Contradictus Totalus

Contradictus Totalus - Chapter One

A car door slammed shut. A trolley bearing the weight of too many books rattled. A grumpy cat with a squashed-in face yowled pathetically in his carrier. Several crabby complaints of 'teenagers today!' were muttered darkly. Several breathless apologies were uttered in response. A suitcase fell out of its precarious position on the trolley, spilling its precious contents. A brief exclamation of 'bugger!' was articulated. And it was a short while after all this when Hermione Granger finally flew through the gateway to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

She had been so absorbed in the process of perusing the new book that she had bought during the holidays (Canadian Witches and Wizards: the Non-Stuffy Spell-Casters of the British Commonwealth, by Jean-Pierre Laurier) that she had completely forgotten about the Hogwarts Express. Consequently, she arrived at King's Cross approximately twenty-four seconds before the train left, and leapt on the train exactly two and a half seconds before it pulled out of the station.

Her nerves frazzled, she dashed to the front of the train, where the Prefects met for their first meeting of the year. She arrived at the first compartment of the train, only to find to her dismay that the meeting was already over and the door was locked.

Oh, bollocks! Hermione took out her frustrations by slamming her hand against the doorjamb instead. Neglecting her very first obligation of the year - a mandatory meeting, of all things! - would not go over very well at all. And what if Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had witnessed her flagrant disregard of duty? Even worse, what if they'd still remember that incident when it came time to choose next year's Head Girl? Oh ...

Hermione took a deep breath. In. Out. Another breath: in, out. One more perhaps, just in case. All right. Now that her head had cleared a bit, she realized that her worries were completely silly. People were not rejected for the Head Boy and Head Girl positions simply because they accidentally failed to attend a short little meeting. One silly missed meeting. That was all. Besides, even if it did count - not that it would, of course! - she was positive she'd salvage her tarnished reputation.

But there were still other pressing matters. Hermione still had to find Ron and hear from him what she had missed. After all, even though she had missed the meeting, Hermione Granger most certainly would not be caught unaware of what went on in it.

Hermione was about to turn around and leave when she caught sight of the parchment bearing her name tucked under the door. It was folded unevenly into quarters, and on the top, it bore her name, written in Ron's messy scrawl.

She picked it up curiously, unfolded it, and read it quickly. On the parchment was a summary of the meeting, as well as her patrol times and other Prefect duties, all duly transcribed in Ron's untidy but familiar scribble. Finally, the letter ended on a happy note:

I know you'll be going spare about missing the meeting. Just relax, Hermione. Dumbledore or McGonagall or whoever weren't there. I'm sure you'll still be Head Girl next year. No one was angry that you couldn't make it - they all know it's human to be late - well, wait, Malfoy sort of had a go at you, but that doesn't matter because he's a git and not human and nothing on you.

After finishing it, Hermione smiled fondly. Apparently, Ron had known that she would worry a bit about missing the meeting. She'd have to thank him when she saw him.

She walked in and out of the compartments, searching for Harry, Ron, and Ginny. She wouldn't be surprised if Luna and Neville were with them too - Luna and Harry, as well as Neville and Ginny, had been corresponding regularly during the summer.

Thinking of Harry, Hermione began to fret, yet again. She remembered that in the few days following his conference with Dumbledore after The Incident, he seemed to be slightly withdrawn and distant, like there was a barrier separating him from the other students. And at the funeral for ... Sirius, Harry barely spoke at all. The whole time, he only stood, staring woodenly at the yew coffin, with his head bowed. It rained all day, but Harry carried no umbrella. Had it been a deliberate choice ...?

It was because of all this that Hermione had almost opted out of the trip to Canada with her parents. In the end, she decided not to: she could already see the painful looks flashing across her parents' faces, and refrains of 'But we hardly see you now, you're always away ...'. Hermione left with her parents reluctantly, hoping that when she returned, Harry would not hesitate to talk about his feelings, as opposed to resorting to the tried and true method of most teenage wizards: bottling them up. After all, even the most tightly sealed bottle of Dr Drizzfink's Fizztastic Solution would pop eventually and very spectacularly (usually right into someone's eye, no less).

She walked up to the door to the next compartment and paused. Even through the closed door, Hermione could hear the voices of two Weasleys arguing furiously. Hermione smiled, slid the door open, and stepped inside.

'Hey everybody, how ...' Hermione's greeting fizzled as she heard the tail-end of the argument between Ron and Ginny (about how he was, or, as he adamantly insisted, was not an insensitive prat). Honestly! Ginny seemed to exaggerate a bit much just now. It was not that Ron was an insensitive prat. Really. It was merely that he ... lacked a bit of empathy, sometimes.

But then, Hermione remembered the note she had picked up from under the door to the Prefect's compartment, with its messy scrawl and words of assurance. She then felt a rush of goodwill surge through her. If Ron could put quill to parchment (before school had even started, no less!) and transcribe every single thing that went on during the Prefect's meeting for her, then surely she could do a good deed and defend him when he needed defending (such as right now - Ron's debating skills were sorely lacking compared to Ginny's).

That settled, Hermione valiantly came to Ron's aid. Feeling very much like a benevolent goddess rescuing a quavering peasant, she said flippantly, 'Oh Ron, by the way, thank you so much for writing out that note for me. That was really nice of you!' Hermione took a peek at Ron, who was now goggling at her with his mouth slightly open, his row with his sister forgotten completely. Feeling encouraged, she continued, 'And I really appreciated your thoughtfulness and sensitivity! I don't think an insensitive prat like - erm ...'

Unfortunately, at this point, Hermione was at a loss of words. Who did she know was a horrible, rude, and insensitive prat ...? Her mind quickly flashed back to the note that Ron had written to her: Malfoy sort of had a go at you ... he's a git and not human and ... Why yes, Malfoy! Why had she not thought of him sooner?

Hermione continued, 'A prat like Malfoy would never have done such a thing! But you're certainly not an insensitive prat like him! Thank you very much!' Hermione smiled beatifically at her friend, feeling rather pleased with herself. She hadn't laid it on too thick, had she? Or sounded too forced or unnatural? Of course not! Hermione beamed at Ron, satisfied with her stellar performance.

Ron turned a brilliant shade of red upon hearing Hermione's generous amount of praise. He whipped his head up from its position of staring at his battered shoes, and pressed his face - no, his entire body - to the window next to his seat. 'Oh, look at that cloud!' Hermione watched in mystification as Ron began babbling nonsensically. 'See, it, uh, looks a bit like a heart from this angle, but ... er, if you tilt your head, it looks like a Quidditch player crashing his broom into a tree...' Then, following this stammering statement, he proceeded to stare with great intensity out the window, as if the poor, out-of-control Quidditch player - whom Hermione could not see at all - held not a Quaffle, but the meaning of life.

'Ron, are you alright? Oh no, did something happen over the summer? Did something happen to your parents? Or to the Order? Oh, I'm sorry, but where I stayed, we couldn't have any owl post. I should have -'

'Hermione, everything's fine,' Harry interrupted, speaking for the first time since she'd entered the compartment. His voice sounded strange to her ears, almost hollow, as if he was out of practice when it came to speaking. Hermione turned to look at her friend, and was slightly shocked to see the faintest of dark circles under his eyes. The memory of Harry standing with his head bowed, rain streaming down his face, flashed through Hermione's mind.

However, before Hermione could comment, Ginny said, 'Ron's just ... tired. I reckon my brave big brother had a horrible nightmare last night, or else, it was just that he was too eager to see Hogwarts and its fine and intelligent denizens. Right, fair brother of mine?' She grinned. If there was an underlying meaning to her last sentence, Hermione could not for the life of her figure it out.

Nobody seemed to notice Harry as he flinched visibly when Ginny mentioned nightmares, so busy was everyone watching Ron's ears grow redder than they were already. A bit of fog misted up on the windowpane when Ron opened his mouth slightly to mumble to himself quietly, 'Ruddy Ginny ... I am now absolutely going to kill her ... can't ever keep quiet ...'

Hermione squinted a bit in suspicion at the two Weasleys. Perhaps GInny thought she had revealed too much - on the contrary, for Hermione, it was not nearly enough. In any case, Ginny now was deliberately avoiding her gaze, although a small smile could still be seen playing on her lips. Had Hermione walked in on a Weasley family joke? Was she the punchline of it? What was going on? She sighed in exasperation.

The truth was, while Hermione might have been occasionally perceptive and perspicacious regarding other people's business (whether they liked it or not), she was often hopelessly clueless to matters concerning herself. Knowing that to continue would be like flogging a dead horse, she resigned herself with the hope that perhaps later, she could worm an explanation out of someone in exchange for her help on the next Potions assignment (no doubt one that would involve much research and even more griping from her friends).

So she plopped down into the seat and took out the book that caused her tardiness. 'Oh,' Ginny remarked with some interest, seeing the title of Hermione's book, 'isn't that where you went for your holidays?'

'Yes,' Hermione responded, pleased, and then launched into a lengthy description of the Rocky Mountains, located in a distant, far-away land known as Canada. She had not been able to send or receive owls out to any of her friends, as they could not travel to the high altitude where the lodge that she was staying at was located. Ron's ears returned to its normal shade of unaffected pink. Slowly falling out of his seemingly humiliation-based coma, Ron actually listened with interest, as he had never been to the Western Hemisphere, let alone Canada, before.

Hermione made her way towards her bag, which was resting near the door of the compartment, to retrieve a few more books about the wizarding world in Canada. It was certainly a strange occurrence to have everyone listening to her newfound knowledge, but she didn't question it. She certainly was not going to miss an opportunity to share with others what she had learned.

* * * * *

The great Draco Malfoy was heading back to compartment number six after his brief sojourn in the washroom. After sauntering through a compartment scattered full of Chocolate Frog wrappers and meek Hufflepuff second years, he began to slide open the door to compartment number three.

He could hear a girl talking. For some reason, Malfoy suddenly let go of the door, leaving only a tiny crack open. This witch's voice sounded extremely familiar. He tried to listen more, to come up with a face for the voice, but as he listened to this witch, he completely forgot all about trying to figure out who she was. Her voice sounded so passionate and so absorbed in the current subject that he couldn't help but get caught up in what she was saying. He had never heard anyone speak of anything with this much earnestness and enthusiasm.

If Malfoy had eyes in the back of his head, he would have seen the second-years peeking furtively at him from behind their moving images of Agrippa and Morgana. But contrary to the whispered rumours that circulated (courtesy of Malfoy himself) among the more gullible of first years, he did not. So instead, Malfoy simply stood there, unaware of the little eyes sneaking quick looks at him. His hand hovered in mid-air rather stupidly, but he did not take any notice of that at all. He was aware of very little at that particular moment, except for the words being spoken.

'... but the best part was the glaciers that I saw. They were so ... awe-inspiring. Is it possible for something to look so cold, yet feel so warm underneath? Because that's the idea that I got, seeing them. They're so icy to the touch, you think that you'd get frostbite immediately upon contact. But then, seeing a beam of sunlight pass through them, they look like totally new objects, that would warm and heat your skin if you got close enough. I reckon -'

Suddenly, the train went through a sharp turn just as it was going over a bump, ripping both Malfoy and the speaker out of their reveries. He fell through the doorway in a most un-Malfoyish manner, landing in a most spectacular heap on the ground.

Oh Merlin's beard, the sheer embarrassment that Malfoy felt at the moment rivalled that which he had suffered during the Incident-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named back in Malfoy's fourth year involving an animal that was member of the family Mustelidae and that bounced.

Through a fog, he heard a voice say to him guardedly, 'Er, Malfoy, are you alright?' That voice! The pitch, the rises and falls of that voice, pierced through the clouds of embarrassment that encircled him. Only those four words were needed for Malfoy to realize that this was the girl who spoke with such feeling about mountains and ice and glaciers. But then, his triumph at discovering the owner of the mysterious voice was overcome by the more pressing issue: the fact that he was sprawled out on the ground in a compartment full of people he didn't know.

It must be noted that when faced with distressing situations that he is not used to, Draco Malfoy occasionally succumbs to more basic, more animal instincts. His actions usually resemble those of an ostrich, to be most precise. That is to say, like an ostrich, Malfoy occasionally will find solace in the self-centered idea that, when he's in a bad situation, if he does not see the person causing his discomfiture, the person causing the discomfiture will therefore not see him. If confronted with this allegation, Malfoy would firmly deny it, not particularly enjoying the claim that he has the same coping mechanism of an ostrich, or any other similarity at all with the daft birds. After all, as he contends, who would be so dim and self-centered as to try such a stupid stunt? Certainly not him. But the truth is, when things get tough, Malfoy ends up unconsciously playing the key clown in this 'stupid stunt'. Oh no, he doesn't plunge his head into the sand as an ostrich might. Malfoy has a much more practical (and much less messy) way of dealing with the problem: he closes his eyes.

And closing his eyes is what he did. Lying in a sad little heap on the ground of compartment number three, with his pride lying in a sad little heap next to him, Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut. He then pulled himself up, grabbing what felt like a curtain for a bit of stability. Riiiiiiip! What a flimsy curtain! Couldn't even stand a quick yank on it. Malfoy rubbed his thumb against the piece of torn fabric in his hand. Cheap material.

The non-ostrich side of Malfoy's brain longed to open his eyes to see the havoc he had wreaked among the poor defenceless curtains. However, the side that was controlling his ostrich-like impulses reasoned to the rational part of his brain that opening his eyes would end his ostrich-like moment and reality would worm its way into him again, in that it would entail his admission of the sad truth: whoever else was in compartment number three had just seen his painfully accurate imitation of Neville Longbottom. In the end though, the rational (and rather sadistic, if one must be honest) side of Malfoy's brain won out. Malfoy opened his eyes, with a boyish eagerness to see his destructive power he held among curtains.

Unfortunately, right after Malfoy opened his eyes, he realized that compartment number three had no curtains in it; none of the compartments on the train did. Then what in hell had ripped? Oh, shit. He looked down at his hands, and saw a long strip of fabric in his grip. Looking up, he saw the same material on the ink-black robes of the witch who had just spoken to him. They were standard Hogwarts robes all right, but with some newly-fashioned, minor alterations. That is, if huge strips of cloth hanging open could have been considered to be minor alterations to the dress code.

Righteous anger overcame him, along with a bit of colour in his face. Bloody hell! What kind of witch would go around in such flimsy robes like those? Couldn't stand a single bloody tug on them. In fact, who was this stupid witch with the cheap robes who had caused all of this shit in the first place? It was all her fault. She in her House-elf quality robes and her bloody familiar voice that had spoken about mountains and ice and those fucking glaciers and had made him stop there for just a moment because he had wanted to find out whose bloody voice it was and then he had lost track of everything because the stupid witch kept talking and had left him interested and -

Normally, Malfoy would have taken the time right at this moment to say something to this witch. He would have turned to this bloody witch with her bloody familiar voice to tell her how much shit she was in, but at the same time, some primitive, child-like, ostrich-like part of him longed to resume his self-centered perspective on the current situation. He wanted to close his eyes, and believe that outside, everything was back to the way he wanted it to be. Safe. Normal. Familiar. Something a hell of a lot better than this strange and unusual situation that he was in right now.

'Ahem.' The witch with cheap robes cleared her throat, stopping Malfoy from using his Ostrich Defense Mechanism. He looked up at her, and caught a quick glimpse of a pair of large, brown, and extremely familiar-looking eyes. It had all gone to hell: the witch he had collapsed in front of, the witch who had witnessed his clumsiness and stupidity up close, had even asked him if he was alright, was none other than the insufferable, smug, arrogant Hermione Granger.

And she had stared right in his eyes: looked into him, through him, had seen him when he'd lost control. She had stood over him, towering over him as he lay on the floor with his eyes squeezed shut. And what was she doing now ...? Malfoy couldn't let this continue any longer - she could still be staring at him!

Malfoy snapped his head around in the opposite direction crisply and, with a steely grey look in his eyes that couldn't hide the faint pink rising in his cheeks, marched down the aisle of the compartment. Brusquely knocking aside the elbows and feet that had the nerve to be in his path, he bulldozed his way through the compartment. He just wanted to get the hell out of there, and leave this disturbing memory of his clumsiness far, far behind him.

Malfoy finally reached the door leading into the next compartment. He let out a breath that he had been unconsciously holding. The gauntlet that he had run through, the aisle with the treacherous elbows and feet and legs sticking out in it, as well as the dozens of eyes aimed at him cuttingly, had felt like an eternity, while in reality, it had lasted no more than a couple of seconds.

He took one last look at Granger, staring at her blurred reflection in the glass. Malfoy swore that he could see her staring at him with contempt, derision, and disrespect on her face. It infuriated him, how she seemed to be evaluating him, judging him.

Malfoy turned. 'Bloody Mudblood,' he spat out.

Hermione winced. Malfoy had acted so differently just a few minutes ago. He hadn't displayed his characteristic malevolence and pettiness that Hermione was so used to seeing. His mouth had not been twisted into its characteristic sneer. Having Malfoy revert to being his disgusting self was jarring, to say the least. She narrowed her eyes.

But before she could respond, Ron had jumped up out of his seat.

'We don't need slime like you in here, Malfoy. Get the hell out.'

The others in the compartment stood up as well. Neville in particular made a point of twirling his newly-purchased wand in one hand.

'Or what?' Malfoy tried to sneer.

'Perhaps we should be saying that, not you,' Hermione said slowly and deliberately. She couldn't help but feel a great sense of power as the realization dawned on Malfoy's face. 'Where are Crabbe and Goyle? Oh, even better! Where might your father be? Surely he could help you,' she continued smugly.

'You'll have to do your own fighting now,' Ron added with a smirk. Knowing that the others were with him, he took a step forward, brandishing his wand. 'Are you afraid?'

'Don't you want to kill us? Didn't you say last year you wanted me dead? Go ahead.' Ron's anger had spread quickly. Harry took a step forward with Ron, wand raised, hand steady. For the first time since he'd gotten on the train, Harry showed real emotion.

Hermione stared at Harry. Harry's defiant green eyes that usually looked so warm, the rich green of a forest, instead were jagged, uncut emeralds. For the first time, Hermione felt fear. She didn't know what might happen in the next few seconds, not with Harry looking so ... dangerous. She'd hoped that Harry wouldn't bottle up his feelings, yes, but now was not the time for them to be released.

Malfoy stood unmoving. Hermione watched him as his arm drifted towards the inside of his robes. Part of her wanted to hex Malfoy again. Curse him into oblivion.

But then, a little voice in her head spoke up. Nothing good would come out of this. Nothing good could come out of this. Malfoy obviously wasn't going to back down, and Ron and Harry had more than enough reason to curse Malfoy. Hermione was responsible, of course. She was moral, of course. She was everything that Malfoy wasn't, of course. She had to stop this fight before it escalated. Before Malfoy made it escalate.

'Typical Slytherin -'

'Ron, Harry, stop it,' Hermione said shakily, interrupting Ron. 'Malfoy, get out of here. You're not proving anything good.' Ron turned to look at her in surprise, wand arm falling. Luna touched Harry's shoulder gently, and he slowly lowered his wand, arm shaking slightly.

Malfoy took the opening left to him by Granger. Without turning his back, he slid open the compartment door. But he couldn't resist saying spitefully before he left, 'Who knew such brave and daring Gryffindors would hunt in a pack? Six against one.'

Malfoy wasn't sure what he felt as he walked back to his compartment. Regret. If he hadn't stopped to listen to sodding Granger's stupid little dissertation on mountains and glaciers, none of this would have happened. Shame. He'd fallen onto the ground right in front of her, had grabbed her robes like a baby to pull himself up. Anger. Potter and Weasley had dared to challenge him. Then, the whole lot of them banded together against him, six on one. Worst of all, he'd needed Granger to offer him an escape out of that compartment. It was disgusting, that he'd needed her help. It was disgusting, that he'd jumped at the opportunity to accept it.

When he entered his compartment, he slammed the door shut, with so great a force that the glass shattered into thousands of tiny shards. Running the fingers of one hand through his hair, he contemplated the long strip of fabric winding around his fingers. This cheap, Hogwarts-standard material was from the robe of that Granger ... Malfoy stared at it pensively.

He stood up and opened a window. The wind whipped his hair in his eyes, rendering them strangely watery. Malfoy ignored the wind, and stuck the hand holding the cloth out of the window. Without any hesitation at all, he unclenched his fist, and took a strange pleasure in watching that cheap, flimsy fabric that belonged to Hermione Granger fly away, buffeted by the wind. It resembled a crow with a broken wing.

Malfoy closed the window quickly and rubbed one hand in front of his eyes quickly to rub away a few tears. Despite letting that piece of fabric go, he still felt vindictive and restless. He sat down again in a randomly chosen seat. Regret. Shame. Anger.

* * * * *

Back in compartment number three, an uneasy silence fell. The tension still hung over the six students like a rain cloud.

Hermione felt strange. There could have almost been another fight in there, even before the school year had started. And she, Hermione Granger, shared the blame for instigating it.

But why feel guilty about it? After all, it was Malfoy, the hateful student who had tormented, terrorized, and teased Harry and Ron for the past five years. Malfoy, the slime who had smirked when Cedric Diggory had been murdered by Voldemort. Malfoy, the prat who probably prayed for her and Harry and Ron's deaths every night. Malfoy, the arrogant, elitist arse-hole whose father was a known Death-Eater.

The truth was, it felt good. He might have hurled racist lines about her heritage at her, but it was she who could hurt him just as badly. He was a nobody now, and he knew it as much as she did.

Ginny interrupted her thoughts. Obviously trying to break the painful silence, she said, 'Hermione, you better patch up your robes. I don't think you're aiming for that punkish look, and even if you were, somehow, I don't think Professor McGonagall would take to it much.'

'Yeah, those holes in your robes might make people think you're a tart!' Ron added helpfully, earning himself a dirty look from both Hermione and his sister, muffled snorts from Harry and Neville, and a wild laugh from Luna. Ron then caught himself. 'Er ... not that you are tarty, of course,' he added earnestly.

The ice had broken. The cloud dissipated, for the most part.

Luna voiced the thought of how lovely it would be to see the staff at Hogwarts dressed up and ready to go for a Weird Sisters concert. And though the others didn't particularly find the images to be as 'lovely' as Luna had, they did have a good laugh over it all. There was something mildly disconcerting but so damn entertaining about the image of Headmaster Dumbledore, cheering wildly in a stadium while wearing dragon-hide boots, with his gloriously long white hair pulled back to display a wicked earring that would put Bill Weasley to shame and send Molly into a fit of righteous indignation.

The conversation moved on, and everyone left Malfoy behind in the dust, no doubt where he rightfully belonged. Everyone except Hermione, that is. Only Hermione could not dispel Malfoy from her thoughts. Then again, it was only Hermione who had to mend her robes and remember that strange look on Malfoy's face when he had stared up at her for one brief, strangely epiphanic moment.

It seemed to be only Hermione who was bothered by the confrontation against Malfoy. It seemed to be only Hermione who couldn't understand why she'd said what she had. Why she'd been so deliberately malicious. But no, she reasoned. It had been perfectly fine of her to goad Malfoy like that. After all, it was only Malfoy.