Post Tenebras Spero Lucem (2-3/?) (slytherin!H/Hr)
All disclaimers found in part one.
The first week back at Hogwarts had been uneventful to say the least.
The sorting ceremony had gone off without a hitch, Harry taking to his annual wagers with Draco and Blaise on which students would be sorted into what houses. And as usual, Blaise had managed to call the most students between the three of them, having an unnatural knack for sorting people simply from the way they looked. Harry had joked once that Blaise could give that fraud Trelawney a run for her money, and that jest had been met with a threat of broom-tampering.
The classes were as he expected for the NEWT year, especially since every professor for the past week, had felt the need to remind them of the importance of the year. Each lecture seemed to start out the same-- informing the students of the importance of their performance this year, the skills they would be required to master, the tests they would be required to take. By Friday afternoon, Harry wasn’t sure he could listen to another identical spiel. Unfortunately, his mental state, would not be soothed by his last class of the afternoon, Advanced Potions.
If there was a class that Harry despised more than that waste of time Divination, it was Potions. It wasn’t that he hated the material covered. In fact, he found it both interesting and useful. It wasn’t that he couldn’t make the marks. His scores were second only to Granger’s who had an annoying ability to best him in everything. It was his blinding hatred of Professor Snape. A hatred that Harry had not not had upon his initial entrance into Hogwarts but had grown with his passing years in the darkened dungeons of the classroom.
During his first year at Hogwarts, Snape had done everything within his power to make Harry’s life miserable. He singled him out mercilessly in class, finding new and inventive ways to torment him every day it seemed. He gave him the lowest marks in the class (which ended when Harry mastered the course much to the Professor’s displeasure). He even took points away from his own house in order to punish Harry and add injury to insult.
Harry never understood what he had done to the man to deserve such treatment until his new friend Draco Malfoy had filled in the blanks for him.
In a former life, Snape had been a loyal follower of Voldemort, second only to Draco’s own father Lucius. Then, inexplicably, it seemed that Snape switched teams, joining league with Dumbledore and taking up residence at Hogwarts. Draco, like all the other children of Death Eaters in the Slytherin house, believed the switch to be nothing but a well-crafted façade.
“Death Eaters get the mark for a reason, Potter,” Draco had said to him one night during supper. “Once you’re in, you’re bound. You remain loyal.”
And for Snape, remaining loyal meant to torment the boy prophesized to overthrow his leader. To Snape, Harry was nothing but the mortal enemy, and in return, Harry had made the insufferable git his own.
Harry sat back in his chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, awaiting the beginning of class with an unpleasant look on his face. From beside him, Draco began removing parchment from his schoolbag, preparing for the onslaught of notes Snape was sure to deliver in a rapid fashion.
“What’s your deal, Potter?”
Harry kept his eyes trained on the door, watching as two Hufflepuffs-- Hannah Abbott and Ernie MacMillan -- strolled into the classroom and took two available seats towards the front of the room. They were soon followed by three Ravenclaw students, only one of which Harry could faintly remember the name. Seventh year classes were more integrated than the previous years. As students separated and took more classes aimed towards a particular career path, the concept of two houses per class had become obsolete.
“I’m just ready to get this week over with,” Harry muttered, his frown deepening as Ron and Hermione strolled into the classroom. “Maybe get in some Quidditch tonight.”
Draco snickered under his breath. “I hear McGonagall made Weasley captain.”
Harry smirked, watching as Ron and Hermione situated themselves one table ahead of them on the other side of the room. “She must be desperate.”
“They might as well give it up,” Draco drawled. “Six years and they still haven’t taken the cup away from us.”
“And this year will be no different,” Harry replied confidently.
At that moment, Snape finally graced them with his presence, slamming the dungeon door closed behind him. Harry watched the Hufflepuffs jump slightly at the noise and rolled his eyes. He continued to lean back in his chair defiantly, his arms still folded across his chest, as Snape turned to them.
“I don’t feel I need to instill in you the importance of this year,” he sneered, leveling his gaze on the students. “This year will be the most demanding, the most challenging, and I will not accept anything less than excellence from each of you.”
“Does he ever?” Harry muttered under his breath.
“This year will not only require you to learn and perfect potions you have never attempted before, but I am also requiring that you recall knowledge you should have retained from your previous years. I expect you all to be able to tell me ingredients and effects of every single potion you have learned in the past six years.” He paced the middle aisle of the class, giving Harry a distinct glare, as he continued his speech. “In your first year, you learned a potion that effectively puts the consumer into a deep sleep. Who can tell me the name?”
As usual, Hermione’s hand shot up without a moment’s hesitation.
Snape sighed, agitated, as he turned and proceeded back towards the front of the room. He passed by Hermione, who continued to hold her hand up high, and spoke from over his shoulder. “Miss Granger,” he said and finally turned to face the class again.
“That would be the Draught of the Living Death,” she replied with a confident toss of her hair.
“Correct, Miss Granger,” he frowned. His frown only deepened as he added, “Five points to Gryffindor. Now who can tell me the ingredients of the potion?”
Again, as if on cue, Hermione’s hand entered the air. “The ingredients are asph--”
“Asphodel in an infusion of wormwood,” Harry interrupted lazily from his seat.
Both Ron and Hermione turned in their seats to glare at him, Hermione looking as if she’d like to wring his neck right there in the classroom for having the gall to interrupt her. He simply gave her a satisfied smirk in response, causing the girl to huff and turn back in her seat. He watched as Ron leaned into the girl, whispering something in her ear, to which Hermione gave a slight nod.
“Five points to Slytherin as well,” Snape said, not looking the least bit pleased with awarding Harry any form of points. He gave Harry one final withering glance before turning and approaching the chalkboard to begin writing the instructions for the day’s task.
“Bloody brilliant, Potter,” Draco chuckled quietly at his side.
Harry smirked and finally leaned down, grabbing parchment from his schoolbag to take notes.
---------
He had been waiting all week for this moment.
Harry walked onto the Quidditch pitch, changed into his Quidditch robes and accompanied by Draco and Blaise-- all three boys with brooms at hand. All week he had been dying to get back on his broom, to play a little Quidditch with his friends and forget the existence of everything else in his life. Quidditch was his outlet for all the frustration of the school week, his way to stay sane.
“When are you scheduling tryouts?” Draco asked.
“Couple of weeks,” Harry shrugged.
“You mean you’re not intimidated by Weasley being elected Gryffindor captain?” Blaise laughed.
“I’m shaking in my boots here,” Harry replied with a smirk. The smirk quickly fell away as he noted another small group of students gathered on the pitch. He held in a growl as he caught glimpses of maroon in the robes. “Speaking of the bloody Gryffindors.”
Unfortunately, it appeared Ron and his sidekicks had had the same idea as Harry.
“Weasley!” Harry barked out as they approached the other boys, the only one of which Harry had ever cared to learn the name of being Ron himself.
“What do you want, Potter?” the redhead growled back.
“I hope you’re not planning to use the pitch right now.”
“Why not?” he countered. “It’s not reserved.”
“Technically, no.”
Ron scowled at them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means remove yourselves from the pitch before we do it for you,” Draco replied coolly.
Harry watched in amusement as Ron began to turn the same shade of red as his hair. “Are you bloody threatening us?”
“Not a threat,” Harry replied evenly. “Simply a fact.”
“We’re not leaving,” Ron replied, stepping up to Harry and standing tall, as his friends moved in closer to back him up.
Harry gave Ron an amused smirk, amazed to see the boy actually sticking up for himself for once. Probably only because he had three other Gryffindors at his back who could bail him out if things got heavy.
“Well, look who grew a pair,” Harry sneered.
Ron threw down his broom angrily, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione took that moment to step in. Harry had paid her no mind as she sat on the sidelines of the pitch, a textbook open in her lap. He had been too concerned with removing Ron and his friends from the pitch to take the time necessary to stop and aggravate her in the process.
She stormed over to them, placing herself between him and her friend. “Why don’t you go harass someone else for a while, Potter?” she asked, giving him a scathing look.
“Your mudblood girlfriend always have to come to your rescue, Weasley?” Draco chided.
Harry gave Draco a look only the blond boy could understand, and Draco’s smirk faltered a bit. Harry turned back to the Gryffindors with a slow exhale. “If I remember correctly, Granger, I warned you about minding your own business. This is between Weasley and myself.”
“Yeah, it is,” Ron growled, his eyes never leaving Harry’s as he grabbed Hermione’s arm and pulled her away to the side. “We were here first, Potter.”
“And now you’re done.”
“Ron, just let it go,” Hermione replied angrily. “Let them have their stupid pitch. We can come back later.”
“We. Were here. First,” Ron replied to the girl, his eyes still locked with Harry’s.
Harry held the stare as he shot at Hermione, “You really need to learn when to shut your mouth.”
Hermione stepped back over to them, and Harry finally pulled his gaze from Ron’s to meet a similar heated glare from the girl. “And you need to learn that the world does not revolve around you like you so wrongly believe.” She turned back to her friend. “Ron, they’re not worth it. *He’s* not worth it.”
Ron glared at him, and Harry raised his eyebrows in response, knowing full well what was about to happen next. Because it always happened.
Harry watched, a slow smirk coming across him, as Ron growled under his breath and snatched his broom up from the ground. He motioned to his friends before storming away, pushing between Blaise and Draco-- both boys laughing in amusement. As Hermione passed, Harry reached out with Seeker speed and took firm hold of her arm, yanking her towards him. She looked up at him, and though she quickly tried to mask it with anger, he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.
“Next time?” he said coldly. “Mind your own business.”
“Next time, don’t be a git,” she spit back.
Harry’s grip on her arm loosened slightly, and she yanked herself free, quickly making her way to join her friends.
“Look, Potter--” Draco began as soon as the three of them were left on the pitch.
“Leave it, Malfoy,” Harry ordered with a frown, handing the boy his broom. “You two stay here. I’ll get the supplies.”
Harry started towards the locker room before either of the boys could respond. It wasn’t every day that Draco Malfoy offered anyone an apology, if it could even be called that, but he wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. Draco and Blaise had long learned to watch their words around him, but occasionally, Harry figured that the boys forgot with whom they were actually allied. They forgot that their infamous best friend wasn’t as pure as them, that his blood was half wizard and half muggle.
Which was why, unlike his comrades, he loathed the term mudblood. Even when it was directed at someone as irritating as Hermione Granger.
Harry removed his captain key from his robes, unlocking the cabinet that held the Quidditch equipment. He smiled and pushed all other thoughts away as he mentally prepared for a night on his broom.
---------
“Potter, get up, or you’re going to miss breakfast.”
Harry, his blankets pulled over his head, just barely made out Blaise’s words. He pulled back the blanket with a groan, squinting over at his roommates. Blaise was fully dressed, slipping his books for the day into his schoolbag while Draco was in the process of lacing up his shoes.
“What time is it?” Harry groaned, reaching for his glasses and slipping them onto his face.
“Time for your arse to be out of bed,” Blaise grinned, slinging his bag over his shoulder and folding his arms across his chest.
“What kept you up to ungodly hours?” Draco asked.
Harry blinked at them before replying. “I needed to finish the team roster to turn into Madam Hooch today.”
Blaise and Draco shared a look before Draco shrugged, and grabbed his own schoolbag by the strap. “You better get ready soon, or you won’t get a meal,” Draco replied, standing.
He and Blaise walked out of the room, leaving Harry alone in silence. Once alone, Harry kicked back the sheets with a sigh, lifting his glasses momentarily to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Harry *had* been up late working on the completed team roster, the list due on Madam Hooch’s desk one week after the scheduled tryouts. But that had not been the reason for his oversleeping.
He hadn’t slept well at all, tossing and turning most of the night as he was haunted by night terrors. He barely remembered the dreams now, most of the details slipping away from him as Blaise woke him from his slumber.
He vaguely remembered screams. A girl’s screams. Screams that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He remembered hearing a male voice, whispering. Almost hissing orders that he couldn’t quite make out. He never saw who the voice belonged to, simply heard it in his head. But not even the screams or the whispering voice clung to Harry’s subconscious as the only image burned vividly into his mind.
His own hands. Dripping with blood. Blood that he was quite certain was not his own.
Unconsciously, he glanced down at his hands, turning his palms up. No blood. Not that he expected any. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of that last visual that continued to haunt him. After a moment, he opened his eyes and finally removed himself from the bed. His stomach not in the mood to handle food at the moment, he decided to head to the showers before class. Hoping to wash his nightmares down the drain.
----------
Sitting between Neville and Ron, Hermione finished her breakfast and reached for the day’s copy of the Daily Prophet that had been delivered soon after they had all arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast. She knew she was only one of the handful of students who actually had a subscription to the paper delivered to school, but she felt it didn’t hurt to always be well-informed about things happening outside the walls of Hogwarts.
Especially when there was always a chance You-Know-Who would finally come out of hiding and finish his war he had begun years prior.
At the beginning of each term, Headmaster Dumbledore had made it a point to inform all the students that Hogwarts was a place of unwavering safety, that they had nothing to fear while they were within the stone walls. But Hermione had always had a sick pang in the pit of her stomach, a fear that she had always kept to herself. Perhaps it was only to soothe the students’ minds, but she couldn’t help but think that the Headmaster’s declarations were stated for more ominous reasons.
If the second war came, it would most certainly find itself on Hogwarts’ doorstep. Not only did the school hold Harry Potter, a boy who had been You-Know-Who’s enemy before he could even speak, but it also was home to the Headmaster himself, a man who had been meeting You-Know-Who head to head in battle for more years than any of the students had even been alive.
Hogwarts would have to be safe, Hermione feared, because it would be the heart of the showdown when it finally came.
Hermione’s glass hovered near her lips as her eyes scanned over a bold headline on the front of the paper.
Three More Death Eaters Escape Azkaban
She slowly lowered her glass back to the table, Ron giving her a strange look as he finished off his piece of toast. “You alright, Hermione?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
She didn’t answer as she quickly skimmed the article for the important parts.
Azkaban officials report that late last night three Death Eaters somehow escaped from their cells and past the Dementors to freedom. Officials are not certain of how this occurred, but the Department of Ministry has placed their top Aurors on the trail of the escapees. This escape comes right on the heels of a similar disappearance two months ago-- when two Death Eaters also disappeared into the night. Azkaban officials assure the public that there is no connection between the two incidents, but an inside source at the Ministry stated differently. “It appears that He Who Must Not Be Named is finding a way to gather all his followers. This can only mean that he is preparing to finish what he began. To kill Harry Potter and bring the second war.”
Hermione stopped reading as the article went on to tell the readers who had been living under a rock for the past seventeen years who exactly Harry was and what he had to do with You-Know-Who.
“Hermione?” Ron asked again.
When she looked up, she was met by three pairs of eyes. Ron, Neville, and Ginny had all stopped what they were doing to watch her. She returned each of their confused looks with a confused look of her own.
“You okay?” Ginny asked.
Hermione nodded. “I’m fine. I just-- there was just this thing in the paper. That’s all.”
Ginny reached across the table, pulling the Daily Prophet from Hermione’s hands. She read the front page for herself as Ron asked, “What thing in the paper?”
“Another Azkaban escape,” she replied with a frown. “Three Death Eaters escaped.”
“Oh,” he replied before returning to his scrambled eggs before they chilled.
Hermione looked at him, incredulous. “Oh?”
“What?!” he asked through a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed hard before speaking again. “It’s not like it affects any of us.”
“If You-Know-Who is back and looking to start the second war, where do you think he’s going to stop first, Ron?” she asked. She didn’t wait for him to answer before continuing. “He’s going to come *here*.”
“Yeah, for Potter,” Ron replied with a scowl. “Good riddance to rubbish, I say.”
“Do you honestly think the Death Eaters will care enough to simply kill Potter and leave the rest of us unharmed?”
Ron simply blinked at her as Ginny handed the paper back. “She has a point, Ron. If they come here--”
Neville finally found his voice. “But Headmaster Dumbledore has told us it’s safe here.”
Hermione frowned over at him. “He has, but what if it’s not as safe as he proclaims?”
Ron groaned quietly. “You really know how to bring down a breakfast, Hermione.”
Hermione could only sigh as she slipped her copy of the Daily Prophet into her schoolbag. “I should head to Transfiguration.”
“I’ll see you in Potions later,” Ron replied.
Hermione gave him a nod and stood, swinging her bag over her shoulder and proceeding out of the Great Hall to class.
---------
By the time Transfiguration drew to a close, Harry could barely keep his eyes open. As he lazily gathered his items and shoved them into his bag, all he could think about was skiving off Charms for a much-needed nap. He smirked to himself, knowing that all he’d have to do was smile sweetly at Parkinson, and she would gladly hand over her class notes for the day.
“Mister Potter,” McGonagall spoke from her desk, “if you could stay behind for a moment?”
Harry looked up with a raised eyebrow. Blaise shot him a confused look before shrugging and heading to his next class. A few other students gave Harry knowing looks, a few finding amusement at his misfortune. One of them happened to be Hermione, who looked pleased at the idea of him being reprimanded for his dozing off during lecture.
The girl’s amusement did not last long.
“Miss Granger, I need to see you as well.”
Hermione’s head whipped around, shocked. “Professor?” she asked, approaching the desk.
Harry sighed and stood, swinging his bag over his shoulder and joining Hermione in front of McGonagall’s desk. The brunette gave him a disdainful look before turning her full attention back to McGonagall, who was presently writing on a piece of parchment.
Once the door to the classroom shut behind the final student, she looked up from her paper. “I realize that this term many of my students, yourselves included, are interested in becoming registered Animagi, but becoming an Animagus is a complicated and dangerous form of transfiguration.” She slid her parchment inside a book, closing it firmly. “Normally in seventh year, we teach the concept of what it means to become an Animagus, but we don‘t delve much further into the topic. Only when approved by the Headmaster do we allow certain students to actually pursue their interest in the subject.”
Hermione took that moment to speak for both of them, her voice filled with quiet shock. “Are you saying we’re being allowed to actually study and learn the methods?”
McGonagall nodded. “As my two top students, it seemed only fair to offer the opportunity to both of you.”
Harry glanced over at Hermione who seemed beside herself with excitement. He had to admit that this opportunity was intriguing, but he also knew that being allowed to work on such advanced and dangerous magic would come at a price.
“What’s the catch, Professor?” he asked, ignoring the withering look that Hermione gave him in response to his blunt question.
Professor McGonagall did not appear as insulted by the question as Hermione. “I wouldn’t call it a catch, Mister Potter,” she replied. “I’m allowing you to learn a skill none of your other classmates will get the opportunity to learn. For that, I expect a decent amount of research on the topic from the both of you. I want to see that you can put the effort into learning every aspect of being an Animagus-- from its historical origins to its uses in the present-day wizarding world.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “A paper.”
Professor McGonagall shook her head. “More than a paper. A project. As soon as you turn in your effort, and I feel you’re both serious about the subject, I will begin your actual private lessons.”
“I can do that,” he shrugged.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Professor,” Hermione said eagerly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the woman replied. “This project requires teamwork on your part. I want the finished product turned in as a single task by the both of you.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest but no words seemed to form. Harry, however, was not at a loss. “Professor,” he groaned, “you cannot expect me to work with *her*.”
“I can, and you will if you’re serious about becoming a registered Animagus. I feel it is not necessary for me to inform you both that this side project is something that should not be broadcast among your fellow classmates.” She glanced at her watch. “I believe you should be going before you’re tardy to your next class.”
With that, she opened her book, removed her parchment, and returned to her writing.
Harry sighed and started out of the classroom, Hermione hot on his heels. “Potter, wait up,” she said as he continued down the hallway.
Harry finally stopped with a low growl, turning to her, annoyed. “What, Granger?”
“You heard Professor McGonagall,” she replied, her annoyance mirroring his. “We have to work together on this.”
“And your point?”
“My point is that we shouldn’t wait until the last minute.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell me you want to start tonight.”
“Yes,” she stated simply.
“No,” he replied back just as bluntly.
She gaped at him. “What do you mean no?”
“It‘s a simple concept to follow, Granger, even for you. I have Quidditch practice tonight.”
“Quidditch?!” she squeaked out, sounding as if someone had just told her she had received only one OWL and that was for Divination.
A few younger students gave the two of them a curious look as they passed, but they quickly diverted their eyes when Harry leveled his gaze on them. He turned back to Hermione with a sigh. “Yes, Granger, Quidditch. That sport with the brooms and the bludgers.” He paused with a smirk. “The sport of which your boyfriend Weasley has yet to grasp the concept.”
“I know what Quidditch is, Potter,” she snapped. “I just can’t believe that Quidditch is more important to you than learning to become an Animagus. This is an extremely important task we’re being allowed to participate in.”
“You’re going to harass me until I agree to this,” he realized.
“I am not--”
Harry cut her off, impatient. “Look, after practice is fair game. I’ll meet you in the library at seven. Just sit tight.” Before she could respond, Harry walked away, irritated that his encounter with Hermione had cut into some of his possible naptime.
---------
The first week back at Hogwarts had been uneventful to say the least.
The sorting ceremony had gone off without a hitch, Harry taking to his annual wagers with Draco and Blaise on which students would be sorted into what houses. And as usual, Blaise had managed to call the most students between the three of them, having an unnatural knack for sorting people simply from the way they looked. Harry had joked once that Blaise could give that fraud Trelawney a run for her money, and that jest had been met with a threat of broom-tampering.
The classes were as he expected for the NEWT year, especially since every professor for the past week, had felt the need to remind them of the importance of the year. Each lecture seemed to start out the same-- informing the students of the importance of their performance this year, the skills they would be required to master, the tests they would be required to take. By Friday afternoon, Harry wasn’t sure he could listen to another identical spiel. Unfortunately, his mental state, would not be soothed by his last class of the afternoon, Advanced Potions.
If there was a class that Harry despised more than that waste of time Divination, it was Potions. It wasn’t that he hated the material covered. In fact, he found it both interesting and useful. It wasn’t that he couldn’t make the marks. His scores were second only to Granger’s who had an annoying ability to best him in everything. It was his blinding hatred of Professor Snape. A hatred that Harry had not not had upon his initial entrance into Hogwarts but had grown with his passing years in the darkened dungeons of the classroom.
During his first year at Hogwarts, Snape had done everything within his power to make Harry’s life miserable. He singled him out mercilessly in class, finding new and inventive ways to torment him every day it seemed. He gave him the lowest marks in the class (which ended when Harry mastered the course much to the Professor’s displeasure). He even took points away from his own house in order to punish Harry and add injury to insult.
Harry never understood what he had done to the man to deserve such treatment until his new friend Draco Malfoy had filled in the blanks for him.
In a former life, Snape had been a loyal follower of Voldemort, second only to Draco’s own father Lucius. Then, inexplicably, it seemed that Snape switched teams, joining league with Dumbledore and taking up residence at Hogwarts. Draco, like all the other children of Death Eaters in the Slytherin house, believed the switch to be nothing but a well-crafted façade.
“Death Eaters get the mark for a reason, Potter,” Draco had said to him one night during supper. “Once you’re in, you’re bound. You remain loyal.”
And for Snape, remaining loyal meant to torment the boy prophesized to overthrow his leader. To Snape, Harry was nothing but the mortal enemy, and in return, Harry had made the insufferable git his own.
Harry sat back in his chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, awaiting the beginning of class with an unpleasant look on his face. From beside him, Draco began removing parchment from his schoolbag, preparing for the onslaught of notes Snape was sure to deliver in a rapid fashion.
“What’s your deal, Potter?”
Harry kept his eyes trained on the door, watching as two Hufflepuffs-- Hannah Abbott and Ernie MacMillan -- strolled into the classroom and took two available seats towards the front of the room. They were soon followed by three Ravenclaw students, only one of which Harry could faintly remember the name. Seventh year classes were more integrated than the previous years. As students separated and took more classes aimed towards a particular career path, the concept of two houses per class had become obsolete.
“I’m just ready to get this week over with,” Harry muttered, his frown deepening as Ron and Hermione strolled into the classroom. “Maybe get in some Quidditch tonight.”
Draco snickered under his breath. “I hear McGonagall made Weasley captain.”
Harry smirked, watching as Ron and Hermione situated themselves one table ahead of them on the other side of the room. “She must be desperate.”
“They might as well give it up,” Draco drawled. “Six years and they still haven’t taken the cup away from us.”
“And this year will be no different,” Harry replied confidently.
At that moment, Snape finally graced them with his presence, slamming the dungeon door closed behind him. Harry watched the Hufflepuffs jump slightly at the noise and rolled his eyes. He continued to lean back in his chair defiantly, his arms still folded across his chest, as Snape turned to them.
“I don’t feel I need to instill in you the importance of this year,” he sneered, leveling his gaze on the students. “This year will be the most demanding, the most challenging, and I will not accept anything less than excellence from each of you.”
“Does he ever?” Harry muttered under his breath.
“This year will not only require you to learn and perfect potions you have never attempted before, but I am also requiring that you recall knowledge you should have retained from your previous years. I expect you all to be able to tell me ingredients and effects of every single potion you have learned in the past six years.” He paced the middle aisle of the class, giving Harry a distinct glare, as he continued his speech. “In your first year, you learned a potion that effectively puts the consumer into a deep sleep. Who can tell me the name?”
As usual, Hermione’s hand shot up without a moment’s hesitation.
Snape sighed, agitated, as he turned and proceeded back towards the front of the room. He passed by Hermione, who continued to hold her hand up high, and spoke from over his shoulder. “Miss Granger,” he said and finally turned to face the class again.
“That would be the Draught of the Living Death,” she replied with a confident toss of her hair.
“Correct, Miss Granger,” he frowned. His frown only deepened as he added, “Five points to Gryffindor. Now who can tell me the ingredients of the potion?”
Again, as if on cue, Hermione’s hand entered the air. “The ingredients are asph--”
“Asphodel in an infusion of wormwood,” Harry interrupted lazily from his seat.
Both Ron and Hermione turned in their seats to glare at him, Hermione looking as if she’d like to wring his neck right there in the classroom for having the gall to interrupt her. He simply gave her a satisfied smirk in response, causing the girl to huff and turn back in her seat. He watched as Ron leaned into the girl, whispering something in her ear, to which Hermione gave a slight nod.
“Five points to Slytherin as well,” Snape said, not looking the least bit pleased with awarding Harry any form of points. He gave Harry one final withering glance before turning and approaching the chalkboard to begin writing the instructions for the day’s task.
“Bloody brilliant, Potter,” Draco chuckled quietly at his side.
Harry smirked and finally leaned down, grabbing parchment from his schoolbag to take notes.
---------
He had been waiting all week for this moment.
Harry walked onto the Quidditch pitch, changed into his Quidditch robes and accompanied by Draco and Blaise-- all three boys with brooms at hand. All week he had been dying to get back on his broom, to play a little Quidditch with his friends and forget the existence of everything else in his life. Quidditch was his outlet for all the frustration of the school week, his way to stay sane.
“When are you scheduling tryouts?” Draco asked.
“Couple of weeks,” Harry shrugged.
“You mean you’re not intimidated by Weasley being elected Gryffindor captain?” Blaise laughed.
“I’m shaking in my boots here,” Harry replied with a smirk. The smirk quickly fell away as he noted another small group of students gathered on the pitch. He held in a growl as he caught glimpses of maroon in the robes. “Speaking of the bloody Gryffindors.”
Unfortunately, it appeared Ron and his sidekicks had had the same idea as Harry.
“Weasley!” Harry barked out as they approached the other boys, the only one of which Harry had ever cared to learn the name of being Ron himself.
“What do you want, Potter?” the redhead growled back.
“I hope you’re not planning to use the pitch right now.”
“Why not?” he countered. “It’s not reserved.”
“Technically, no.”
Ron scowled at them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means remove yourselves from the pitch before we do it for you,” Draco replied coolly.
Harry watched in amusement as Ron began to turn the same shade of red as his hair. “Are you bloody threatening us?”
“Not a threat,” Harry replied evenly. “Simply a fact.”
“We’re not leaving,” Ron replied, stepping up to Harry and standing tall, as his friends moved in closer to back him up.
Harry gave Ron an amused smirk, amazed to see the boy actually sticking up for himself for once. Probably only because he had three other Gryffindors at his back who could bail him out if things got heavy.
“Well, look who grew a pair,” Harry sneered.
Ron threw down his broom angrily, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Hermione took that moment to step in. Harry had paid her no mind as she sat on the sidelines of the pitch, a textbook open in her lap. He had been too concerned with removing Ron and his friends from the pitch to take the time necessary to stop and aggravate her in the process.
She stormed over to them, placing herself between him and her friend. “Why don’t you go harass someone else for a while, Potter?” she asked, giving him a scathing look.
“Your mudblood girlfriend always have to come to your rescue, Weasley?” Draco chided.
Harry gave Draco a look only the blond boy could understand, and Draco’s smirk faltered a bit. Harry turned back to the Gryffindors with a slow exhale. “If I remember correctly, Granger, I warned you about minding your own business. This is between Weasley and myself.”
“Yeah, it is,” Ron growled, his eyes never leaving Harry’s as he grabbed Hermione’s arm and pulled her away to the side. “We were here first, Potter.”
“And now you’re done.”
“Ron, just let it go,” Hermione replied angrily. “Let them have their stupid pitch. We can come back later.”
“We. Were here. First,” Ron replied to the girl, his eyes still locked with Harry’s.
Harry held the stare as he shot at Hermione, “You really need to learn when to shut your mouth.”
Hermione stepped back over to them, and Harry finally pulled his gaze from Ron’s to meet a similar heated glare from the girl. “And you need to learn that the world does not revolve around you like you so wrongly believe.” She turned back to her friend. “Ron, they’re not worth it. *He’s* not worth it.”
Ron glared at him, and Harry raised his eyebrows in response, knowing full well what was about to happen next. Because it always happened.
Harry watched, a slow smirk coming across him, as Ron growled under his breath and snatched his broom up from the ground. He motioned to his friends before storming away, pushing between Blaise and Draco-- both boys laughing in amusement. As Hermione passed, Harry reached out with Seeker speed and took firm hold of her arm, yanking her towards him. She looked up at him, and though she quickly tried to mask it with anger, he caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.
“Next time?” he said coldly. “Mind your own business.”
“Next time, don’t be a git,” she spit back.
Harry’s grip on her arm loosened slightly, and she yanked herself free, quickly making her way to join her friends.
“Look, Potter--” Draco began as soon as the three of them were left on the pitch.
“Leave it, Malfoy,” Harry ordered with a frown, handing the boy his broom. “You two stay here. I’ll get the supplies.”
Harry started towards the locker room before either of the boys could respond. It wasn’t every day that Draco Malfoy offered anyone an apology, if it could even be called that, but he wasn’t in the mood for it tonight. Draco and Blaise had long learned to watch their words around him, but occasionally, Harry figured that the boys forgot with whom they were actually allied. They forgot that their infamous best friend wasn’t as pure as them, that his blood was half wizard and half muggle.
Which was why, unlike his comrades, he loathed the term mudblood. Even when it was directed at someone as irritating as Hermione Granger.
Harry removed his captain key from his robes, unlocking the cabinet that held the Quidditch equipment. He smiled and pushed all other thoughts away as he mentally prepared for a night on his broom.
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“Potter, get up, or you’re going to miss breakfast.”
Harry, his blankets pulled over his head, just barely made out Blaise’s words. He pulled back the blanket with a groan, squinting over at his roommates. Blaise was fully dressed, slipping his books for the day into his schoolbag while Draco was in the process of lacing up his shoes.
“What time is it?” Harry groaned, reaching for his glasses and slipping them onto his face.
“Time for your arse to be out of bed,” Blaise grinned, slinging his bag over his shoulder and folding his arms across his chest.
“What kept you up to ungodly hours?” Draco asked.
Harry blinked at them before replying. “I needed to finish the team roster to turn into Madam Hooch today.”
Blaise and Draco shared a look before Draco shrugged, and grabbed his own schoolbag by the strap. “You better get ready soon, or you won’t get a meal,” Draco replied, standing.
He and Blaise walked out of the room, leaving Harry alone in silence. Once alone, Harry kicked back the sheets with a sigh, lifting his glasses momentarily to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Harry *had* been up late working on the completed team roster, the list due on Madam Hooch’s desk one week after the scheduled tryouts. But that had not been the reason for his oversleeping.
He hadn’t slept well at all, tossing and turning most of the night as he was haunted by night terrors. He barely remembered the dreams now, most of the details slipping away from him as Blaise woke him from his slumber.
He vaguely remembered screams. A girl’s screams. Screams that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He remembered hearing a male voice, whispering. Almost hissing orders that he couldn’t quite make out. He never saw who the voice belonged to, simply heard it in his head. But not even the screams or the whispering voice clung to Harry’s subconscious as the only image burned vividly into his mind.
His own hands. Dripping with blood. Blood that he was quite certain was not his own.
Unconsciously, he glanced down at his hands, turning his palms up. No blood. Not that he expected any. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of that last visual that continued to haunt him. After a moment, he opened his eyes and finally removed himself from the bed. His stomach not in the mood to handle food at the moment, he decided to head to the showers before class. Hoping to wash his nightmares down the drain.
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Sitting between Neville and Ron, Hermione finished her breakfast and reached for the day’s copy of the Daily Prophet that had been delivered soon after they had all arrived in the Great Hall for breakfast. She knew she was only one of the handful of students who actually had a subscription to the paper delivered to school, but she felt it didn’t hurt to always be well-informed about things happening outside the walls of Hogwarts.
Especially when there was always a chance You-Know-Who would finally come out of hiding and finish his war he had begun years prior.
At the beginning of each term, Headmaster Dumbledore had made it a point to inform all the students that Hogwarts was a place of unwavering safety, that they had nothing to fear while they were within the stone walls. But Hermione had always had a sick pang in the pit of her stomach, a fear that she had always kept to herself. Perhaps it was only to soothe the students’ minds, but she couldn’t help but think that the Headmaster’s declarations were stated for more ominous reasons.
If the second war came, it would most certainly find itself on Hogwarts’ doorstep. Not only did the school hold Harry Potter, a boy who had been You-Know-Who’s enemy before he could even speak, but it also was home to the Headmaster himself, a man who had been meeting You-Know-Who head to head in battle for more years than any of the students had even been alive.
Hogwarts would have to be safe, Hermione feared, because it would be the heart of the showdown when it finally came.
Hermione’s glass hovered near her lips as her eyes scanned over a bold headline on the front of the paper.
Three More Death Eaters Escape Azkaban
She slowly lowered her glass back to the table, Ron giving her a strange look as he finished off his piece of toast. “You alright, Hermione?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.
She didn’t answer as she quickly skimmed the article for the important parts.
Azkaban officials report that late last night three Death Eaters somehow escaped from their cells and past the Dementors to freedom. Officials are not certain of how this occurred, but the Department of Ministry has placed their top Aurors on the trail of the escapees. This escape comes right on the heels of a similar disappearance two months ago-- when two Death Eaters also disappeared into the night. Azkaban officials assure the public that there is no connection between the two incidents, but an inside source at the Ministry stated differently. “It appears that He Who Must Not Be Named is finding a way to gather all his followers. This can only mean that he is preparing to finish what he began. To kill Harry Potter and bring the second war.”
Hermione stopped reading as the article went on to tell the readers who had been living under a rock for the past seventeen years who exactly Harry was and what he had to do with You-Know-Who.
“Hermione?” Ron asked again.
When she looked up, she was met by three pairs of eyes. Ron, Neville, and Ginny had all stopped what they were doing to watch her. She returned each of their confused looks with a confused look of her own.
“You okay?” Ginny asked.
Hermione nodded. “I’m fine. I just-- there was just this thing in the paper. That’s all.”
Ginny reached across the table, pulling the Daily Prophet from Hermione’s hands. She read the front page for herself as Ron asked, “What thing in the paper?”
“Another Azkaban escape,” she replied with a frown. “Three Death Eaters escaped.”
“Oh,” he replied before returning to his scrambled eggs before they chilled.
Hermione looked at him, incredulous. “Oh?”
“What?!” he asked through a mouthful of eggs. He swallowed hard before speaking again. “It’s not like it affects any of us.”
“If You-Know-Who is back and looking to start the second war, where do you think he’s going to stop first, Ron?” she asked. She didn’t wait for him to answer before continuing. “He’s going to come *here*.”
“Yeah, for Potter,” Ron replied with a scowl. “Good riddance to rubbish, I say.”
“Do you honestly think the Death Eaters will care enough to simply kill Potter and leave the rest of us unharmed?”
Ron simply blinked at her as Ginny handed the paper back. “She has a point, Ron. If they come here--”
Neville finally found his voice. “But Headmaster Dumbledore has told us it’s safe here.”
Hermione frowned over at him. “He has, but what if it’s not as safe as he proclaims?”
Ron groaned quietly. “You really know how to bring down a breakfast, Hermione.”
Hermione could only sigh as she slipped her copy of the Daily Prophet into her schoolbag. “I should head to Transfiguration.”
“I’ll see you in Potions later,” Ron replied.
Hermione gave him a nod and stood, swinging her bag over her shoulder and proceeding out of the Great Hall to class.
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By the time Transfiguration drew to a close, Harry could barely keep his eyes open. As he lazily gathered his items and shoved them into his bag, all he could think about was skiving off Charms for a much-needed nap. He smirked to himself, knowing that all he’d have to do was smile sweetly at Parkinson, and she would gladly hand over her class notes for the day.
“Mister Potter,” McGonagall spoke from her desk, “if you could stay behind for a moment?”
Harry looked up with a raised eyebrow. Blaise shot him a confused look before shrugging and heading to his next class. A few other students gave Harry knowing looks, a few finding amusement at his misfortune. One of them happened to be Hermione, who looked pleased at the idea of him being reprimanded for his dozing off during lecture.
The girl’s amusement did not last long.
“Miss Granger, I need to see you as well.”
Hermione’s head whipped around, shocked. “Professor?” she asked, approaching the desk.
Harry sighed and stood, swinging his bag over his shoulder and joining Hermione in front of McGonagall’s desk. The brunette gave him a disdainful look before turning her full attention back to McGonagall, who was presently writing on a piece of parchment.
Once the door to the classroom shut behind the final student, she looked up from her paper. “I realize that this term many of my students, yourselves included, are interested in becoming registered Animagi, but becoming an Animagus is a complicated and dangerous form of transfiguration.” She slid her parchment inside a book, closing it firmly. “Normally in seventh year, we teach the concept of what it means to become an Animagus, but we don‘t delve much further into the topic. Only when approved by the Headmaster do we allow certain students to actually pursue their interest in the subject.”
Hermione took that moment to speak for both of them, her voice filled with quiet shock. “Are you saying we’re being allowed to actually study and learn the methods?”
McGonagall nodded. “As my two top students, it seemed only fair to offer the opportunity to both of you.”
Harry glanced over at Hermione who seemed beside herself with excitement. He had to admit that this opportunity was intriguing, but he also knew that being allowed to work on such advanced and dangerous magic would come at a price.
“What’s the catch, Professor?” he asked, ignoring the withering look that Hermione gave him in response to his blunt question.
Professor McGonagall did not appear as insulted by the question as Hermione. “I wouldn’t call it a catch, Mister Potter,” she replied. “I’m allowing you to learn a skill none of your other classmates will get the opportunity to learn. For that, I expect a decent amount of research on the topic from the both of you. I want to see that you can put the effort into learning every aspect of being an Animagus-- from its historical origins to its uses in the present-day wizarding world.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “A paper.”
Professor McGonagall shook her head. “More than a paper. A project. As soon as you turn in your effort, and I feel you’re both serious about the subject, I will begin your actual private lessons.”
“I can do that,” he shrugged.
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, Professor,” Hermione said eagerly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the woman replied. “This project requires teamwork on your part. I want the finished product turned in as a single task by the both of you.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest but no words seemed to form. Harry, however, was not at a loss. “Professor,” he groaned, “you cannot expect me to work with *her*.”
“I can, and you will if you’re serious about becoming a registered Animagus. I feel it is not necessary for me to inform you both that this side project is something that should not be broadcast among your fellow classmates.” She glanced at her watch. “I believe you should be going before you’re tardy to your next class.”
With that, she opened her book, removed her parchment, and returned to her writing.
Harry sighed and started out of the classroom, Hermione hot on his heels. “Potter, wait up,” she said as he continued down the hallway.
Harry finally stopped with a low growl, turning to her, annoyed. “What, Granger?”
“You heard Professor McGonagall,” she replied, her annoyance mirroring his. “We have to work together on this.”
“And your point?”
“My point is that we shouldn’t wait until the last minute.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Don’t tell me you want to start tonight.”
“Yes,” she stated simply.
“No,” he replied back just as bluntly.
She gaped at him. “What do you mean no?”
“It‘s a simple concept to follow, Granger, even for you. I have Quidditch practice tonight.”
“Quidditch?!” she squeaked out, sounding as if someone had just told her she had received only one OWL and that was for Divination.
A few younger students gave the two of them a curious look as they passed, but they quickly diverted their eyes when Harry leveled his gaze on them. He turned back to Hermione with a sigh. “Yes, Granger, Quidditch. That sport with the brooms and the bludgers.” He paused with a smirk. “The sport of which your boyfriend Weasley has yet to grasp the concept.”
“I know what Quidditch is, Potter,” she snapped. “I just can’t believe that Quidditch is more important to you than learning to become an Animagus. This is an extremely important task we’re being allowed to participate in.”
“You’re going to harass me until I agree to this,” he realized.
“I am not--”
Harry cut her off, impatient. “Look, after practice is fair game. I’ll meet you in the library at seven. Just sit tight.” Before she could respond, Harry walked away, irritated that his encounter with Hermione had cut into some of his possible naptime.
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