outside, waiting for Professor Sprout. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had only just joined them when she came striding into view across the lawn, accompanied by Gilderoy Lockhart, who was hurrying to keep up with Sprout's brisk pace.
Professor Sprout was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair; there was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and her fingernails. Gilderoy Lockhart, however, was immaculate in sweeping robes of turquoise, his golden hair shining under a perfectly positioned turquoise hat with gold trimming.
"Oh, hello there!" he called, beaming around at the assembled students. "Just been advising Professor Sprout on the proper way to cultivate Quicksand Compost! But I don't want you running away with the idea that I'm better at Herbology than she is! I just happen to have encountered many a patch of quicksand on my travels…"
Professor Sprout looked up at Lockhart somewhat incredulously before making a point to look at the bottom of his robes, which Harry now noticed seemed to have a wet, sandy stain going all the way up to Lockhart's knees, leading Harry to wonder if Professor Sprout had perhaps just rescued him from said quicksand.
"Greenhouse three today, chaps!" said Professor Sprout, slowly disengaging her look with Lockhart before ignoring him completely, not at all her usual cheerful self.
There was a murmur of interest. They had only ever worked in greenhouse one before — greenhouse three housed far more interesting and dangerous plants. Professor Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling. He was about to follow Ron and Hermione inside when Lockhart's hand shot out.
"Harry! I've been wanting a word — you don't mind if he's a couple of minutes late, do you, Professor Sprout?"
Judging by Professor Sprout's scowl, she did mind, but Lockhart said, "That's the ticket," and closed the greenhouse door in her face.
"Harry," said Lockhart, his large white teeth gleaming in the sunlight as he shook his head. "Harry, Harry, Harry."
Completely nonplussed, Harry said nothing.
"When I heard — well, of course, it was all my fault. Could have kicked myself."
Harry had no idea what he was talking about. He was about to say so when Lockhart went on, "Making a mad dash to catch the train, right at the last minute—all eyes on you! Well, of course, I knew at once why you'd done it. Stood out a mile. Harry, Harry, Harry."
It was remarkable how he could show every one of those brilliant teeth even when he wasn't talking.
"Gave you a taste for publicity, didn't I?" said Lockhart. "Gave you the bug. Found yourself pulled into the spotlight with me and you simply couldn't wait to do it again."
Harry looked at him, confused at first, then catching on. "You mean the photo in The Daily Prophet?" Harry had made certain the picture taken at Flourish and Blotts would find a place relatively buried within the paper, ending up on page twelve next to a piece about the Weird Sisters revised touring dates.
"Harry, Harry, Harry," said Lockhart, reaching out and grasping his shoulder. "I understand. Natural to want a bit more once you've had that first taste — and I blame myself for giving you that, because it was bound to go to your head — but see here, young man, you can't start orchestrating stunts like this to try to get more attention. First, your shenanigans with the Dueling Championship, and now the train? Plenty of time for all that when you're older. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking! 'It's all right for him, he's an internationally famous wizard already!' But when I was twelve, I was just as much of a nobody as you are now. In fact, I'd say I was even more of a nobody! I mean, a few people have heard of you, haven't they?"
Lockhart continued talking, even as Harry openly stared at him, marvelling that the man was saying what he was with absolutely no concept of how ludicrous he sounded.
"All that business with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! It's not quite as good as winning Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award five times in a row, as I have — but it's a start, Harry, it's a start."
He gave Harry a hearty wink and strode off. Harry stood stunned for a few seconds, then, remembering he was supposed to be in the greenhouse, he opened the door and slid inside.
Professor Sprout was standing behind a trestle bench in the centre of the greenhouse. About twenty pairs of different-colored earmuffs were lying on the bench. When Harry had taken his place between Ron and Hermione, she said, "We'll be repotting Mandrakes today. Now, who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"
To nobody's surprise, Hermione's hand was first into the air. Harry was familiar with Mandrakes as, properly stewed, their leaves could serve as a powerful restorative, returning people who have been transfigured or cursed to their original state, which Hermione stated for the class, earning ten points for Gryffindor.
Professor Sprout gestured to a row of deep trays in which a hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in color, were growing in rows. Harry had never seen a whole Mandrake plant in person before, and was eager to test his connection with it, as he knew this particular plant had even more personality than the average magical vegetable. At another inquiry from Professor Sprout, Hermione explained the danger of the Mandrake, whose cry is fatal to anyone who hears it.
This seemed to be news to the majority of the students in Greenhouse three, whose eyes widened in alarm.
"Hence the earmuffs," Professor Sprout explained." Everyone take a pair and be certain they are good and snug over your ears. I will know if they are not, and do not take them off until I say."
There was a scramble as everyone tried to seize a pair styled to their liking. Harry found a nice blue pair that reminded him of his Puddlemere Uni robes. When he put them on, they shut out even his enhanced hearing completely. Professor Sprout put the pinkest, fluffiest pair over her own ears, double-checked that everyone was protected, then rolled up the sleeves of her robes, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.
Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and extremely ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of his head. He had pale green, mottled skin, and was clearly bawling at the top of his lungs. As Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunged the Mandrake into it, demonstrating the re-potting process, Harry focused on the screaming little Mandrake baby hanging from her fist.
It was an unusual feeling Harry got from it—not quite plant, but not quite animal. There was no strong sense of intelligence, but considering how clearly infantile the plant was, it did not seem reasonable to expect as much. Unhappy was the word Harry would use to describe it later, after they had eventually been able to replant the Mandrakes, all of which had thrown something of a temper tantrum until they had all become docile in the new, larger pots of compost the groups had each placed them into. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had been teamed with Hufflepuff Justin Finch-Fletchley, the four of them removing their earmuffs on Sprout's signal.
"That Lockhart's something, isn't he?" said Justin later as they worked to press the soil around the base of their plants and add the amount of water Professor Sprout had prescribed. "Awfully brave chap. Have you read his books? I'd have died of fear if I'd been cornered in a telephone booth by a werewolf, but he stayed cool and — zap — just fantastic.
"My name was down for Eton, you know. I can't tell you how glad I am I came here instead. Of course, Mother was slightly disappointed, but since I made her read Lockhart's books, I think she's begun to see how useful it'll be to have a fully trained wizard in the family."
"Sorry…" there was a hand on Harry's shoulder, and he felt someone press against his back. He had already recognized the fruity smell of Hannah Abbot's shampoo approaching, something Seamus Finnegan would not shut up about in their dorm the other night. "Could we use your watering can? Neville's spilled ours," Hannah asked.
Harry's group agreed, Justin moving over to give Hannah access to the can, but she remained peering around Harry's shoulder, holding out her arm for the can while the rest of her maintained contact with Harry.
"Thanks," she said innocently when Hermione passed it to her, and Hannah eventually slid away from Harry and back to her table.
Harry did not want to make eye contact with Hermione, but he also knew she knew he was avoiding her gaze, so he did anyway, regretting it at once at the look she was giving him.
By the end of the class, most everyone was sweaty, and covered in earth. They traipsed back to the castle for a quick wash and then the Gryffindors hurried off to Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall's classes had always seemed to be the most challenging for the majority of students, but today was proving to be especially difficult. She had quickly reminded them of what they were supposed to have already mastered by the end of first year, taught them a new technique which would turn a beetle into a button, and then tasked them all to try it. Able to accomplish this level of Transfiguration easily by now, Harry spied on the rest of the class, glad to see that there was at least some marginal success among the other second-years. His attention was drawn back to the table he was sharing with Ron when he heard a tiny clattering. Looking down, he saw that Ron, seeming to be as surprised and impressed as Harry felt, had succeeded at turning his beetle into a button. This did not go unnoticed by Professor McGonagall.
"Mr. Weasley," she said, coming out of nowhere to stand in front of them and peering down at the desk. "Now, can you change it back?"
Harry got only the slightest impression that McGonagall was suspicious about Harry having possibly assisted Ron's Transfiguration. He wanted to be affronted by the notion, but realized she would be well within her rights to think as much. Ron was Harry's best friend, and had not gotten through the first year curriculum exactly easily, so today's feat was quite the turn around.
Ron cast Harry a nervous glance, took a deep breath, and performed the incantation and wand movement to return the button to its natural beetle state. McGonagall watched the action like a predatory cat, but when the button transformed back into a beetle and started wiggling its little mandibles up at Ron, she looked just as elated as Ron did.
"Excellent work, Mr. Weasley! Take five points for Gryffindor," she beamed, not quite able to hide her shock, but then her expression changed; she looked like she realized something. "Is this a new wand, then?"
"Oh, yeah. Got it over the summer. Feels a lot different than Bill's old wand," Ron told her, admiring it.
McGonagall nodded and smiled. "Well, keep up the good work," she said before moving onto the next table, from which Hermione had been giving Ron a thumbs-up and now dropped it, looking flustered as McGonagall set her sights on Hermione's spellwork.
She needn't have worried, as she was one of the handful of students who had mastered the spell by the end of class. It was Ron's performance that was at the forefront of their conversation as they made their way down to lunch.
"But a wand shouldn't make that much of a difference, should it?" Hermione was asking as they waited for a staircase to rotate back into position. "It's the skill and determination of the witch or wizard that will dictate the results. You likely just… matured over the summer."
Ron shrugged, but Harry shook his head, unable to let that statement stand unchecked.
"The wand can make a tremendous difference," he told her. "You should do more research into wand lore."
She pulled a doubtful face. "I like to research facts, Harry, not the lore. I want to learn the history behind magic, not the mythology."
"Hermione… we live in a magical castle that's invisible to ninety percent of the world's population, and I have three pet dragons. You might want to… broaden your research style."
Hermione opened her mouth to give a quick reply, but held it back.
They did not discuss it any further, the conversation at lunch proving light as everyone seemed to be recalibrating now that they had the first morning of classes under their belts.
"What've we got this afternoon?" Ron asked with a sigh.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione at once.
"Why," demanded Ron, seizing her schedule, "have you outlined all Lockhart's lessons in little hearts?"
Hermione snatched the schedule back, blushing furiously.
They finished lunch and went outside into the overcast courtyard. Hermione sat down on a stone step and buried her nose in Voyages with Vampires again. Harry and Ron stood talking about Quidditch for several minutes before Harry became aware that he was being closely watched. Looking up, he saw a very small, mousy-haired first-year boy staring at Harry as though transfixed. He was clutching what looked like an ordinary Muggle camera, and the moment Harry looked at him, he went bright red.
"All right, Harry? I'm — I'm Colin Creevey," he said breathlessly, taking a tentative step forward. "I'm in Gryffindor, too. D'you think — would it be all right if — can I have a picture?" he asked, raising the camera hopefully.
"I know who you are, Colin, but why a picture?" Harry said, perplexed.
"So I can prove I've met you," said Colin eagerly, looking elated that Harry knew his name and edging further forward. "I know all about you. Everyone's told me. About how you survived when You-Know-Who tried to kill you and how he disappeared and everything and how you've still got a lightning scar on your forehead" (his eyes raked Harry's hairline) "and a boy in my dormitory said if I develop the film in the right potion, the pictures'll move." Colin drew a great shuddering breath of excitement and said, "It's amazing here, isn't it? I never knew all the odd stuff I could do was magic till I got the letter from Hogwarts. My dad's a milkman, he couldn't believe it either. So I'm taking loads of pictures to send home to him. And it'd be really good if I had one of you" — he looked imploringly at Harry — "maybe your friend could take it and I could stand next to you? And then, could you sign it?"
"Signed photos? You're giving out signed photos, Potter?"
Loud and scathing, Draco Malfoy's voice echoed around the courtyard. He had stopped right behind Colin, flanked, as he always was at Hogwarts, by his large and thuggish cronies, Crabbe and Goyle.
"Everyone line up!" Malfoy roared to the crowd. "Harry Potter's giving out signed photos!"
Harry turned to look at Malfoy, allowing his expression to communicate his exact emotions of confusion and disgust at Draco singling Harry out yet again. Malfoy caught the look and tried to maintain his bravado, but it was cracking under Harry's continued stare.
"You're just jealous," piped up Colin, whose entire body was about as thick as Crabbe's neck.
"Jealous?" said Malfoy, who didn't need to shout anymore: Half the courtyard was listening in. "Of what? I don't want a foul scar right across my head, thanks. I don't think getting your head cut open makes you that special, myself."
Crabbe and Goyle were sniggering stupidly.
"You want to give it a try?" Ron taunted. "Take a few steps closer."
It was at times like this that Harry was reminded that Ron was the youngest of five older brothers, showing no fear in the face of Crabbe and Goyle, who were now embarrassingly cracking their knuckles and trying to flex their muscles.
"Be careful, Weasley," sneered Malfoy. "You don't want to end up like your disgrace of a father."
Ron whipped out his wand, but Hermione shut Voyages with Vampires with a snap and whispered, "Look out!"
"What's all this, what's all this?" Gilderoy Lockhart was striding toward them, his turquoise robes swirling behind him. "Who's giving out signed photos?"
Harry started to speak but he was cut short as Lockhart flung an arm around his shoulders and thundered jovially, "Shouldn't have asked! We meet again, Harry!"
Pinned to Lockhart's side and burning with humiliation, Harry saw Malfoy slide smirking back into the crowd.
"Come on then, Mr. Creevey," said Lockhart, beaming at Colin. "A double portrait, can't do better than that, and we'll both sign it for you."
Colin fumbled for his camera and took the picture as the bell rang behind them, signaling the start of afternoon classes.
"Off you go, move along there," Lockhart called to the crowd, and he set off back to the castle with Harry, who was strongly considering using the Lord Ring to Portkey away.
"A word to the wise, Harry," said Lockhart paternally as they entered the building through a side door. "I covered up for you back there with young Creevey — if he was photographing me, too, your schoolmates won't think you're setting yourself up so much…"
Deaf to Harry's stammers, Lockhart swept him down a corridor lined with staring students and up a staircase.
"Let me just say that handing out signed pictures at this stage of your career isn't sensible — looks a tad bigheaded, Harry, to be frank. There may well come a time when, like me, you'll need to keep a stack handy wherever you go, but" — he gave a little chortle — "I don't think you're quite there yet."
They had reached Lockhart's classroom and he let Harry go at last. Harry yanked his robes straight and headed for a seat at the very back of the class, where he busied himself with piling all seven of Lockhart's books in front of him, so that he could avoid looking at the real thing. That would be the very last time he allowed Lockhart to guide him anywhere.
The rest of the class came clattering in, and Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of Harry.
"That was an odd balance of love and hate towards you, wasn't it?" asked Ron. "Probably just a matter of time before Colin and Ginny team up to start a Harry Potter fan club."
"Shhh!" snapped Harry. The last thing he needed was for Lockhart to hear the phrase "Harry Potter fan club."
When the whole class was seated, Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Neville Longbottom's copy of Travels with Trolls, and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.
"Me," he said, pointing at it and winking as well. "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don't talk about that. I didn't get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at her!"
He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.
"I see you've all bought a complete set of my books — well done. I thought we'd start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you've read them, how much you've taken in —"
When he had handed out the test papers, he returned to the front of the class and said, "You have thirty minutes — start… now!"
Harry looked down at his paper and read:
1. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's secret ambition?
3. What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest achievement to date?
On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:
54. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would his ideal gift be?
Harry had read Lockhart's books and could easily recall all of these answers, but the absurdity of it… It would have made for maybe a fun prank for the first class of the year—an ice-breaker perhaps, if there had been less than ten questions. But 54? And Lockhart showed no signs of any awareness at how ridiculous this was. As the students around him looked to one another, seeming to try to confirm that they were really going to have to do this, Harry unpacked his things and dipped his quill into his inkwell, already thinking of better answers to these questions.
Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.
"Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favorite color is lilac. I say so in Year with the Yeti. And a few of you need to read Wanderings with Werewolves more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples — '…a heightened sense of self-awareness,'" he read from one piece of parchment—Harry's, who had thought it would have been the perfect birthday gift for Lockhart. "If you'd read Year With the Yeti, you'd have read about how I had achieved the highest awareness possible, even if the potion I helped the monks create was fifty percent Ogden's Old Firewhisky!"
He gave them another roguish wink. Ron was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief on his face; Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, who were sitting in front, were shaking with silent laughter. Hermione, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention and gave a start when he mentioned her name.
". . . but Miss Hermione Granger knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact" — he flipped her paper over — "full marks! Where is Miss Hermione Granger?"
Hermione raised a trembling hand.
"Excellent!" beamed Lockhart. "Quite excellent! Take ten points for Gryffindor! And so — to business —"
He bent down behind his desk and lifted a large, covered cage onto it.
"Now — be warned! It is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures known to wizardkind! You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you whilst I am here. All I ask is that you remain calm."
Harry leaned around his pile of books for a better look at the cage, his hand on his wand. Lockhart's dramatic tone was likely meant to capture their attention, but the man had not instilled a hint of trust with Harry, whose mind flipped through the foolish things Lockhart might have brought to class to try to make a strong first impression.
"I must ask you not to scream," said Lockhart in a low voice. "It might provoke them."
As the whole class held its breath, Lockhart whipped off the cover.
"Yes," he said dramatically. "Freshly caught Cornish pixies."
Seamus Finnigan couldn't control himself. He let out a snort of laughter that even Lockhart couldn't mistake for a scream of terror.
"Yes?" He smiled at Seamus.
"Well, they're not — they're not very — dangerous, are they?" Seamus choked.
"Don't be so sure!" said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. "Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!"
The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and making bizarre faces at the people nearest them. Contrary to what Seamus had said, Harry knew that this particular breed of pixies was more mischievous than most.
"Right, then," Lockhart said loudly. "Let's see what you make of them!" And he opened the cage.
It was pandemonium. The pixies shot like rockets in every direction. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass, Harry managing a shield charm above them just in time. The rest of the pixies proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, up-ended the waste basket, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the iron chandelier in the ceiling.
"Come on now — round them up, round them up, they're only pixies," Lockhart shouted.
He rolled up his sleeves, brandished his wand, and bellowed, "Peskipiksi Pesternomi!"
It had absolutely no effect; one of the pixies seized his wand and threw it out of the window, too. Lockhart gulped and dived under his own desk, narrowly avoiding being squashed by Neville, who fell a second later, Harry flicking his wand to cushion Neville's fall.
The bell rang and there was a mad rush toward the exit. In the relative calm that followed, Lockhart straightened up, caught sight of Ron, and Hermione, who were almost at the door, and said, "Well, I'll ask you three to just nip the rest of them back into their cage." He swept past them and shut the door quickly behind him.
"Are you kidding me?" roared Ron as one of the remaining pixies bit him painfully on the ear.
"It's Seamus's fault" said Hermione, immobilizing two pixies at once with a clever Freezing Charm and stuffing them back into their cage. "Professor Lockhart was just trying to prove a point."
"He proved a point all right," said Harry, who had remained standing in the center of the room. He whistled a little tune between his teeth. At once, the pixies calmed, all of them turning in the air to face Harry. He pointed at the cage, and the pixies began making their way into it rather sleepily. "He proved that he doesn't have a clue what he's doing —"
"Rubbish," said Hermione. "You've read his books — look at all those amazing things he's done —"
"He says he's done," Ron muttered.
Harry spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever he saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor. Harder to avoid was Colin Creevey, who seemed to have memorized Harry's schedule. Nothing seemed to give Colin a bigger thrill than to say, "All right, Harry?" six or seven times a day and hear, "Hello, Colin," back, however exasperated Harry sounded when he said it. Harry knew that he was currently somewhat more famous than he already had been, thanks to his "shenanigans" winning the dueling championship, and his playing for Puddlemere, but Colin's interest in Harry had reached an annoying level, no matter how hard Harry tried to be understanding about it.
Harry spent Friday night letting off some steam in the Forbidden Forest, where he checked on the colony of Cornish pixies he had extradited to their own resettlement near a babbling brook, and made his first approaches with the Thestrals, planning to visit a few more times so they could get used to seeing him before he initiated close contact. While he simply enjoyed his freedom exploring the grounds, there was also the underlying focus on watching out for anything amiss at Hogwarts, which he had yet to see any hint of.
Early Saturday morning, Harry was sitting in a windowsill of the common room, listening to some punk-style music on the wireless that was starting to grow on him, when Oliver Wood came scrambling down the stairs from the boys' dormitories, looking harried. When he saw Harry, he visibly relaxed, walking over.
"So there you are. Gave me quite a fright walking into your dorm only to find your bed empty, but good for you! The rest of the team could learn a thing or two from your dedication!"
"Please don't say that to them," Harry begged. They were scheduled for Quidditch practice this morning. Oliver was the captain of the Gryffindor team and had something of a crazed enthusiasm for the position. Hyping Harry's zeal would be just the type of thing he would do to try to inspire the other players, which Harry was certain would not provide the desired results. Besides, Harry was not eager to earn any more notoriety, the attention he was already getting this year being quite enough as far as he was concerned.
He went back to his dorm and grabbed his Quidditch gear, leaving a note to Ron reminding him they were going to go visit Hagrid's for lunch today. He had just made it back to the common room portrait hole when there was a clatter behind him and Colin Creevey came dashing down the spiral staircase, his camera swinging madly around his neck and something clutched in his hand.
"I heard someone saying your name on the stairs, Harry! Look what I've got here! I've had it developed, I wanted to show you —"
Harry looked bemusedly at the photograph Colin was brandishing under his nose.
A moving, black-and-white Lockhart was tugging hard on an arm Harry recognized as his own. He was pleased to see that his photographic self was putting up a good fight and refusing to be dragged into view. As Harry watched, Lockhart gave up and slumped, panting, against the white edge of the picture.
"Will you sign it?" said Colin eagerly.
"No," said Harry flatly, glancing around to check that the room was really deserted. "Sorry, Colin, I'm in a hurry — Quidditch practice —"
He climbed through the portrait hole.
"Oh, wow! Wait for me! I've never watched a Quidditch game before!"
Colin scrambled through the hole after him.
"It'll be really boring," Harry said quickly, but Colin ignored him, his face shining with excitement. Harry knew he could have said something short and rude to Colin to easily dissuade him from following him, but Colin's eager, innocent face made it impossible for Harry to manage it.
And so, he spent the next several minutes walking to the pitch with Colin at his side, confirming or correcting what Colin was reciting to him non-stop about what he knew about Quidditch. Being Muggle-born, Colin only had what he had read or heard about the game to go off of. Harry finally shook him off when he reached the changing rooms; Colin called after him in a piping voice, "I'll go and get a good seat, Harry!" and hurried off to the stands.
The rest of the Gryffindor team were already in the changing room. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle haired next to fourth year Alicia Spinnet, who seemed to be nodding off against the wall behind her. Her fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson, were yawning side by side opposite them.
"There you are, Harry, what kept you?" said Wood briskly. Harry stayed quiet, not trusting himself to give a response without launching into a tirade regarding Colin.
"Now, I wanted a quick talk with you all before we actually get onto the field, because I spent the summer devising a whole new training program, which I really think will make all the difference…"
Wood then launched into a long, well-rehearsed explanation of said training program, utilizing several diagrams and repeating himself many times. Fred Weasley's head drooped right onto Alicia Spinnet's shoulder and he began to snore. Harry was just fantasizing about what he could be eating for breakfast at this very moment up at the castle, when Wood finally finished.
"So this year, we train harder than ever before… Okay, let's go and put our new theories into practice!" Wood shouted, seizing his Nimbus Two Thousand and leading the way out of the locker rooms. Stiff-legged and still yawning, his team followed.
Wood had talked for so long that the sun was fully up by now, and Ron and Hermione were awake and in the stands, having apparently already been to breakfast as the two of them were munching on toast and marmalade, which Harry had half a mind to summon out of their fingers.
The players mounted their brooms to warm up (and wake up), Harry racing Fred and George around the stadium, but the momentary freedom did not last long.
"What's that funny clicking noise?" called Fred as they hurtled around the corner.
Harry looked into the stands. Colin was sitting in one of the highest seats, his camera raised, taking picture after picture, the sound strangely magnified in the deserted stadium.
"Look this way, Harry! This way!" he cried shrilly.
"What's going on?" said Wood, frowning, as he skimmed through the air toward them. "Why's that first year taking pictures? I don't like it. He could be a Slytherin spy, trying to find out about our new training program."
"He's in Gryffindor," said Harry quickly.
"And the Slytherins don't need a spy, Oliver," said George.
"What makes you say that?" said Wood testily.
"Because they're here in person," said George, pointing.
Several people in green robes were walking onto the field, broomsticks in their hands.
"I don't believe it!" Wood hissed in outrage. "I booked the field for today! We'll see about this!"
Wood shot toward the ground, landing rather harder than he meant to in his anger, staggering slightly as he dismounted. Harry, Fred, and George followed.
"Flint!" Wood bellowed at the Slytherin Captain. "This is our practice time! We got up specially! You can clear off now!"
Marcus Flint was even larger than Wood. He had a look of knowing cunning on his face as he replied, "Plenty of room for all of us, Wood."
Angelina, Alicia, and Katie had come over, too, leering at the Slytherin team, who replied in turn.
"But I booked the field!" said Wood, positively spitting with rage. "I booked it!"
"Ah," said Flint. "But I've got a specially signed note here from Professor Snape. He took a piece of parchment from his robes and read it aloud: 'I, Professor S. Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to practice today on the Quidditch field owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"
"You've got a new Seeker?" said Wood, distracted. "Where?"
And from behind the six large figures before them came a seventh, smaller boy, smirking all over his pale, pointed face. It was Draco Malfoy.
"Aren't you Lucius Malfoy's son?" said Fred, looking at Malfoy with the same dislike Harry usually did.
"Funny you should mention Draco's father," said Flint as the whole Slytherin team smiled still more broadly. "Let me show you the generous gift he's made to the Slytherin team."
All seven of them held out their broomsticks. Seven highly polished, brand-new handles and seven sets of fine gold lettering spelling the words Nimbus Two Thousand and One gleamed under the Gryffindors' noses in the early morning sun.
"Very latest model. Only came out last month," said Flint carelessly, flicking a speck of dust from the end of his own. "I believe it outstrips the old Two Thousand series by a considerable amount."
Harry could not help it; he broke into sincere laughter. He held up his own new Two Thousand and One.
"It is faster, yeah, which makes it great for Seeking if you've got the flying skills needed to keep control of it in tight maneuvers." He gave Malfoy a look that communicated his doubts about such abilities. "But it's actually rather terrible for Keeping and Beating, and only gives Chasers an advantage in long straightaways. Replacing your Two Thousands with these isn't doing you any favors." It was when he made a point of making eye contact with Malfoy at this last statement that Harry realized how foul of a mood he was in, and tried to calm himself. From the trembling look of rage on Malfoy's face, he was doing just the opposite.
"Oh, look," said Flint. "A field invasion."
Ron and Hermione were crossing the grass to see what was going on.
"What's happening?" Ron asked Harry. "Why aren't you playing? And what's he doing here?"
"He's their new Seeker," Harry stated.
"Coincidentally, his father bought the team a set of Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones," Fred chimed in.
"Which, if they had waited a week to read the review, they would have known put them at even a greater disadvantage than allowing Malfoy to stumble onto the team," Harry added, a part of him worried that Malfoy hadn't fully caught his earlier implication and wanting to make it clear.
Malfoy stepped forward, his face flushed. "Because you're such an expert. I bet you didn't even know what Quidditch was until you came to Hogwarts. You only got on the team because of your stupid scar!"
"He was literally recruited to play professional Quidditch," said Hermione sharply. "He didn't have to buy his way onto any team."
The smug look on Malfoy's face flickered.
"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he spat.
It seemed to take Harry's brain a moment to accept that he had actually heard what he thought he had, so shocked and appalled was he to hear Malfoy say such a thing.
"How dare you!" Alicia shrieked.
Marcus Flint seemed to recognize the severity of what Draco had said, throwing himself in front of his new Seeker as Fred and George began charging at him. Before Harry could take action, Ron had already pulled out his wand, aiming it under Flint's arm.
A loud bang echoed around the stadium as a jet of green light shot from Ron's wand tip and landed squarely in Malfoy's stomach, sending him reeling backward onto the grass. More wands were pulled as some of the Slytherin players came to Malfoy's aid, helping him up. Marcus Flint was thrown clear of the scrum as Harry stepped forward, furious power radiating off of him.
"You all right?" a Slytherin Chaser asked Malfoy.
As he got to his feet, Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth, which he caught in his hands. He looked down at the slugs, horrified.
As one, the Gryffindor team burst into laughter. The Slytherins gathered around Malfoy increased their distance from him, apparently worried about getting too close as he continued to belch large, glistening slugs onto the grass. The satisfaction of seeing Malfoy so humiliated, continuing to try to spit venom at the Gryffindors when all it led to was more slugs, was the only thing that quelled Harry's rage. Instead of the painful curses he had envisioned himself hurling at Malfoy, he instead waited until he had just vomited up the largest slug yet, and then flourished his wand at him.
A jet of violet light hit Malfoy squarely in the center of his forehead, knocking him onto his backside yet again and leading to shouts of protest from the Slytherins. Harry did not care, and stood his ground as they cast him threatening looks. The stare down did not last long, with Flint seeming to decide that it was a lost cause to remain on the pitch, he and the others helping Malfoy up and leading him back to the castle, Draco attempting to yell in despair about Harry trying to kill him, interrupted by the squelch of another slug coming up, and the renewed laughter of the Gryffindor players.
Eventually, their amusement died down. Harry looked to Hermione to see if she was all right, but one look told him that she was lost in what exactly had set everyone off. He was not looking forward to explaining it to her.
"You! Off!"
They were all distracted by Wood's shouts, looking around to see him pointing furiously at Colin Creevey, who stumbled as he tried to extricate himself from the stands, eventually running back towards the castle. Wood took a few deep breaths before turning back to his team, an incredibly insincere smile plastered onto his face, and his left eye twitching.
"Right then, back on your brooms everyone! Let's try that first formation I was talking about."
Practice clearly did not go as well as Wood had hoped it would, all of them still rattled and distracted by what had happened. Harry went through the motions, but could not help but listen in from the air as Hermione asked Ron to explain what had caused such a response to Malfoy's words. Harry could feel Ron working to keep his anger from erupting like so many slugs as he tried to convey the meaning and use of "Mudblood" in wizarding society. Harry was certain he could think of a few Muggle-used words that were equally offensive which would show Hermione what a horrible term it was to use to refer to someone who was Muggle-born, but she seemed to eventually catch on with Ron's explanation anyhow.
Despite their lacklustre efforts, Wood was not to be deterred, and kept them on the pitch for the entirety of their scheduled time. Quidditch was something that normally made Harry feel free and happily focused on the sport, but today's flying had not made a dent in the foul mood Malfoy had put him in. He, Ron, and Hermione were halfway back to the castle before he remembered they had promised to go to Hagrid's for lunch today.
He stopped, sighing and reminding them as well.
"Oh that's right. Well, it's probably for the best. It'll give us all some time to cool off," Hermione stated.
"I don't want to cool off," Harry spat, recognizing at once how unkind he sounded. He sighed again. "Sorry. I'll… I'll try to cool off." They walked for a few steps, Harry following through and working to calm down at least enough to maintain his composure by the time they made it to Hagrid's.
They were within twenty feet of Hagrid's house when the front door opened, but it wasn't Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.
"Quick, behind here," Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush. Hermione followed, somewhat reluctantly.
"It's a simple matter if you know what you're doing!" Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. "If you need help, you know where I am! I'll let you have a copy of my book. I'm surprised you haven't already got one — I'll sign one tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!" And he strode away toward the castle.
Harry waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron and Hermione out of the bush and up to Hagrid's front door, rapping on it.
Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.
"Well there y'are. Bin worried you'd forgotten — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again —"
They entered Hagrid's hut and accepted a seat, Fang the boarhound slobbering all over the three of them as Hagrid bustled about making them tea.
"What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scratching Fang's ears.
"Givin' me advice on gettin' kelpies out of a well," growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. "Like I don' know. An' bangin' on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I'll eat my kettle."
It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and Harry looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, "I think you're being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job —"
"He was the on'y man for the job," said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle toffee. "An' I mean the on'y one. Gettin' very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren't too keen ter take it on, see. They're startin' ter think it's jinxed. No one's lasted long fer a while now. But anyhow, what's new with you lot? How's term going so far?"
They shared with Hagrid the generalities of their first week, as well as any interesting happenings. Of course, this led to the story of what had just occurred on the Quidditch pitch, leaving Hagrid looking outraged.
"He didn'!" he growled, looking to Hermione.
"He did," she said. "I didn't even know what it meant until Ron told me later. I guess I'm not sure what I would have said, even if I had known."
"So wha' happened then?" Hagrid asked the other two, looking at Harry a little nervously.
"Ron happened," Harry answered. "You should have seen it. He maneuvered around Flint and hit Malfoy with a Slug-vomiting Charm—right in the stomach."
"Good fer you!" Hagrid said at once. "Excep'… well woudn' put it pas' Lucius Malfoy to come marchin' up ter school to complain about his son gettin' cursed."
Ron shrugged, his hands in his pockets and his face grim.
"Yeah," Harry said. "But you realize you did it non-verbally, right?" Harry said, leaning towards Ron.
Ron's brow furrowed as he thought about it. He eventually let out a breathy little laugh.
"Oh yeah. I guess I did," he said, a hint of a satisfied smile appearing. He glanced at Hermione, whose mouth was now hanging open.
"Wait, that's right—you did!" she said. "Wow."
Ron looked proud of himself and perhaps feeling a little awkward, but then turned to Harry. "But then Harry hit him with a spell, too. What was that, anyway?" he asked.
Harry did not respond immediately, himself thinking back to that moment and trying to determine if he regretted it or not. It took only a few seconds to decide that he definitely did not, and his own smile broke through, everyone awaiting his response.
"Was it an Impediment Jinx?" Hermione asked.
"Erm… something like that," Harry replied a little shiftily.
Regardless, they collectively agreed to change the subject, Hermione now regaling Hagrid with stories of her time visiting the dragons over the summer. As he enjoyed listening, Harry could not help but to contemplate what kinds of reactions he might have to deal with when the teachers found out what he had done.
He would not have to wait long. They left Hagrid's and started back for the castle, barely setting foot in the cool entrance hall before a voice rang out, "There you are, Potter — Weasley." Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern.
"Uh oh," Ron muttered.
Harry kept silent, trying to gauge how unhappy McGonagall was, and then trying to second guess his assessment, hoping that she was not as angry as she definitely appeared to be.
"The three of us need to have a talk," she said in a controlled voice once she reached them, gesturing to the nearest classroom.
Ron and Harry did not need to be asked twice, walking towards the door. When Hermione made to follow them, Professor McGonagall put her hand out.
"Not you, Ms. Granger, though I will likely want to speak with you later."
"Please, Professor," Hermione started somewhat desperately, going as far as to scramble in front of McGonagall as she made to continue into the classroom. "If this is about the incident on the Quidditch pitch, it involves me as much as it does Ron and Harry."
Professor McGonagall stopped short of rolling her eyes, but Harry could see the urge to do so in her face and body language. After closing her eyes for a brief moment, she relented with a sigh.
"Very well." She waved her hand again to get them all moving into the classroom, entering behind them and closing the door.
"First thing's first—each of you will only respond when I have asked you specifically to do so, or when I indicate it is your turn to speak. I will not have the three of you talking over one another, or me," McGonagall told them.
The three of them nodded silently, which McGonagall seemed to hope was a good sigh, taking a breath before going on.
"Mr. Weasley, did you perform a Slug-vomiting Charm on Draco Malfoy?"
"Yes," Ron answered rather glumly.
Hermione took in an incredibly loud and quick pull of breath, and McGonagall held up a hand, an eyebrow raised in reminder about the rules. A few odd noises were all that escaped Hermione's mouth before she deflated.
"And what prompted you to attack a fellow student?"
Harry felt the righteous anger rising in him, just thinking about it. McGonagall's rules be damned — there was no way Harry was going to stand for Ron getting into trouble about this. He looked to Ron, sympathetic for the position he was being put into. It seemed as though McGonagall had only heard the Slytherin side of the story so far. Harry was just about to try and blurt it out the best he could when Ron managed it.
"Professor… Malfoy called Hermione… erm… I'm going to say the words, all right? but I'm only doing it to tell you what I need to tell you…" He waited for McGonagall to nod, which Harry thought she did rather impatiently. "He called her… a 'filthy little Mudblood.'" He made sure to use air quotes to further indicate that he was giving a direct quote rather than choosing to say these words on his own, his fingers balling back into tight fists as soon as he was done.
McGonagall's face looked as if it had been hit with a tuning fork—every feature seeming to align into an identical position of shock. She stared at Ron for two seconds before her head snapped to Harry, then to Hermione, both of whom nodded in emphatic confirmation of Ron's recollection. She then looked searchingly into a high corner of the room, and then spun on the spot and walked briskly out of the classroom, the sound of her shoes moving away at a harried pace through the hallway.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another, unsure of what to do. They stayed that way for a while until the sounds of McGonagall's footfalls reversed their decrescendo, which Harry had continued to listen to since she had left.
"She's coming back," Harry said quietly. They all watched the doorway, listening to her approaching until they saw her top-half lean into the room.
"Please go to the common room," she said, already back out into the hallway before she even finished the short command.
They shared another look with each other and started making their way back. As they stood inside a broom cupboard which occasionally acted as an elevator, Hermione spoke up.
"Thank you, by the way," she said to Ron timidly. "For sticking up for me — or sticking up for all Muggle-borns, really. She can't possibly punish you for that. She just can't!"
Ron shrugged, and then his posture changed. He stood up taller and took his hands out of his pockets, seeming to realize something.
"You know what… I don't think I care." He shrugged again. "Even if she gives me detention, I'm still not going to feel like I did anything wrong, because I didn't. And if she writes my parents, Dad would probably be over the moon, and I think even Mum would be on my side."
Ron gave a little laugh then, and Harry was glad to see it. Hermione seemed to want to say something in response but was having a hard time formulating the right words, eventually landing on a smile.
The atmosphere in the common room was not raucous, but there was definitely a buzz in the air when they walked in, the three of them on the receiving end of many looks and whispers, most of them favorable, although Harry heard a few older students who seemed to feel that Harry and his friends were perhaps a little attention-hungry. He wanted to feel resentful about that… but really, how could he blame them for thinking as much? Only a few students came up to actually inquire about what happened.
"Malfoy said something foul, so I hexed him," Ron told Neville when he very politely asked what was going on.
"What'd you do to his forehead?" Neville asked.
Ron looked at Neville, then looked at Harry, who looked at his feet. Ron turned back to Neville.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Oh, well I heard something about there being something on Malfoy's forehead," Neville explained. "I just assumed…"
Harry looked up to see Ron and Hermione both looking at him, their eyebrows raised. He sighed.
"Well…," Harry started, "Malfoy's always going on about my scar, so I thought… maybe he'd like one of his own… so he can see what it's really like."
"What did you do?" Hermione asked, now looking concerned.
Harry shrugged as if it was no big deal. "It'll only last a couple of weeks," was all he offered.
"Harry, no! Now you'll get into trouble!" Hermione protested. Harry looked her squarely in the eyes.
"I don't care either," he said seriously. "Besides, maybe it'll take the edge off of Ron's punishment — if there even is one," Harry added.
Just then, the portrait hole swung open and Professor McGonagall entered the common room. Everyone went quiet as she made her way in, Neville suddenly finding the fireplace very interesting and heading that way. Rather than make a beeline for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, however, McGonagall ignored them and looked around the room.
"I'd like to speak with the Quidditch team, in the hallway, please. Not you," she added as Harry made to follow the rest of the players. She and the rest disappeared through the portrait hole.
"It's fine. It's fine," Hermione said, looking in turn to Harry and Ron as if she were trying to convince them, while Harry felt more like she was trying to convince herself.
Only a few minutes went by before the portrait hole opened yet again and the team came back in.
"She wants to see you two now," Wood told Harry and Ron, not making eye contact with him when he did so, leading Harry to worry that Oliver might be worried that Harry was perhaps going to be suspended from the team. Had Professor McGonagall told him as much?
Hermione made more noises of desperate concern as Harry and Ron stepped into the hallway without her. McGonagall was waiting for them several feet from the portrait of the Fat Lady which served as the entrance to the common room.
"After speaking with the headmaster, Professor Snape, Draco Malfoy, and the others who were present during today's incident on the Quidditch pitch, it has been decided that the both of you shall serve detention this evening."
Harry and Ron continued looking at her, waiting to see if this was just the first in a line of punishments she was about to list for them. The curt nod of finality she gave at their look suggested that there were no other punishments, but Harry tempered his relief, just in case.
"I'm going to be… uncharacteristically open with you both about this, all things considered," she went on. "The facts of the incident are quite clear to all staff members involved. Mr. Malfoy's punishment is being explained to him by his own head of house, and believe me — Mr. Malfoy's choice of words is not being taken lightly. If anything…" She shook her head, apparently not willing to be open enough to share whatever it was she had been about to say.
"That being said, the both of you did use magic to attack a fellow student, which cannot go ignored. Mr. Weasley, you will serve detention with me this evening. Please arrive at my office at eight o'clock sharp and… if I were you, I would refrain from sampling any dessert items from this evening's menu." She did not explain the reasoning behind this, but Harry was sure he saw the corners of her mouth turn up. They had fallen back into place, however, by the time she addressed Harry.
"And you, Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," said Professor McGonagall.
"No…" Harry could not help the audible response.
"Pardon me?" McGonagall asked dangerously.
"I… didn't mean to say that out loud, ma'am," Harry said rather lamely.
Professor McGonagall nodded.
"I should hope not. Your actions, while rooted in the emotions of an admirable wizard… were unnecessary in the moment, and quite frankly, unacceptable."
Her last words were almost reluctant, not for their truth, but for her having to be the one to point as much out to Harry. He nodded, unable to help but to recognize that he had overreacted… somewhat.
"Please return to the common room, and ask Ms. Granger to come out."
They nodded and went back in.
"What happened?" Hermione asked them as soon as they came through the portrait hole.
"Just one detention!" Ron told her, clearly relieved.
"And how many points did she take?" Hermione pressed.
Ron looked at Harry, who understood that, like him, Ron had just now realized that she had not taken any points at all from Gryffindor.
"None, I guess," Harry said, hardly believing it. "But she wants to talk to you now. I'm sure she's just going to apologize on behalf of Hogwarts and all that, so nothing to worry about," Harry told her, sure that it was the truth.
Hermione nodded and steeled herself before exiting through the portrait hole. Several students came over to see what McGonagall had told them, and they shared what their detentions were going to be.
"Well at least you know what you'll be doing, Harry," George said.
"Yeah, Ron has to spend the next seven hours running through all the possibilities of what McGonagall might do to him," Fred agreed.
"Well now I will be," Ron said quietly.
"I'll trade with you in a heartbeat," Harry told him.
"Okay," Ron said, welcoming the impossible notion.
"And you're still on the team? You're sure of that?" Oliver Wood asked for the third time.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. If what he'd said hadn't been as serious, I think we'd be having a different conversation though."
"But what exactly did you do to Malfoy?" Neville asked.
Harry looked around, most of the common room now awaiting his answer. He cleared his throat, contemplating telling only Ron and Hermione, but it seemed inevitable that everyone would eventually find out anyway.
"I, erm… I may have tattooed something into his forehead — temporarily!" The common room reacted predictably, eventually leading to many yells to tell them what it was. "Well, his family is so obsessed with blood purity, and there's one really sure-fire way to guarantee the purest blood possible…"
No one seemed to know what Harry meant, although Hermione looked concerned. Sighing, Harry took out his wand and began to trace it through the air, writing out a word in shimmering letters, which hung suspended for all to read there in midair just as it was on Draco's forehead: INBREED.