Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 3 : Of Moles and Men

THE VOICES WOKE HIM, lapping over him faintly at first, then drawing nearer and louder.  The blades of an argument.  Ron and Hermione perched, one on each side of his bed.  Their bickering had reached a pitch such that they failed to notice him, now sitting up and blinking at them quizzically.

“—That  is utterly ludicrous and you know it!  You leave Viktor out of this.  Just because you can’t see what is so obvious to another woman…”  Hermione’s voice rang through the vast infirmary, which, thankfully, was empty except for the three of them.

           

“Oh!  Well!  Well… that’s—that’s rich coming from you!”  cried Ron in exasperation.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”  Hermione’s indignant face was red, her hands poised on her hips.

Ron flushed, apparently struck by the realization that it didn’t really mean anything in particular but had merely felt like a good comeback.  He seemed genuinely relieved to discover Harry’s puzzled expression and the opportunity to change the subject.

“Harry, are you all right?” he asked, just as Madam Pomfrey popped her head into the room.  Ron turned and smiled at her weakly.  Hermione, it seemed, was taking her time to cool down. 

Casting them a disapproving glance, the nurse cautioned, “five more minutes and then I’m afraid you will both have to leave.  Mr. Potter needs his rest.”

As the matron’s steps vanished into her office, Hermione, blatantly ignoring Ron, turned to Harry.  “Harry, what happened?  I saw you grab your head.  Then you were screaming and writhing around on the floor.” 

Harry gingerly touched the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.  “My scar.  It was burning.  It’s sharper than it’s ever been before.”

Ron’s face mirrored Hermione’s concern.  “Do you think it has something to do with Vol—with Voldemort?”  Ron flushed; Harry knew that speaking the Dark Lord’s name aloud still made his best friend feel uneasy.

“I guess,” concluded Harry. 

Hermione looked thoughtful.  “Now the pain must be even greater than before because…” She hesitated, shuddering, “because… he’s back.”

 “Voldemort won’t hesitate at an opportunity to strike.”

Hermione nodded soberly.  “Did you see the Daily Prophet this morning?  The Diggorys’ place was burnt to the ground last night.  No one was home, thankfully, but some witnesses said the Dark Mark was still burning in the sky when the Ministry authorities arrived from Ottery St. Catchpole.”  Seeing the fresh pallor on Ron’s face, she hastily added, “—Of course, that’s just speculation… all Ministry reports deny that it was there.”

Harry noted the red-haired boy’s silent, grave expression.  Ottery St. Catchpole was only a short distance from the Weasley home.

Ron’s voice shook slightly.  “I’m… glad at least that Charlie and Bill are home with Mum and Dad.  The Burrow’s been rigged with all sorts of anti-Dark Magic devices that the Ministry’s put in.  And we… we should be safe here, shouldn’t we?” asked Ron.  “I mean, you heard Dumbledore say every security precaution’s been taken to protect Hogwarts, right?  And everyone knows the only wizard Voldemort’s afraid of is Dumbledore, so as long as he’s around—“

“—we’re safe from Voldemort?” finished Harry.  He shrugged, pushing up his glasses thoughtfully.  “Maybe.  But that’s assuming Voldemort himself was to come after anyone at Hogwarts.  What if Voldemort were to send in his agents”—He’s done it before, thought Harry, remembering the late Professor Quirrell—“to go places that he can’t necessarily access to… get him information or… or..?”

“Or worse,” said Ron worriedly.

“What, you mean like a mole?”  asked Hermione, straightening up curiously on the bed.

“A what?” Ron frowned, puzzled.  Harry and Hermione, raised in Muggle homes, often forgot that pure-blood wizards like Ron knew little if anything of the peculiarities of modern popular culture.

“That’s what Muggles call an undercover spy,” she explained, adding pointedly, “you know, maybe you should think of taking Muggle Studies this year.”

“Done!”  Ron’s expression brightened, a randy teenage glimmer in his eye.  “You won’t have to twist my arm, now that we’ve seen the new professor.”

Harry strained to suppress a grin, but Hermione wrinkled her nose in patent disdain, as if she had suddenly detected more dragon droppings.  “Oh, of course.  You and every other testosterone-driven idiot in the school.  You should try pursuing academic study for the purpose of, you know, learning.”

“I think there’ll be plen-ty to learn in that class,” Ron’s blue eyes twinkled as his eyebrows rose and fell, clearly implying enterprises not remotely academic.  For someone not entirely au fait with Muggle culture, he did a good impression of Marx.  Groucho Marx, that is, thought Harry, stifling a chuckle.

Hermione held her nose up, flashing him a look of indignation. 

“You’re disgusting.”

Ron’s smile vanished and his lips twitched defensively.  “Oh, right.  And I suppose you expect us to believe you were spending all that time in the library all last year to study, rather than bat your eyelashes at Viktor Krum!”  He managed to make the Bulgarian national team’s Seeker sound like an unmentionable disease.

Hermione gasped.  “That is so unfair!  As I recall, YOU were the one who followed him like his shadow last year hoping to get his autograph during the Triwizard Tournament.  Just because you’re jealous that he asked me to the Yule Ball while you—“

“Jealous?! HA!”  Ron’s voice rose again to fever pitch.  “Of course that’s just like a girl to make—“

“Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, that will be all.”  The stern countenance of Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor House, had taken them all by surprise, appearing, it seemed, from out of nowhere.  The Transfiguration instructor was a registered Animagus and could transform herself quite well into a tabby cat when she chose.  Harry had often wondered if she didn’t do a bit of transfiguration every now and then to keep track of the students at Hogwarts.  “Mr. Potter needs his rest.”

“Actually, Professor McGonagall, I’m quite all right now.  Really.  And I’d like to go, if you and Madam Pomfrey don’t mind,” piped up Harry. 

She considered him doubtfully through the wire-rimmed spectacles perched at the end of her long, pointed nose.  Sensing her position on the proverbial fence, he asked, “and I would have to be discharged this evening, Professor, for me to get to Quidditch practice tomorrow for our strategy session before the Slytherin match next week.”

Harry could almost see the deliberations playing out in her mind as clearly as if he’d scripted them himself.  Minerva McGonagall knew that having Harry as Gryffindor Seeker was essential to her house getting a vital head start in the race for the House Cup.  With the war against Voldemort beginning to escalate beyond the shelter of the school, against a backdrop of fear and paranoia, one took what innocent pleasures one could find.  And Harry knew she’d be damned before she would be willing to concede defeat, not to mention a rumoured case of her vintage Chateau d’Yquem, to Snape, Head of Slytherin House.  Harry glimpsed a flicker of a smile.

“Well, if you really feel up to it, Mr. Potter,” –on cue, Harry nodded vigorously—“I shall explain to Madam Pomfrey.  You are free to go.”  And just as she turned for the door herself, she paused and addressed Ron and Hermione.

“And as for you, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, I suggest you modify the volume of your… discussions.  They say the walls here at Hogwarts have ears—and mouths that are all too eager to pass on any… indiscreet subject matter.” 

Ron sputtered incoherently.  Hermione blushed crimson.

She nodded, crooking an eyebrow meaningfully at Harry as well, and vanished down the corridor.

Harry found that sound advice, whether she meant Ron’s and Hermione’s personal relations or the suspicions he’d been on the verge of voicing.  He peered warily at the paintings in the infirmary.  A Florence Nightingale, a country doctor carrying a chicken tucked under his arm and even an old man bearing a striking resemblance to the early Muggle astronomer Galileo blinked down at them, following the three with their eyes.  Would they now have to be on their guard even against the artwork?

**********

Dinner was already underway in the Great Hall.  The candles hovered in midair between the tables and the ceiling, bewitched to show autumnal constellations. 

They slid into places at the unoccupied portion of the Gryffindor table.  Harry’s eyes wandered momentarily across the Hall, resting on Cho Chang, the pretty Seeker from Ravenclaw who, only months earlier, with a mere smile, would have reduced him to the lowest common adolescent denominator, a tongue-tied, sweaty-palmed, quivering mass of nerves and insecurity. 

But that was before … before Cedric Diggory’s death at last year’s Triwizard Tournament.  She returned his gaze mournfully, before biting her lip and turning away, troubled.  Who could blame her? thought Harry.  I’m responsible.  If only I hadn’t suggested to Diggory that we take the cup together, he might still be alive. 

Harry shivered involuntarily at the memory of how Voldemort, having finally achieved semi-human form with the help of that slimy turncoat Wormtail, almost succeeded in killing him.  He could still clearly see the greyish skin stretched across the bony carcass of what was long ago a human being but now, ghastly reptilian, down to the narrow slits of its piercing red eyes.  And the memory of the Dark Lord brought with it visions of the terror he was capable of unleashing.  Death Eaters in black-hooded garb malevolently tightening their circle around him, the glint of Wormtail’s knife against the dark undergrowth of the cemetery, the cauldron of blood, Cedric’s lifeless body… and the look of utter despair and devastation on Cho’s face on seeing her boyfriend’s corpse in Harry’s arms.

“Harry.”  Hermione’s voice jolted him from his thoughts.  “Harry, what were you going to say about being a Mole?”

There was a snigger from behind, followed by a familiar arrogant drawl.  “You know, come to think of it, Potter, you do rather resemble an underground rodent.”  Hermione awkwardly swung around in surprise, but failed to appear contrite for inadvertently ribbing Draco Malfoy, as he landed sideways with a thump against the Ravenclaw table.  Harry noted with some gratification the plateful of mushy peas, steak and béarnaise sauce now plastered onto his Slytherin robes. 

“Oh, sorry, Draco.  I didn’t notice you there,” said Hermione.  “But then again… that’s understandable.” 

Ron snickered, issuing a sardonic little cough that sounded very much like “Ferret Boy”. 

Turning back to her plate, Hermione coolly ignored Ron’s and Harry’s grins.  Back to business.

“Harry, about the—“

But Harry stopped her short with a shake of his head, as a long shadow darkened the threshold. 

“Later,” he whispered, pointedly widening his eyes and rolling them meaningfully to the doors.  Snape had just entered the Great Hall and had obviously witnessed much of the commotion.  The scorn on the Potions Master’s face would have been good for at least a detention and twenty points each from Gryffindor House if at that moment Dumbledore hadn’t beckoned him to the head table for a word with Professor Sprout.         

**********

As in previous years, the Gryffindors shared their Potions lessons with the Slytherins.  In the dimly lit dungeon laboratory, Hermione caught Malfoy regarding them bitterly, apparently still fuming over the previous night’s béarnaise incident.  Pansy Parkinson had scampered quickly to share Malfoy’s cauldron, casting a triumphant sneer over at Millicent Bulstrode and the other Slytherin girls.  Malfoy’s self-satisfied smirk, even after four years, still managed to fill Hermione with bile, a feeling she knew Ron and Harry shared.

It was widely known that the Malfoys were rolling in wizard gold and possessed vast estates throughout Britain and Europe.  Draco himself did wonders at fanning his own sails in this respect, never neglecting to show off whatever luxury his parents made sure to send ostentatiously by owl or occasionally, by falcon.  During Voldemort’s first reign, it was even said that Malfoy père, by virtue of a pact with the Dark Lord, had somehow ensured that the royal seats at Windsor and Balmoral would be devised to his family in the next century.  Whether or not that was rumour or truth, it was obvious that Pansy Parkinson would do anything to see herself as mistress of the Malfoy manors.  Or perhaps, Pansy was just interested in Malfoy for himself? 

Hermione dismissed the last alternative as utterly improbable.  Insipid as Parkinson is, she must possess at least half a brain cell, she thought.  On the other hand, she reflected, as the Slytherin twirled her lanky blonde hair around her quill and launching into a coquettish stream of high-pitched giggles, maybe that’s being too charitable.  

“Miss… Granger.”  Snape’s low growl made her jump in her seat as much as the long slender fingers she suddenly found resting on the corner of her table.  Regaining composure, she brought her chin forward, willing herself to look into the Potions Master’s angular countenance.  Her gaze traveled past the colourless lips and long thin nose and into the darkness of cavernous eyes.  Despite herself, she felt an irrepressible shiver.

“Yes,… sir?”

“You will explain.” 

“Explain… er, what… sir?”  She swallowed hard, already knowing how this would end.

The dark eyes, narrowing, regarded her coldly for a moment.  “There will be no daydreaming or idle musings in this class.  I don’t expect the likes of you, Miss Granger, to comprehend the subtleties of a perfectly brewed potion, however, I do expect you to remain alert.  Ten points from Gryffindor!  And detention,” barked Snape, “for your inattention, Miss Granger, to perhaps the most important Potions lesson you will receive this year.”  A stunned silence followed, dissolving into a flurry of quills scrambling to attention on parchment.

She didn’t care to think of it, but she knew Malfoy was sneering.  Harry and Ron at the next table exchanged looks of sympathy.

“The discovery of the Verivue Elixir,” continued Snape, glaring at the Gryffindors, “dates back to the eleventh century, pre-dating its better-known cousin, the limited but more commonly-applied Veritaserum… Mr. Malfoy,” he drawled in the softer tone he seemed to reserve only for students in his house, “kindly enlighten us as to why the Verivue Elixir has fallen into disuse these past 800 years?”

The Slytherin’s face flushed, but his pale grey stare held the Potions Master’s confidently.  “The Elixir has never been successfully produced consecutively using the same ingredients, for reasons which have eluded researchers.”

Snape rarely, if ever, smiled.  Yet, while his face remained relatively unaltered, Hermione glimpsed a faint twitch at the corners of his thin lips.

“Correct, Mr. Malfoy.  Five points to Slytherin.” –Draco twisted around in his chair, grinning boastfully at Crabbe and Goyle—“Researchers have discovered, however, that a handful of ingredients are essential to the basic foundations of a successful brew.  The properties of each of these ingredients will be the focus of your first few assignments this term.”

Snape swiveled abruptly to Neville, Hermione’s lab partner, who glanced up with round, terrified eyes, his freckles all but vanishing as the colour filled his face like a beaker.  “Longbottom,” he sneered, “explain—for the benefit of Miss Granger—the effects of the addition of dragon excrement to the Verivue Elixir.”

Neville issued a customary squeak.  Uncertain of himself at the best of times, Neville nearly always completely unraveled in the presence of the Potions Master.  It was for this reason that he surprised Snape and the class by actually responding, if reluctantly.

“The—the dragon’s excrement, wh—when combined with the ground hoarfrost crystals and asphodel marrow… um… p—produces a compound that …er …makes the user see Truth.  This differs from… uh, Veritaserum in that there is no need to conduct questioning of those being observed.”

Snape’s mouth hung open for a few moments before he recovered enough to mask his surprise.  “And, pray tell, Mr. Longbottom, what are the contraindications of the Elixir, if produced properly?”

“The user’s… uh… integrity may be polluted, …sir?” stammered the boy.

Although most of the class appeared thoroughly lost, Snape whipped around so quickly that his robes nearly overturned Millicent Bulstrode’s cauldron.  Astonishment registered once again on the Potions Master’s sallow face, but degenerated quickly into something resembling spite.  “Close, Mr. Longbottom.  But, as they say, no cigar.  Yet.”  Snape’s eyes bored into Neville’s petrified countenance, as if searching for something.  In a few scissor-like strides, he closed the distance between himself and Neville, staring ominously down his hook nose until the boy squirmed.  His voice, thick with venom and cold as dry ice, resounded through the classroom like a cobra’s hiss.  “And that’s twenty points from Gryffindor for pilfering from my lecture notes before class.  However, if you should ever again be caught cribbing notes from a teacher, Longbottom, I would advise you—off the record, of course—to get it right!” he snarled.

“But, sir, I—“ started Neville.

“ENOUGH!  Another word from you, Longbottom, and I can promise you a detention you are not likely to forget!”

Hermione gasped in outrage.  She herself had been quite impressed by Neville’s courageous display.  Hermione turned to the boy at her side with a compassionate glance.  But Neville’s countenance had drained of all expression and he fell silent, like a puppet dropped. 

The class worked in a tense silence for the rest of the double period.  But that wasn’t the end of the Gryffindors’ worries.  True to form, Snape detracted thirty points from Gryffindor for their dragon droppings samples. “Potter, Weasley and Granger—ten points each for illegally obtaining dragon excrement from my office stores.  The Headmaster will hear of this.”

“What!  But Professor Snape, we—“ protested Harry.

“Are you contradicting me, Mr. Potter?!”  Snape fixed him with a poisonous stare.

Hermione watched as Ron aimed a foot at Harry’s shin under the lab table, widening his eyes in warning.  Personally, she agreed with Ron.  It was probably better not to admit to snatching supplies from Hagrid’s back garden in the dead of night.  Ron kicked Harry again.

“Ow!—uh, no… sir.”

”Good.  Now, you will each turn in a recipe for Verivue Elixir and an essay on its uses as well as its contraindications by next week—no later than twenty-four hours prior to this class.  In the following weeks, we will also be producing the antidote.”  Glowering at Neville one last time, he strode ominously towards Malfoy and the other Slytherins, who sniggered derisively into their cauldrons.

After class, Hermione flung her books into her overloaded satchel and was rushing out of the dungeons trying to catch up with Neville, but was held back by Snape, arranging her detention. She had felt compelled to give Neville some kind words of support.  But by the time she emerged from the lab, the boy had vanished.

To Be Continued…