Contradictus Totalus

Contradictus Totalus - Chapter Two

After the Sorting Hat sang another song promoting inter-house unity that made Ron roll his eyes (and pull a bulging vomit-face at the line 'Do not neglect the green and silver chaps, or else Hogwarts is sure to collapse'), after Zytwych, Arnold had been sorted into Gryffindor ('The whole lot of them can't even see over the table! How are they supposed to win us House Points?' Seamus muttered), after Ron had masticated two entire steak and kidney pies, after Seamus and Harry had resolved their friendly row on whether the Quidditch team of Ireland or Canada (last year's surprising champions, thoroughly trouncing the Americans 310 to 70) was superior, after Professor Dumbledore made his annual announcement (that Harry, Ron, and Hermione ignored just as annually) that the Forbidden Forest was out of bounds to all students, and after Mr. Filch stepped out of a corner of the Hall, unrolled a piece of parchment almost one metre long, and proceeded to read the name of every single one of the 559 items, 92 of which were just added this new school year, that were forbidden in the castle - Hermione noted with equal parts admiration, amusement, and disapproval that of the 92 new additions, 91 of them were products of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes - only after all that did the Headmaster make a very interesting announcement.

'Due to the return of Voldemort -' Dumbledore waited patiently with his long, knobbly, fingertips touching each other, forming a bridge, until all whispers, murmurs, and yelps - the yelps coming from a few of the younger, more tender-minded students - ceased. He continued. '- there will be a special mandatory Defence Against the Dark Arts class for sixth and seventh year students. You will learn more about the purpose of these classes tomorrow, when you first attend them. The times for them will be indicated on your timetable right now.'

Hermione watched with interest as the slot for her regular DADA class grew larger, watched as Defence Against the Dark Arts was wiped off, and watched as the curlicued words Survival Defence Against the Dark Arts were magically written on instead. This new class was also longer than the old DADA class. Hermione searched, but no further details about the teacher or whether or not the class would be taught with another group of students were given. She did, however, notice that the length of the following class, Potions, had changed as well, becoming shorter to accommodate the new addition.

As Dumbledore sat down in a stately manner, a huge burst of conversation came forth. High fives were exchanged between the Gryffindor sixth-years as it was noted that Potions would be shortened. 'Brilliant! Dumbledore decided that Potions isn't important and cut it short. Snape probably did his nut!' Ron said gleefully. Hermione couldn't help but smile.

She looked at her friends conspiratorially. 'You think Dumbledore got the idea from us?' Everyone grinned. The DA had disbanded shortly after Umbridge's long-awaited and much-anticipated dismissal. And while no one - well, perhaps with exception to the Slytherins and Mr. Filch - was sorry to see the froggy professor go, the secret members of Dumbledore's Army (or the Defence Association, if you wish) did regret the breakup of their clandestine 'study group.'

'I wonder what class we'll be having it with,' commented Harry quietly, happening to look over at the Ravenclaw table, where Luna Lovegood sat, demurely erecting a pagoda out of chicken bones and watermelon rinds. He then noticed Ginny and Hermione's eyes peering at him curiously and then looking at each other knowingly, and his face took on a Christmas colour motif - a red blushing face to complement green eyes. Poor Harry stammered, 'And th-the teacher! Do you think we'll have Snape?'

Rongot a look of horror on his face. 'That would be the worst thing Dumbledore could ever do to us. Hell, that would be horrible for about three-quarters of the whole school!'

After a few more remarks about the new changes, the conversation zoomed back to Quidditch, bounced along to Muggle football, skimmed a bit over the lake and the Giant Squid, skipped along to Dobby and the house-elves, and inevitably fell into yet another altercation about the Protection that house-elves need from Exploitation and the Liberation that they would never have with tyrants like Ron Weasley around, all of course expressed in Hermione Granger's humble opinion.

* * * * *

The meal was not over quickly enough for Malfoy.

The food, while delicious to some students here, especially to Goyle, whose mind was centred exclusively on food (oh no, in afterthought, on sex as well), was merely mediocre compared to the fare found at Malfoy Manor. Malfoy ate sparingly, not like Weasley, sitting next to Granger, who ate as though he was Goyle after a famine.

So the meal was bog-standard, yes, but the company was positively sub-par. He was situated near Crabbe and Goyle, and right next to Pansy Parkinson. Crabbe and Goyle were insatiable, eating almost the whole time throughout the meal, except occasionally stopping to loudly and lasciviously point out a particularly nice bottom of a witch here and there. Really! Even if their taste in witch bottoms was not bad, Malfoy looked down upon the boorishness that they displayed. Malfoys were not leches, or at least not vocal ones.

As for Pansy Parkinson, well, there was not much to say. Malfoy knew all about her. He knew exactly who and what she was: someone with the dubious achievement of being the only witch to have passionately snogged every single fifth, sixth, and seventh year Slytherin wizard. Pansy Parkinson must have had the best body of all of the Slytherin witches put together - and the fact that her face no longer resembled the snout of a mastiff was an undeniable bonus - but Malfoy was by now old enough and wise enough to have noticed the startling similarity between Pansy and an ostrich: both of them had brains that were smaller than their eyes. That was all there really was to Pansy, Malfoy was positive. As well, he did not see what honourable distinction there was in snogging a witch who had gone through the hands of dozens of other wizards - all of whom had a well-filled Gringott's vault in their name, a correlation that was surely coincidental. Nice try, Pansy.

After the meal, Malfoy headed to the Slytherin common room, with Crabbe and Goyle shuffling along behind him, stuffed to the seams with puddings and rolls and tarts.

His brain barely registered the look of his dungeon-like common room, so used was he to living in such an environment, for Malfoy Manor's furnishings bore a great similitude to the décor found in here. The cold stone walls did a very good job at keeping out any warmth, and so the fire was almost always lit in attempt to heat up the room - unsuccessfully, one may add: Goyle often took great delight in pointing out to Crabbe that his nipples stood up out of his robes in the chilliness. From the low ceiling hung a creaky-looking chandelier and it, along with the many other crooked little lamps placed strategically around the room, gave off a pale, greenish-coloured light that was strong enough to allow the average student to dash off a last-minute Potions essay, but not much else. No worries, though: Malfoy had long adapted to the lack of light by now.

Malfoy went straight up to the dormitories, got ready for bed, and then sank into the mattress of his bed, happy to finally be in the presence of intelligent company - namely himself.

He drew the heavy, silver-tasseled green hangings around his four-poster, and performed the spell, similar to an Imperturbable Charm, that he did every night to try to glean a little bit of privacy, as well as to block out Goyle's gargantuan snores, which sounded more like the mating call of the male Erumpent than anything else.

'Contraobstrepo obex,' he murmured, spinning his wand lazily in little circles. A green bubble emerged from the tip and grew bigger and bigger until it turned into a wall that surrounded the whole bed. He had cast this spell so many times in the past five years that now, in his sixth year, he did it effortlessly, without any thought at all. Bet Granger couldn't have done it better.

Malfoy sighed contentedly. The chattering and laughter that had been wafting up to the dormitories from the common room could no longer be heard at all. He closed his eyes.

His first real appearance back among his peers was a letdown. Before, students would shy away from him, scared off by his family's reputation. The new term had barely started, but Malfoy knew that this school year would be different already, if his summer was any indication.

Bad news had a habit of spreading quickly. After he had been found on the train, rolled to the exit, and then healed by the Mediwizards that his mother had hired, he had found himself walking alone towards the car that had been sent for him, with the house elves trailing behind him, carrying his luggage. As he had walked out of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he heard snatches of conversation in hushed whispers. He heard a few muffled snickers, and comments along the lines of 'Look there, that's Lucius Malfoy's son. Surprised he's not rotting in Azkaban with his father. The apple doesn't fall far ...'

A few people still thought that he would suddenly do a Sirius Black (the saying stuck, even though the murder charge had not) and blow up half of Diagon Alley if provoked, as if he was crazy. But this was not the case for the majority of people he had passed over the summer. It was far worse. Instead, it seemed that most people, including the human servants of Malfoy Manor themselves, were looking at him with derision, and he hated it. All throughout the summer, he knew that the Malfoy name (and himself by extension) was constantly being ridiculed. He read about it between the lines in the Daily Prophet. He heard the amusement in the voices of the few servants at Malfoy Manor, in every single 'Would you like some more tea, young Master Malfoy?' He had wanted to sack the worthless, boot-licking wretches, but that spelled too much work and inconvenience for him. In short, he knew that mouths curled up in sarcastic smiles whenever the name Malfoy was uttered. No doubt these thoughts were borne from the story about his father's incarceration - or more accurately, the reason of why he was arrested.

Before, Malfoy had admired his father's position in the world beyond belief. After all, who was Lucius Malfoy? Only the head of one of the oldest, richest, and most powerful and influential families in all of Great Britain. He'd been a high-level Ministry wizard, with close ties to people all over the continent, if not all over the world. Malfoy was aware that his father had been cleared to partake in most of the decisions that would affect the lives of everyone from Celestina Warbeck to the little Miss Blotchkeys of the world. The respected Malfoy name had held so much clout in the world - it was a quiet, insidious, behind-the-scenes type of manipulative power. Malfoy had loved the fact that this power would be transferred to him from his father one day, if he stayed in his father's good books.

It was because of all this that Malfoy had put up with his father's impossible expectations for him. He had wanted to become as powerful and as influential as all of his ancestors before him. He had wanted to make sure that the Malfoy family that he had taken so much pride in would succeed under his rule. He wanted to be worthy of the Malfoy name. He wanted to be worthy in his father's eyes. Since he could remember, Malfoy had endured all of the tongue-lashings and scoldings that he had received every time he had failed, or at least, not succeeded enough for his father's tastes. The position of becoming the head of the respected Malfoy family would be worth all of his efforts. Putting up with his father's high demands would be worth it in the end.

Malfoy breathed in sharply again, and his chest tightened some more. All of the power and credibility that the Malfoy family had held had disappeared over the summer, following the incident his father had been a part of at the Ministry. The father who had pushed Malfoy to succeed, who had berated him countless times for failing, had himself failed spectacularly. His ineptitude had instead reduced the name Malfoy to the point where noses were almost wrinkled at the sound of it. Malfoys now had as much power in the world as little Miss Blotchkey down in lower Banchory did. All because his father had in an ironic twist done exactly what he had trained his son not to do: fail.

Ah, his father. Lucius. The respected patriarch of the Malfoy family. Malfoy snorted derisively. Before, his father had shown just how powerful the Malfoy family could be. Before, Malfoy could respect his dear old dad, would jump to defend him. Now, well ... the head of the proud Malfoy family was in Azkaban, pissing in a chamberpot that was probably changed every other week. How did he get there exactly? He was carried there by his own stupidity. Merlin's beard, Lucius had been caught with the wand still warm in his hand! Malfoy took a lot of pride in his heritage, and Lucius's incompetence had accomplished nothing good for the Malfoy family name.

And as for Malfoy's mother, she was not making any contributions either. Malfoy was aware that his mother, the ever-so-grand Lady of Malfoy Manor, was currently boffing some nameless wizard - he had heard the 'evidence' one night, much to his disgust. Although, in afterthought, not too much to his surprise: he had grown up and had looked past the impersonal and unsigned packages of sweets sent from home to realize that his mother was very much a grown-up version of Pansy Parkinson: quite good-looking (how else could he be as stunningly handsome as he was, after all?), but with a rather insipid personality.

Steering away from the touchy subject of his mother, her low attention span, and her promiscuousness (a horrible combination indeed), he realized that it had been quite refreshing indeed to not have Lucius criticizing him again for not surpassing Granger in academics. Malfoy wondered briefly how many OWLs she had earned. He wouldn't be surprised if she had matched him OWL for OWL and got just as many as he had. Granger was annoying like that.

Granger! With a sharp intake of breath, Malfoy's eyes popped open. He was absolutely positive he had not had a single thought about her all evening, so why did he suddenly think of her now? But now that the memory of her was back ... oh Merlin, the Hogwarts Express fiasco. He breathed out slowly, but did not feel much better.

Granger had caught him looking extremely so foppish and bumbling. She'd been the one to let Malfoy get away from the wands leveled at him from Potter and his ilk. She was probably having a good laugh up in Gryffindor Tower about it right now. Malfoy did not particularly care what Potter and Weasley thought: they had been caught in a number of abysmally stupid situations that made his own ineptitude that occurred today pale upon comparison. But Merlin, Granger of all people had seen him acting so out of control and so much like a bloody buffoon! Oh no, it was not that Malfoy particularly cared what Granger thought, of course. The issue was that he did have an image to maintain for Slytherin house and the Malfoy name (or what was left of it). He had to uphold house pride after all, and tripping and falling in front of a Gryffindor - a Mudblood Gryffindor no less! - was not part of the Slytherin doctrine.

He gritted his teeth, and set his jaw. Yes. Mudblood Gryffindors were to be avoided like Goyle after ingesting too many beans. Avoid the stupid, virtuous duffers ... of course ... He would avoid that Granger and all Gryffindors in general, until the embarrassment he had suffered in front of them was nothing but a vague recollection, indistinguishable from a dream.

Malfoy had no doubt that this would happen soon. He was positive. He was a Malfoy. He was always right. He relaxed, and allowed himself to sink into the mattress. Soon he would leave this day's events far, far behind him. Somewhat reassured, he rolled over and was soon fast asleep.

* * * * *

Back in Gryffindor tower, many people were still up and about, laughing and gossiping. Hermione and Ron held the most authority, and they had not yet issued the command to head up to bed. It was generally agreed by all that they were a bit more lax about rules and regulations (Ron much more so than Hermione), and this brought much relief to the students who were old enough to have suffered under Percy's bureaucratic reign as Prefect and then Head Boy.

Perhaps the reluctance to go to bed could be attributed to the warm and comforting environment of the Gryffindor Common Room. The fire burned merrily, and the dark red squashy armchairs were still there. Every seat was taken, and the unlucky latecomers were relegated to the spots by the fire - sitting by the fire was not a bad thing usually, but someone had used a Weasley Wizarding Wheezes log as fuel, which gave ample cause for avoidance of the fireplace area.

Hermione, Ron, and Harry were settled in armchairs close enough by the fire to feel the warmth, but far enough to avoid most of the green sparks that were being spat out from the log. Ron and Harry were playing chess, while Hermione reread yet another book she had come across over the summer, Hominid Transfigurations by Lascaux Lotherington. Neville Longbottom was sitting nearby on a fuzzy scarlet carpet, his eyes fixed fondly on a potted, spiky-looking plant that honked incessantly while waving its 12 tentacles at him threateningly. ('It's a dihybrid cross plant that I grew over the summer - half honking daffodil and half venomous tentacula,' Neville had explained proudly when asked.)

Hermione finished reading the very last page of her book, and closed it gently. She sighed happily and surveyed the Common Room. Her Common Room.

There was Harry, his face screwed up in anguish as his rook wrestled with Ron's pawn yet couldn't manage to bring it down. 'Come on! What are you waiting for? Wallop him, he's only a pawn!'

There was Ron, cheering on his very doughty pawn. 'Yeah, you're putting up a good fight! Keep thumping him!'

There was Neville, watching the battle on the chessboard with mild interest but then returning to making annotations on a clipboard regarding the growth of his plant.

Well, now was a good a time as any, and Hermione was just dying to know. She cleared her throat a little, and broached the subject that Ron, Harry, and Neville had all been trying to avoid throughout the train ride and dinner. She stared at them a bit beadily. 'So how did you do on your OWLs?'

Hermione's results weren't news: she had achieved 'Outstanding' in all of her OWLs (yes, even Ancient Runes!), as was expected by everyone. But Harry, Ron, and Neville had all gotten a very respectable number of OWLs as well. All right, so Harry was Dreadful on his History of Magic OWL ... and Ron and Neville weren't much better with Poors. However, as they said in their defense, it was History of Magic, and Professor Binns's soporific voice could not be resisted by anyone ... except for Hermione, of course, She Of The Clever And Sharp Mind - a mind that the others could not even dream of possessing, of course! (A mollified Hermione ceased lecturing them on their poor note-taking habits, the boys were pleased to see.)

However, most surprisingly of all - Hermione nearly fell out of her chair when she heard - Harry, Ron, and Neville had all earned Outstanding Potions OWLs. How on earth any of the three had accomplished this feat, with Potions being as difficult as it was, no one was certain. None of the three particularly cared either how they had achieved Outstanding marks either: the euphoria of learning of their great academic success was only starting to fade right now. Ron wondered why the hell Snape had to be their Potions professor, for their excellent Potions' exam results had reinforced his long-held belief that without Snape as Potions Master, everyone could have been model students throughout the whole year.

Indeed, Neville's hard-earned OWL in Snape's class and the fact that he was still alive after facing a whole slew of Death-Eaters last year seemed to give him a strong boost of confidence. He was no longer the dunderhead that Snape had constantly reminded him he was, every lesson for five years. Ginny who was passing by, happened to voice this point, and Neville blushed a little at this unexpected bit of praise. But then, a spark flew from the Weasley log, striking Neville on the arm.

'Ouch!' A little silver mark formed on his skin, and then faded quickly. 'Well, that wasn't so -'

Neville stopped talking upon spotting the look of incredulity on the others' faces. He turned around to look at himself, and saw that he had sprouted a tail that looked like it belonged on a Salamander. Poor Neville. This occurrence once again reminded everyone around him of the verity of that old adage 'some things never change.'

Ah, don't worry about it, mate,' said Ron consolingly, after he dried the tears produced by several minutes of laughter. 'I'm sure it'll shrivel up sometime soon ... the Canary Creams only lasted for a little while now, didn't they? I'm sure this'll be just as temporary ...'

Partly to spare Neville the indignity of being seen with a slimy appendage protruding out of his bottom, and partly because she had finished her book and interrogation, Hermione stood up to announce bedtime. Really though, she needn't have, since Neville had hurried up to the dormitories just moments earlier, as unobtrusively as a person with a great big red tail could.

A few groans were heard, the loudest coming from Ron. 'But Hermione! We haven't finished the game yet! And I was winning!'(Ron had avenged his stout pawn's inevitable death with the capture of Harry's queen and had been on his way to a checkmate.) He stopped bemoaning the premature bedtime after seeing the expression on Hermione's face, which he had seen too often on the visage of Professor McGonagall. However, Hermione did not command enough authority to keep Ron from chuntering under his breath, 'Really! Especially when I'm a prefect too! Shouldn't I be able to override her or something ...?'

Hermione turned around and glared at him. 'I heard -'

She never finished her admonishment, for Ron had tackled her to the floor. 'Ron!' she managed to splutter out before catching eye of a rapidly fading little silver blemish on his arm. She suddenly came to an understanding. 'Ah. Thanks,' she said rather guiltily, just as something that looked unmistakably like a Salamander's tail erupted out of his posterior. It ripped through the back of his robes, elongating to form a very beastly-looking extension that was long, scaly, and slimy.

Ron turned as red as his tail. 'Okay. I'm ready to go to bed now,' he sighed ruefully, hurrying up the stairs leading to the 6^th year boys' dormitories. His tail whipped around a corner behind him. Hermione stared at the tail that could have been hers. The only trace of it was a crimson-coloured trail that lingered on the grey stone steps.