From a Serpent to a Lioness: Year Two

The next time we see Ron and Harry, it’s well after dark when the pair of them stumble into the common room, having been escorted by Professor McGonagall. As they throw themselves into a sofa, I lean in.

“What HAPPENED??? We couldn’t find you on the train at all!”

 

Harry explains, “The barrier to Platform 9 and ¾ wouldn’t let us cross. We… borrowed Mr Weasley’s car, flew it all the way here, and… kinda crashed on top of a Whomping Willow that beat the car up. It mustn’t have been keen on getting whomped, because the car kicked us out, and then last thing we saw of it, it was driving itself into the Forbidden Forest. We got spotted by seven Muggles, got detention and a letter is being sent to our parents, and Ron’s wand got broken… but other than that, we’re okay.”

 

I stare in shock. I’ve never heard of the barrier refusing to let someone through. It’s only supposed to block Muggles, who don’t know about the wizarding world. Hermione’s parents could pass through, but no ordinary Muggles would even be able to tell. The bigger issue here is Ron’s wand, though. If a wand breaks, it’s extremely dangerous for the owner and those around them, since magic doesn’t work so well with them. Spells go wrong, or hit unintended targets. There’s been more than one wizard who accidentally blew themselves up by casting with a damaged wand…

 

 

The next morning, we assemble in the greenhouse for Herbology, our first class of the new school year. Professor Sprout bustles out of the store room, beaming cheerfully.

“Morning, everyone! Welcome to Greenhouse Three, second-years! Now, gather round, everyone, today, we’re going to re-pot mandrakes! Now, who here can tell me the properties of the mandrake root?”

I smile, giving Hermione a look. “I think you’ve got this one!” I whisper to her, and she rolls her eyes.

“How charming!” she teases back, and then holds her hand up. Professor Sprout nods at her.

 “Yes, Miss Granger?”

 

“Mandrake, or mandragora, is used to return those who have been petrified to their original state. It’s also quite dangerous. The mandrake’s cry is fatal to anyone who hears it.”

 

Professor Sprout beams even more. “Excellent! Ten points to Gryffindor! Now, as our mandrakes are still only seedlings, their cries won’t kill you yet, but they can knock you out for several hours, which is why I’ve given each of you a pair of earmuffs for auditory protection. So, could you all please put them on, right away?”

We all pick up the earmuffs, and I tuck my hair back behind my ears. No sense taking risks. I smile as I check my painted nails, a gentle green today, thanks to Hermione holding onto my nail polish over the holidays. She’d returned them to me last night when we got to our dorm, and I’d been so relieved to have the little bottles back.

“Quickly! Flaps tight down, and watch me closely!” Professor Sprout shouts, raising her voice enough that we can just hear her.

“You grasp your mandrake firmly…”

She takes hold of the base of the bush of leaves sprouting out of one of the pots.

“You pull it sharply up out of the pot-”

At the end of the bunch of leaves is a root that looks like a misshapen baby. Its mouth opens, and I am intensely reassured by my earmuffs. I can’t hear it at all!

“-then you dunk it down into the other pot, and pour a little sprinkling of soil to keep him warm.”

She begins burying the mandrake in fresh potting soil, and it quiets down, snuggling into its earthy blanket. Neville reels, and then collapses, cross-eyed.

“Longbottom’s been neglecting his earmuffs.”

Seamus points out helpfully, “No, ma’am. He’s just fainted.”

Sprout sighs, “yes, well, just leave him there. Right, on we go! Plenty of pots to go around!”

I end up paired with the same Slytherin boy who almost killed his Dittany last year, and… Luna Lovegood. Oh, joy…

She smiles at me as she mouths, “I like your nails!”

 

 

Professor Sprout shouts, “Grasp your mandrake… and pull it up!”

Immediately, the greenhouse is filled with discordant shrieking, and I wince. The earmuffs are working, thankfully, but yeesh! What a cacophonous din!

To my satisfaction, I see Malfoy wincing even more. At least he’s suffering, the smug arse! And then, I can’t help but smirk as he gets Crabbe or Goyle’s attention, before tickling his mandrake under the ‘chin’. It bites him, and I make a note to tell the boys about this, they’ll love it!

 

By the end of class, all the mandrakes are successfully repotted, and blessed silence falls, no-one willing to break it as we realise that ‘silence is golden’ might actually be worth remembering.

Back in the castle, we pass a ghost I recognize from Halloween. “Oh, there’s Nearly Headless Nick. Hi, Sir Nicholas!”

“Hello, you lot!”

Nick tips his head politely, the wobble of his almost-severed cranium something I choose not to comment on.  At lunch, Harry explains why none of us had managed to get a letter from him, and why he’d never gotten our letters. A House Elf named Dobby had appeared before him, begging him not to return to Hogwarts this year, before ruining a dinner-meeting his uncle, the Phenomenal Human Zeppelin, had been counting on to go well. That’s why his window had been barred. Dobby had been intercepting our letters to Harry, in the hopes that he’d think we’d either forgotten him or weren’t really friends.

I can feel a cold shiver down my spine. Dobby…? Where do I know that name from? It’s familiar, I know it is, but… I can’t remember where I’ve heard it before…

Ron, meanwhile, has scavenged a roll of Sellotape from somewhere and is using it to TRY and fix his wand. It looks crooked, even with the splint he’s used to try and align it. And the bulbous lump of tape just… isn’t helping matters. He looks at the roll, still dangling from his wand, and says morosely, “say it. I’m doomed…”

 Harry looks at the other boy and says playfully, “You’re doomed.”

Suddenly, there’s a “Hi Harry!” and a blinding flash. A small boy has just taken a photograph of Harry, having approached without our notice.

As Harry blinks the flash-spots away, I frown. “Hello? And don’t you know it’s rude to take people’s photos without their knowledge or consent? And certainly not without introducing yourself.”

The boy looks a bit chagrined. “Sorry! I’m Colin Creevey! I’m in Gryffindor too!”

Harry blinks. “Uh, hi Colin. Nice to meet you?”

Then, an owl shrieks, as I look up. I wouldn’t put it past my parents to have started with the whole ‘disappointment to the House of Darcy, don’t come home for Christmas, blah-blah-blah, Merlin’s beard, rabble-rabble’ nonsense already.

“Um… Ron, is that your owl?”

I point, and Ron drops his wand. “Ohhhh no….”

Errol, carrying something red, swoops lower and lower, on a perfect landing path… then his brain shorts out and he crashes into a bowl of crisps, scattering them everywhere as people laugh at the sight of a disgruntled, cross-eyed owl extricating himself from a bowl of food.

“Bloody bird’s a menace…” Ron gripes, as he reaches for the delivered object. A red envelope. I gulp. “Oh no is right, Ron… that’s…”

Harry looks confused as Errol rights himself and flaps off. Seamus smirks.

“Look everyone!  Weasley’s got himself a Howler!”

Neville looks encouragingly at the redhead. “Go on, Ron. I ignored one from my gran once. It was horrible!”

Harry is totally lost. I guess Muggles don’t have Howlers, then. Lucky!

I start to explain. “A Howler is a special kind of letter. It’s not good to ignore them, because if you do…”

The letter wrenches itself from Ron’s grasp, the envelope warping to take the shape of a mouth. Then it begins speaking.  Well, more accurately, shouting. Really, REALLY loudly. In Mrs. Weasley’s voice.

 

“RONALD WEASLEY! HOW DARE YOU STEAL THAT CAR! I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR FATHER’S NOW FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, AND IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT! IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT HOME!”

The envelope turns in Ginny’s direction, startling the poor girl.

“Oh, and Ginny, dear, congratulations on making Gryffindor. Your father and I are so proud.”

Then, the envelope blows a raspberry at Ron, and tears itself up into confetti.

Ron’s as pale as a ghost, and I don’t blame him. Whoever invented Howlers must have been a complete nightmare to write to.

 

After lunch, it’s time for Defence Against The Dark Arts, with… Professor Gilderoy Lockhart?!

Wait, what? That pompous wizard’s a TEACHER now?! What is HAPPENING?!?!

We all file in and take seats, and I am not looking forward to this class, at ALL.

 

There’s a huge, gilt-framed portrait of Lockhart painting, and, from his office in one of the towers, he emerges, gesturing grandiosely.

“Let me introduce you to your new Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher… me. Gilderoy Lockhart!”

Ron and I share another look of disgust.

He descends the short staircase, his golden robes swishing.

“Order of Merlin, Third Class. Honorary member of the Dark Force Defence League. And five times winner of Witch Weekly’s Most-Charming-Smile Award.”

He flashes that ‘award-winning’ smile at us, and I note many girls, including Hermione, are simpering at him. Nooooo! Not you, too, Hermione!

“But I don’t talk about that.”

You JUST DID!

“No, I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by smiling at him!”

I watch as Professor Lockhart laughs at his own ‘joke’. Then, he whips out his wand.

“Now! Be warned… it is my job to arm you against the foulest creatures know to wizardkind.”

He approaches a covered cage, eyes fixed on us. When he taps the cage, it begins rattling and shaking.

“You may find yourselves facing your worst fears in this room. Know only that no harm can befall you while I am here. Now, I must ask you not to scream.”

He reaches for the cloth, and I wonder what he’s doing. Maybe he’s actually a competent teacher, despite his… deficits as a human being.

“It might PROVOKE THEM!” He wrenches the cloth off, and I blink. Inside the cage are several dozen small, blue, winged humanoids. They all start squealing and flailing tiny arms out through the bars, trying to get at us. Seamus snickers.

“Cornish pixies?”

Lockhart holds up a finger. “Freshly caught Cornish pixies. Laugh if you will, Mr. Finnegan, but pixies can be devilishly tricky little blighters. Let’s see what you make of them!”

And then… he unlatches the cage door, and pandemonium descends upon the room. As the tiny blue creatures swarm, Lockhart calls, “Come one now! Round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies!”

Two of them grab Neville by his ears and begin hauling him into the air, while several more tear pages out of books and upset inkwells, playing darts with the quill pens, and probably swearing at us, too, for good measure.

While Malfoy barges two screaming girls over, the pixies manage to hook Neville’s robes onto the chandelier, leaving him there and flitting off to cause further mayhem. His screams of “Please get me down!” join the chaos.

Two of them are tugging at Hermione’s hair, as Harry tells her to hold still. The moment she does, he swings a book like a Beater’s bat, launching the little pest away like a Bludger. Lockhart is still doing NOTHING to help, but finally swings his wand and yells, “Peskipiksi pesternomi!”

It does… absolutely nothing, and in fact seems to rile the Cornish pixies up even further, since one of them flies by and steals his wand, bringing it up to the ceiling, where several of them are riding on the suspended skeleton of some long-dead magical beast, using their stolen wand to break the chains holding it up and sending it crashing down upon us. I whip out my own wand and yell, “Protego!” managing to shield those closest to me from death-by-extinct-magical-creature-skeleton, while both the painted professor and the flesh-and-blood one go and hide, with Lockhart’s parting words being to “I’ll ask the four of you to just nip the rest of them back into their cage!”

I stare after him in disbelief, before turning and yelling, “Stupefy!”

Half a dozen pixies crumple, and I cram them back into the cage, locking it, before Hermione adds her own magic to the mix.

“Immobulus!” every single pixie caught in the blast freezes, as if time has stopped for them alone. Neville, still swaying from the chandeliers, asks plaintively, “why is it always me…?”