Harry Potter and the Society of Orpheus and Bacchus

Chapter 9: Dark Arts

THERE HAD ALWAYS BEEN SOMETHING ABOUT POTTER'S FACE that Draco didn't like. For four years he'd wondered, probably subconsciously, what that indefinable quality was. The studied innocence of his emerald eyes? (If Draco heard another girl use that poncey description again, he'd never be able to stop himself from hexing her with boils.) Or, the trademark I'm-so-ashamed-to-be-rich-and-fairly-famous flush (which Draco himself could never have displayed convincingly)? Or perhaps it was just that mop of hair. So untidy. On anyone else, he imagined his mother would have taken her coiffeur's shears to it.

At any rate, after another gruelling early-morning Quidditch practice, this type of spiteful speculation was a welcome distraction. Certainly more entertaining than the pedantic monotony of their captain's strategy sessions at the Slytherin table. Draco tuned out of Bole's third explication of how to identify a Porskoff Ploy in time to execute a Dopplebeater Defence. Draco rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers at Goyle to pass him the pumpkin juice.

Across the Great Hall, Potter sat with Granger and that pimento pauper, poised over a copy of the Daily Prophet. His face, a mixture of horror and concern, had wrinkled into such an all-encompassing frown that forehead to chin resembled an unwieldy maze of grooved scars. The three conspiratorial heads leaned together for the briefest of moments. Then they disentangled, leaped from the bench and scurried from the Hall. Typical. He sniffed. Always calling attention to themselves with an ostentatious display of Great Secrecy. Well, Draco wasn't even mildly curious. No. Not in the least.

He speared a length of bacon with one hand, as the other deftly plucked Crabbe's copy of the newspaper from the boy's thick, jam-smeared fingers. Not like he'd miss it, after all, he thought wryly, Crabbe would have to learn to read first. His eyes wandered idly down the front page, searching for what the little Gryffindor cabal could possibly find so intriguing. Apart from another huge dip in Zonko's stock and a reward for information on some poachers, the only other item of note detailed a Ministry lead on the whereabouts of an Azkaban fugitive, spotted recently near Avebury. Witnesses in the Muggle town recounted tales of having caught sight of a man in and around an abandoned, ramshackle cottage on the outskirts, a man who matched the description of Sirius Black.

Ah... Black!

Draco stared blankly at the Gryffindor table, wondering fleetingly where he'd first heard the nasty, little-known rumour about Black being Potter's uncle--or was it godfather? Whichever. If that Skeeter woman wasn't still swatting at her wings in a St. Mungo's ward, Draco might have attributed it to her creative flair. Either way, that choice piece of gossip would cast some great aspersions on the swotty little saint's untarnished reputation. Draco grinned at the thought. If only it were true! Imagine! Precious Potter: the legal ward of the Wizarding World's Most Wanted! Oh, the irony! Harry Bloody Potter and one of the Dark Lord's Finest. Brilliant. That ought to bring him down a peg or two. Draco sighed, wishing he had thought of it himself.

"Oy! Malfoy! Peel yer eyes off the competition fer two seconds together, mate, an' let's pay attention, aw right?"

Draco lanced his iciest glare at Gengis Bole, Slytherin's Quidditch captain, even as he tried to quell his own stab of irritation. Draco couldn't take in Bole's gaunt, pock-marked face without hearing his father's scalding voice. How in the name of Hades was it possible that a penniless plebe like Bole could have cinched the captainship of the House team with Draco up for the same spot? The gangly git's only claim to fame, other than being named after a heathen plunderer, would be that his grandfather had been the thousandth dark wizard to pawn the Hand of Glory back to Borgin and Burkes. When old Emerick Bole died, the only thing his family inherited was his undistinguished reputation for petty thievery. Draco's father had once shown him a Daily Prophet picture of the old swindler. As he fixed Bole with a contemptuous glare, the same swarthy countenance, stringy brown hair, unkempt monobrow and beady black eyes stared straight back at him.

Nearly as alarming as that face was Bole's jaundiced, crooked-toothed grin as he sneered, "Tell us yeh don' fancy that lil' carrot-topped slip o' Gryffindor yeh share yer Manticore wi', do yeh?"

Draco's pale brows flew up in outrage. "Of course not, you ignorant git!" he spat, and immediately cursed himself for his lack of self-control. A Malfoy, he knew, would never have responded impetuously to a peasant's goading. Well, except for a few discreet but well-placed curses, as his father and grandfather had taught him. But ugh! That he would even entertain an interest of any kind in that Gemma or Geri or Gina Weasley--it was utterly... well, he wouldn't deign to think about it.

Reaching for his goblet, he took shelter in the familiar hauteur and continued more evenly. "And see to it you address me with due respect, Bole. I needn't remind you whose father has just commissioned those Firebolt 220's. I could just as easily send back an owl to cancel the order," taunted Draco, knowing he would do no such thing.

"Ever so sorry, Guv." Bole's unapologetic smirk annoyed Draco more than he let on. The Slytherin captain lounged back against the wood panelling and steepled his fingers. "But I was hoping yeh'd do us lads--an' possibly yerself--a favour teh divert yer attentions t' another Gryffindor." He glanced pointedly across the Hall, then around the Slytherin table. "Not a bad pull, is she, boys?"

Julian Bangert narrowed his watery eyes and scratched at his dirty blond stubble. He sniggered. "Not a bad pair of Bristols, either, for a frog."

The rest of the team, from the most senior, Adrian Derrick and Olaf Sponger, to the third year Bullock cousins, leered in agreement.

Derrick winked at Draco and cocked his oily brow across the Hall in the direction of the new Gryffindor Keeper, Eveline de Mordaunt.

**********

Harry was still clutching the Daily Prophet when they passed through the dungeon threshold of the Dark Arts classroom. The boisterous chatter of the rest of the Gryffindors echoed behind, through the corridor, as he took a seat between Ron and Hermione. They unpacked their quills and parchment in silence. Harry's eyes strayed to the blurry photo of the old cottage. He was only partially aware of the meaningful glances his friends were trading over his head.

"Harry," said Hermione finally, "you mustn't worry about him."

Ron's face took on a pained expression and he shook his head.

"What I mean," she continued cautiously, "is that now you've sent him an owl, there isn't much more we can do but wait."

Ron frowned at Hermione, but turned to Harry. "But you have heard from... er, Snuffles, haven't you?"

"Not since the beginning of the summer. He sent an owl to the Dursleys saying he'd be at Professor Lupin's for a few days, but he'd have to keep moving. Then he said he couldn't risk owling again for a while, for my own protection." Harry heard himself sigh.

"Look," said Ron, "if they'd found him, you'd think it would be all over the press, right? Wouldn't we have heard news about it now? I mean, everyone's on the look-out. Even the Muggle authorities from here to--"

"Ron!" muttered Hermione in exasperation. She raised her chin and shook her head imperiously.

They then pursued a heated, semi-verbal debate, punctuated by emphatic gestures over Harry's head. From all their discreet hissing, he caught only a few words, including "awkward situation", "insensitive" and "wouldn't know tact if it bit you." The Dark Arts lecture had begun, but Professor White's voice registered only as the dim background noise to his turbid thoughts. He couldn't help but stare at the front page and its mocking headline: "SIRIUS BLACK SPOTTED IN RURAL WILTSHIRE."

Harry knew his friends meant well and wanted to comfort him somehow. And deep down, he even conceded that they did have a point. The news, alarming as it was, wasn't all that bad. Nevertheless, a little voice inside his head told him it was all very easy for Ron and Hermione to say it would be all right. Hermione's parents were both alive, running their Muggle dental practice, and Ron was surrounded by his sprawling family of redheads. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had half-adopted him. On each of his summer-long visits to the Burrow, he'd tasted what it was like to bask in the warmth of a familial cocoon. The Dursleys, Harry's only living blood relatives, acknowledged his presence only long enough to hurl the odd insult. By comparison, all the coddling and fussing of Mrs. Weasley that Ron irritably shrugged off was like a drug to Harry. It was like being wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket, indoors, in front of a fire, in mid-winter. Then again, it had always been someone else's blanket. Leaving the Burrow never failed to make the absence of family more pronounced, like an ever-widening cleft in the pit of his stomach.

But now he had Sirius--Sirius who had offered him a real home, once his conviction had been cleared.

Barely aware of his fingers tightening around his eagle feather quill, Harry nearly snapped it in half. It was frustrating beyond words to know that Sirius had spent twelve years in the terrifying wizard gaol Azkaban for murders that he didn't commit. Even now, only a handful of people, including Dumbledore, knew the truth. Yet without concrete evidence linking to the real murderer, Wormtail, there was no hope of convincing the Ministry that he wasn't guilty. The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, would no sooner accept Sirius Black's innocence than a handful of Bertie Bott's Mucous-Flavoured Beans. Until then, Sirius was on the sorry end of a wizard hunt. And if the Ministry found him...

Harry battled with the sudden urge to run out of the room, out of the school, to do... something. Anything to stop this feeling of helplessness. He just... didn't know what. What he did know was that after thirteen years of believing he was alone in this world, he was determined not to lose his godfather. Not just when he'd discovered his existence.

Hermione leaned forward, her eyes full of reproach.

"I know that look, Harry," she said.

The scornful glare he gave her was probably enough of an admission.

"No. Way." Her voice was adamant, as if she were scolding a wayward toddler. "You can't even think of going to search for him. Especially not now with Vol--", she reduced her tirade to a whisper, "with him and his followers everywhere, you'd only be tempting fate. Just think: Snuffles would kill you if you got--"

Hermione's voice halted abruptly as a shadow tumbled across the desk.

"Is there a problem?"

Professor White's dark blue robes swung to a stop against their desks and she leaned her hip against a nearby table. Her long waves were pulled casually from her face and her voice was calm. But her eyes, concerned as they were, had a powerful silencing effect.

"No, ma'am," Hermione said contritely.

Harry managed a wan smile, which Professor White returned. "I'm glad to hear it. If at any point you--any of you--find yourselves unsure in this class, you should feel free to ask me any--erm... anything." She faltered momentarily as her eyes fell on Harry's desk, but quickly looked away. "It is irresponsible of any of you to think you have all the answers. Hubris is a great weakness to the wizard and just as self-destructive as fear--"

"Hubris?" Ron whispered. "Isn't Sprout growing some of that stuff in the Restricted Greenhouse?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and Harry bit his bottom lip to keep his cheeks from trembling with laughter.

"That would be cannabis, Ron," said Professor White easily. "And you're not supposed to know about that." She gave him a wink that was at once good-natured and reproving. "What I'm talking about is overbearing self-pride, bordering on arrogance. I've known too many of the best trained witches and wizards who have met their demise as a result of that attitude. Too proud to acknowledge their limits. If you're to remember anything from today's class, remember this: there is no such thing as a silly question when it comes to understanding methods of defence against the Dark Arts. Understood?"

Several heads across the room bobbed up and down. Again, she swept by Harry's desk.

"May I?" Without waiting for a response, Professor White appropriated Harry's Daily Prophet. Her face took on a strange, closed expression. But after a moment, she cleared her throat and tucked the paper under her arm. Her bent toward Harry with a small smile. "You may pick this up from my office before dinner. I just want to make sure your mind is focused on this class while you are in it."

Harry nodded, relieved. At least, unlike Snape, she didn't seem keen on publicly flogging him.

Across the aisle, Dean Thomas raised his hand.

She stopped just short of the blackboard, abandoning the paper on her desk. "Yes... Dean?" she said, glancing up from the attendance list.

"Are those for us?" he asked apprehensively. Harry swivelled round in his seat, along with the rest of the class. Dean pointed into the shadows of the dungeon's Gothic arches along the far wall. Mounted on brackets and wedged between stone sconces, hung row upon row of swords and a few curiously-shaped weapons. If Hermione hadn't brought Warren Whiplash's Encyclopaedia of Wizard Weaponry, 351^st ed. to the Burrow that summer in preparation for O.W.L.s, Harry would never have been able to distinguish between the types of blade on the wall. As it was, he only vaguely recognised a few basic sword shapes, as well as a set of wooden practice blades.

Professor White pursed her lips and took a deep breath. "The Wizards Educational Council has determined, given the current ...political situation, that our curriculum include some basic armed defence training. This means that as fifth years you will be schooled in the basics of Wizard Fencing later in the term, depending on how you fare in your evaluations. But I wouldn't get too excited," she added hastily, her eyes darting toward Neville. Harry wondered if she wasn't probably misinterpreting the boy's sudden twitchiness at the next desk. "Your training won't finish until the end of your seventh year."

Dean and Seamus exchanged a look, and Seamus's hand went up. "Does that mean you'll be stayin' at Hogwarts, then, after this year, I mean?"

Professor White blinked uncertainly, her eyes darkening.

It was a valid question, thought Harry. The Dark Arts post at Hogwarts, coveted as it was by Snape, suffered from a worryingly high turnover rate.

"I should think that depends on quite a lot of things," she said finally. "But for the moment, what's important is for you to get the grounding you need."

"Right then, put away your books, but keep your wands. We're going outdoors for today's lesson." From the floor behind her desk, she picked up what looked like a large, tatty leather hatbox and stood patiently by the door. "You can leave your things here," she said, "we won't be long. Now, everyone follow me."

The students exchanged curious glances and marched out behind Professor White. They trekked through the dank dungeon corridor, past the Potions Room where Professor Snape was teaching the fourth year Hufflepuffs. From his self-satisfied sneer, the translucent vials in his hand, and the green tint on the students' faces, it wasn't hard to deduce that Snape had begun the year with a review of antidote self-testing. Startled at first by the little parade of Gryffindors, the Potions Master glowered at them. Harry was pleased to note that Professor White ignored him completely.

She led them up the stairs, through the coolness of the stone Entrance Hall, out the main doors and down the expansive, sunlit lawns. They skirted Hagrid's pumpkin patch. Livid claw marks on the ground reminded Harry of his turn to feed his Manticore after lunch. A pleasant thought. And just as he'd lost his appetite completely, he collided into Seamus Finnigan's back.

Professor White pushed through a shadowy arch at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. But the class stopped where the dense tangle of foliage began, peering uncertainly at the tall trees. Even the light of day seemed to shrink away from the shadows of its thickly-woven boughs.

The Gryffindors hung back nervously, whispering.

"She's not serious," said Dean.

Ron frowned at Dean and Harry. "'She joking? We can't go in there, it's against school rules."

"Actually," said Hermione, "we can... technically."

Reaching into her robes, she extracted a stout, palm-sized book with a faded red cover and a cracked spine. Hermione licked the tip of her finger and flicked expertly through its yellowed pages. "Here, see? According to Section 13.4(b)(i) of the Hogwarts Standard Rules and Regulations, students are strictly forbidden to enter the Forest. But Section 13.4(b)(ii) says that 'in certain limited circumstances, as defined by the Hogwarts Student Violations Subcommittee, excursions into the Forest may be permitted only if conducted under the supervision of a Staff Member'."

Ron's mouth hung open, his face registering more alarm at the sight of the portly rule book than at the prospect of setting foot in the Forest. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you always carry that around?"

"It's not only me," she said primly. "All the Prefects should carry the Rules and Regulations. You never know when they'll come in handy."

"What, you mean you don't know it off by heart by now?" He sniggered.

Hermione gave him a wounded sort of look. "Well, it's a self-editing book. Sometimes the rules change--"

"All right, all right," cut in Seamus. "So, d' we follow? I vote yes," he said gamely and struck off toward the wood. Lavender giggled and tugged a dubious Parvati through the shrubbery. With a shrug, Dean followed, trailed reluctantly by the other Gryffindors.

"You know, if we wait long enough, we could lose them," suggested Ron lightly, "then we'll have no choice but to wait it out back in the dungeon...?" Harry couldn't resist grinning. He knew Ron would do anything to avoid another encounter with the hairy, six-foot tall spiders in the Forest. And the fact that he was willing to risk Snape's wrath, well, that was saying something. Nevertheless...

"Come on." He prodded Ron's shoulder encouragingly. "Where's your sense of adventure?" Hermione warily followed, clutching the rule book at her side like a cudgel. Her eyes widened in apprehension, but her jaw was firmly set. Nothing short of mortal injury could make her miss a class.

They made their way along a narrow trail of flattened undergrowth, blinking several times as their eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. Tugging their sleeves over their fingers, they shivered. The temperature dropped about ten degrees in the shade. Harry kept one eye on Seamus and the others ahead, while scanning the shadowy pockets between the trees. After what seemed like rather a long way, they joined the rest of the Gryffindors at the foot of a grassy knoll in a glade. On the very centre of the mound, next to the carcass of a gnarled tree trunk, lay a set of three boulders. The largest, which was long and fairly flat, perched atop the other two at a slight incline, giving the ensemble the impression of a gigantic, slightly wonky desk. A single shaft of light fought its way through the web of evergreens above, casting Professor White's slight form into a hazy silhouette. With both hands, she hoisted the leather hatbox onto the flat surface and faced the class.

"... and I think that should be... ah. Now that's everyone. I'm glad you decided to join us," she said brightly, as the three arrived. "All right, all of you, come forward and stand to that side." She smiled patiently, not seeming the least bit perturbed by the encroaching waves of thickening fog.

"Earlier, we discussed the dangers of hubris. There isn't anything inherently wrong with self-confidence, of course," she added. "But it is true that an excess of anything, including emotion, can prove more harmful than helpful. The well-trained wizard or witch, in battle or self-defence, keeps his or her mental attitude balanced. Today's class will consist of a simple diagnostic, that will test one of the most important tools in any kind of combat. You are all familiar with the Russian Pogrebin?"

Almost on cue, the leather valise began a strange rocking, shifting from left to right along the edge of the stone. The students nodded, eyeing the hatbox with renewed curiosity.

"Well, I've brought one for us right here," she said, rapping her wand lightly against the box. "Right, so who can tell us a bit about them?"

Even before Professor White had finished, a single hand flew up in response.

"Yes ... Hermione."

"A Pogrebin resembles a small, hairy gnome. Before it attacks, it first weakens and disarms its prey by inducing lethargy and despair. In dire cases, an emergency dose of Pepper Up Potion is administered, although," continued Hermione thoughtfully, gnawing on her quill, "that's not something you're likely to keep on your person."

"Precisely." Professor White gave Hermione an approving sort of smile. "Neither is it advisable to become too attached to mood- or mind-altering potions. The key to effective control over your emotions is here." She tapped a slender finger against her temple. "Any simple hex is usually enough to take care of a Pogrebin. And, if all else fails, a well-aimed kick should be sufficient to break its spell. But today's lesson isn't so much about the Pogrebin as its effect on your frame of mind. Hagrid has kindly provided us with one to reproduce the very feelings we need to arm ourselves against. Rootless anxiety and despair can easily distract any wizard from acting rationally in a combat situation."

She struggled briefly with the latch on the hatbox before setting the lock aside. Beckoning to the class to gather around the stone tablet, she called, "Wands out, everyone. And pair up. You will concentrate on practicing curse deflection with your partner--just simple hexes will do. In a moment, I will release the Pogrebin. It may choose to tail any one of you, so I want you all to be aware of any subtle, negative shifts in your emotions. Watch out for the downward spiral. But do not use your wand against it straight away. I want to see if you can shake it off by the power of thought. Ready? One. Two. Thr--"

Before she could raise the lid, a shrill cry echoed through the fog.

"No one move," Professor White said quickly, holding up a hand. "Everyone stay here while I look into this. If something happens, Hagrid said you know how to send up red sparks?"

Harry and his friends nodded.

Harry had to admire how calm Professor White was. Her features set in hard lines that seemed somehow incongruous to a face like hers. Without the merest trace of alarm, she pulled up her sleeve and drew her wand. But the dagger in her other hand was a surprise, and she wielded it with an intimacy only time and experience brought about.

"Keep within the rim of the clearing," she said. "You should be fine until I get back." Then muttering a few wards to secure the glade, she slipped confidently through the foliage.

Harry had gingerly taken a seat on the grass with Hermione and Ron when they heard Parvati gasp.

"Where's Lavender?"

Another shriek ripped through the wood.

This time, Harry was on his feet. He hardly felt the warm tickle from crossing the invisible boundary, but jumped at the rapid pounding of footfalls from behind. Then grinned.

Ron.

His friend's freckles stood out in relief against the ghostly pallor of his face. But Ron forced a tinny laugh. "Didn't think I'd let you take all the credit for a daring rescue, did you?" He clapped Harry companionably on the shoulder. "Neville thought he last saw her over there. C'mon."

The sudden darkness beyond the glade reminded them that the Forest really wasn't much different during the day than at night. Low tree branches hung eerily about like hanged men in the low fog and odd rustling in the undergrowth brought to mind the promise of creatures they never wanted to meet. It was therefore with great relief that Harry spotted the back of Professor White's robes ahead in the turning of the path.

But something was wrong. She stood perfectly still, almost petrified. Only a trembling arm feebly supported her against an old oak. The boys drew level with her just as her dagger hit the ground. The eyes in her ashen face stared ahead, wide and unblinking.

Harry followed her gaze through the trees to a break in the wood, a dark hollow, where a blonde girl was struggling in the arms of a tall, unkempt man. His hands were tarred with what looked unmistakeably like... blood.

To Be Continued...