They Shook Hands: Year Two (Original Version)

They Shook Hands : Year Two

An alternate (but realistic!) universe Harry Potter fic
by Dethryl

Chapter Nine - Murmurs

History of Magic was going to be as boring as ever. Harry came to this conclusion within minutes of arriving in the classroom. The Slytherins sat down and promptly settled into relaxed postures. Perhaps they should have brought pillows. He did have to admit, Professor Binns' standard entry of passing through the blackboard was interesting again, but they would all become tired of it well before Christmas.

As Binns began lecturing, it seemed as though no time at all had passed since the end of the last school year. He rambled on in his monotonic idiom, even once saying, "As we discussed last time..."

Harry struggled to keep his eyes open. The only person not drowsy was the Muggleborn Hermione Granger. She sat straight in her chair looking very attentive. Harry wondered how she was able to even pretend to be interested. He peered over at her notes. Good grief, she actually was listening to the teacher.

Draco was reading his letter from his older brother Elan. It had arrived during lunch, and Draco had only told them that Elan didn't sound too happy about being all alone in a foreign country. Harry could hardly blame him. He himself had felt all alone in a whole other world back at the Dursleys over the summer.

Thank Merlin that Elan and Draco had come to rescue him. Harry still felt guilty that his friends had needed to come to his aid though. Elan's present circumstances were, of course, what had resulted from that valiant action. If Elan was unhappy, then the blame lay with Harry.

Harry brooded about the news from Durmstrang for most of the lecture. When class ended, Harry absently picked up his bag and followed along as the Slytherins descended to the depths of the castle again. He shut his troubles away, though. It was time for Potions, and they would be brewing today for a double session. He couldn't help but smile.

"So how is Elan?" Millie asked Draco the second they were out of the classroom.

"He says hello to everyone," Draco told them. "He misses us all."

"Aww, that's so sweet," Blaise sighed. "When you write back, tell him we miss him too."

"Yeah, the new prefect just isn't the same," Millie complained. "Palce is too quiet. Elan was loads more fun." Sam Palce, a sixth-year boy, had been granted the prefect's badge in Elan's absence.

"Believe me, he would like nothing better than to be back at Hogwarts," Draco told her.

"But he's quite lucky to be studying at Durmstrang," Tim noted. "It's a very prestigious school."

"One of the best in Europe," Draco agreed. "It's quite the set of circumstances that landed him that spot."

That, Harry felt, was a drastic understatement. Draco and Harry hadn't told the others what had really transpired between Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Malfoy. Draco had informed Harry that Elan's expulsion was not common knowledge and firmly asked if he would please keep quiet about it. After that, he had adamantly refused to discuss the situation at all

Harry understood that it wouldn't look proper for wild stories about expulsion to go floating around the school. It was remarkably coincidental, they would say, that Elan Malfoy had supposedly been seen dressed like a Death Eater and was then expelled from school. Idle minds would lead to speculation, and idle tongues would wag. Never mind that none of it was true. Elan was not a Death Eater, nor had he been officially expelled, but appearance was everything.

"He says classes are very difficult," Draco was saying, "and he has to take more of them than he did here at Hogwarts. He has a lot of homework that he has to write in German."

"He can't use a Translation Charm?" Tim asked, sounding surprised.

"He's been forbidden," Draco snorted. "By the Headmaster himself."

"That's horrible," Pansy declared.

"Moderately horrible, yes. Elan speaks some German, but now he's really having to learn it. Let's see, the school is small, so he's already gotten to know most everyone. He's made some friends, but he says it's not like having his old mates around. He's considered a fairly important person of course, being a Malfoy and all, so he hasn't been punished yet, but he's convinced it's only a matter of time before one of the professors hexes him."

"Hexes?!" Blaise gasped.

Draco nodded. "We lose points. They get hexed for too many wrong answers. And breaking rules. Mostly minor hexes, but just yesterday he saw a girl get Transfigured into a mouse and locked in a cage for an hour."

"Sounds like Filch would love it there," Jenna giggled.

"He misses English food. Apparently the cook is not an important part of the school budget."

"We'll have to find the kitchens and send him a care package," Blaise decided.

"'All in all it's not absolutely horrible'," Draco read. "'If Karkaroff wasn't constantly breathing down my neck, I could probably be having quite the decent time here. Father told him to keep an eye on me, and I'm beginning to believe he's interpreting that request literally.'"

"Poor guy," Pansy sighed with a touch of sadness.

They might have gone on and discussed Elan's letter further, but they had arrived at the dungeon classroom of Professor Snape, and he was already waiting for them. So were the Gryffindors.

"You are all five minutes late," Snape said in an even tone. "Mister Malfoy, explain."

In the third row, Weasley was trying to hide his wide grin behind his large hand. After all the times when he and the Gryffindors had gotten in trouble, perhaps he thought the Slytherins were finally going to get some comeuppance. Snape hated tardiness.

"I was reading the first letter from my brother," Draco answered Snape truthfully. "And he says the Potions Master at Durmstrang isn't nearly as good as you, sir." Draco didn't bat an eye as he offered up the praise, which may or may not have been true. Draco had told them about the letter, but hadn't yet shown it.

"Indeed?" Professor Snape asked, sounding amused. A very small smile crossed his face. "I suppose we can make allowances for correspondence from a Hogwarts prefect. Take your seats."

* * *

Harry found himself looking forward to his first Herbology class. During the previous school year, they had only worked in greenhouse one. Now that they had some experience under their belts, they would be studying the more interesting and more dangerous plants kept in the other conservatories.

Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, was a squat little witch who wore a patched hat over her flyaway hair. There was usually a large amount of earth on her clothes and under her fingernails. Aunt Petunia, the most fastidious person Harry knew, would have fainted upon meeting her. At the moment she had a somewhat frazzled look about her, but Harry understood perfectly; Professor Lockhart was talking to her.

"Quite a decent crop of Mandrakes, I must say. Not nearly as healthy as a batch I raised several years ago, but then again, not everybody has my delicate touch with plants."

There were several plants in some of the restricted greenhouses that could apply a 'delicate touch' to Lockhart, Harry thought viciously.

"Off with you now, Professor, I'm sure you have more important things to do than grub around in the dirt with the second years." Somehow, Professor Sprout managed to sound pleasant.

"Quite right, quite right. I'll see everyone at lunch." The possibility of getting dirty seemed to have finally chased the pompous arse away. He quick-stepped it through the vegetable patches and hurried into the castle.

Sprout watched him leave with an expression that might have been relief. "Hello, second years," she said to the assembled Slytherins and Ravenclaws.

"Good morning, Professor Sprout!" they all responded in unison.

"We'll be in greenhouse three today, chaps." The students looked at each other with some sense of anticipation. Sprout took a large key from her belt and unlocked the door. Harry caught a whiff of damp earth and fertilizer mingling with the heavy perfume of some giant, umbrella-sized flowers dangling from the ceiling.

Professor Sprout took her place at the head of a trestle bench in the centre of the greenhouse. Pairs of different-coloured earmuffs lay in a pile. "Line up, now dears, line up. Today we're going to be repotting Mandrakes. Now who can tell me the properties of the Mandrake?"

To nobody's surprise, Tim's hand was the first in the air. Ever competitive with him when it came to academics, Terry Boot threw a glare in his direction as his own hand went up a half-second later.

"Nott?"

"Mandrake, Mandragora, is a powerful restorative. It's used to return people who have been transfigured or cursed into their original state."

"Excellent. Ten points to Slytherin. The Mandrake forms an essential part of most antidotes, which is why I make it a point to raise a crop every few years. However, it is also dangerous. Who can tell me why? Boot?"

"The cry of the mature Mandrake is fatal to anyone who hears it," Terry said smugly, glancing to see if Tim was paying attention. "The cry of an immature Mandrake can cause unconsciousness, paralysis, and brain damage."

"Good! Ten points to Ravenclaw. Now, the Mandrakes we have here are still very young." She pointed to a row of deep trays as she spoke, and everyone shuffled forward to get a better look. A hundred or so tufty little plants, purplish green in colour, were growing there in neatly ordered rows. They looked quite unremarkable, but Harry knew from reading Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them that something magnificent awaited them all underneath. "Everyone take a pair of earmuffs."

There was a bit of a scramble as everyone tried to get a set of earmuffs that wasn't bright pink and fluffy.

"You'll want to make sure your ears are completely covered," Professor Sprout said. "When it is safe to remove the earmuffs, I will give you a thumbs up." She demonstrated. "Until then, leave them in place. Now, earmuffs on!"

Harry snapped the earmuffs over his ears. They shut out sound completely. They must have been magically enhanced. Professor Sprout took the pink pair for herself, rolled up her sleeves, grasped one of the tufty plants firmly, and pulled hard.

Harry let out a gasp that he couldn't hear. Instead of roots, a small, muddy, and very ugly baby popped out of the earth. The leaves were growing right out of the top of its head. He had pale green skin and was visibly bawling at the top of his lungs. Nothing in the text had prepared Harry for this sight.

Professor Sprout took a large plant pot from under the table and plunked the Mandrake into it, burying him in dark, damp compost until only the tufted leaves were visible again. She dusted off her hands, gave them a thumbs up, and removed her own earmuffs.

"As our Mandrakes are only seedlings, their cries won't kill yet," she said calmly as though she'd just done nothing more exciting than water a begonia. "However, as Boot pointed out, they will knock you out for several hours. Make sure your earmuffs are securely in place while you work. I will attract your attention when it's time to pack up. Four students to a tray. There's a large supply of pots here; the compost is in the sacks over there. Do mind the Venemous Tentacula, he's teething."

She gave a sharp slap to a spiky, dark red plant as she spoke, making it draw in the long feelers that had been inching sneakily over her shoulder.

Harry, Draco, Tim, and Jenna were already gathered at a tray. Terry and Padma Patil joined Blaise and Pansy. Crabbe, Goyle, and Millie partnered with Mandy Brocklehurst. Harry nodded to the Ravenclaws, but they had no chance to talk. Earmuffs were back on, and Mandrakes needed repotting.

Professor Sprout had made it look easy, but there was nothing simple about it. The Mandrakes didn't like coming out of the earth, but they didn't seem to want to go back into it either. They squirmed, kicked, flailed their little fists, and gnashed their teeth. Harry spent ten minutes trying to squash a particularly fat one into a pot.

By the end of the lesson, they were all sweaty, grubby, aching, and covered in earth. They traipsed back to the dungeons for a quick wash before hurrying to the Astronomy Tower for their next class.

* * *

Harry was not enjoying his first real detention. It wasn't so much that he minded the time away from his studies. During every study session, he would often take a short break every hour or so to play a quick game with the others. It was simply not possible to study History, Transfiguration, and Astronomy without going barmy. No, it was not the stolen study time he minded, but rather that he had to spend the time in the same room as Professor Gilderoy Lockhart.

The perfumed popinjay had not set Harry to scrubbing cauldrons, polishing armour, or some other physical task. No, it had been Harry's dubious honour sit at a desk and address envelopes for the famous wizard's fanmail. It was absolutely disgusting.

Countless framed photographs of Lockhart hung on the walls, that toothy smile gleaming eerily in the light of many candles. He had even signed a few of the pictures. Another large stack lay on the desk. The sheer numbers were staggering.

The minutes positively snailed by. Harry had done his best to let Lockhart's voice wash over him after his first outrageously pretentious remark of, "Now then, Harry, just because you're somewhat famous doesn't mean you can afford to slack off on your studies. All students must do their homework, and that includes you." Now Harry merely nodded and made vague affirmative noises as Lockhart blathered on about ... something.

As the candles burned lower, light danced over the many moving faces of Lockhart that were all watching him. Harry wrote out another address with an aching hand. It must be nearly time to leave, he thought miserably to himself. Please let it be nearly time.

And then he heard something. It was a sound quite unlike the sputtering of the dying candles or Lockhart's prattling about his fans. In fact, it was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was a voice, a voice to chill the marrow in his bones, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.

"Come... come to me.... Let me rip you.... Let me tear you.... Let me kill you...."

Harry jumped sharply. "What?"

"I know!" Lockhart exclaimed. "Right there in the shop! Needless to say, I was quite scandalized."

"No," Harry said, trying to keep his imagination from conjuring up images of whatever it was Lockhart had been talking about. "That voice."

Lockhart peered at him quizically. "Voice? What voice?"

He probably hadn't heard. The egotist probably never heard any voice other than his own. Harry put on a phoney smile. "Oh, it must have been nothing. Trick of the night. Perhaps a piece of a dream."

"Nodding off in detention is unseemly, Harry," Lockhart reproved him. "But no wonder, we've been here nearly four hours! I'd have never believed. Well, I suppose I must let you be getting some rest tonight. Very well, on your way now. Remember, you mustn't expect a treat like this every time you serve detention."

Treat! Harry nearly forgot the phantom voice in his irritation. Writing addresses on envelopes was nearly as tedious as writing lines had been in his old Muggle school. He swallowed his feelings and hurried out into the hall. Whose voice had that been?

Harry strained his ears, trying to catch even a whisper of that chilling voice. There was nothing, only silence. He couldn't even hear a ghost wafting through the corridors. This was most unsettling. He had been very tired, but Harry hadn't been imagining things... had he?

Troubled, Harry walked slowly back to his dorm. He took his time, hoping to hear the voice again, but there was only silence. He ambled on, hoping his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.

As he entered the common room, Harry saw that the fire had burned quite low. No Slytherin was yet so concerned about marks that he was burning the midnight oil. In the dorm, all his friends were asleep.

Harry shrugged out of his robes and put on his pyjamas. Crawling under the covers, he blew out the candle that had been left burning for him. His last thought before sleep claimed him was that he was lucky to have such caring friends.

The next morning, Harry pulled Draco and Tim aside before breakfast to tell them about the voice he had heard. His friends were both extremely clever, and Harry felt confident that there was nothing the three of them couldn't figure out if they worked together.

"And Lockhart couldn't hear it?" Tim asked, scratching his head.

"That doesn't add up," Draco told them. "Even someone under an invisibility cloak would have to open the door."

"And that definitely didn't happen," Harry replied. "It couldn't have been a ghost, do you think?"

"No, Lockhart would have heard it in that case."

"Could he be lying?" Draco asked.

"Why would he lie about it?" Harry said in response. "I just don't understand."

"It's a mystery," Tim grinned. "I like mysteries."

* * *

There were no more clues to the mysterious voice in the next couple of weeks, and without a repeat performance by the disembodied voice, Harry had almost forgotten the strange incident in Lockhart's office as his days settled into a comforting, familiar routine

The first meeting of the Hogwarts Choir hadn't yet been scheduled, so Harry did have that to look forward to, but his free time was largely taken up by homework and Quidditch practice, which Marcus Flint had been ruthless about. The Slytherin team drilled at odd hours, in horrible weather, and for long stretches at a time. Harry was particularly annoyed with the latter, since he'd never failed to catch the Snitch in less than a few minutes once he'd spotted it.

His classes were all much the same as last year. Transfiguration was still abominably difficult. Charms would require work, but at least it would be interesting. Astronomy was complicated but fascinating. Herbology and Potions remained his best subjects.

It was in Defence Against the Dark Arts that Harry was convinced his true skills lay. That was a part of their formal schooling, after all, to discover in what areas their magical talents were strongest and what areas needed to be worked on and developed. Even with Professor Quirrell's bumbling interference, Harry had proven himself a fast learner and potent caster of spells.

It was unfortunate that Professor Lockhart appeared to be even less competent than Quirrell. The case for incompetence was plainly made when Lockhart rather arrogantly stated that it had been simplicity itself in order to conquer the villainous Valosian vampire.

You see, Lockhart's lectures were almost totally uninformative. They learned no spells, no hexes, not even important traits of Dark creatures. Instead, Lockhart told them stories of his exploits, and as interesting as the stories sometimes were (Harry could not deny that the man was a talented storyteller), Harry was very tired of being called upon to play the role of the monster as Lockhart acted out his adventures.

"And then I threw the silver dagger at it, like so, causing it to scream in mortal agony. Scream, Harry. Come on, scream."

Sighing, knowing that his friends were infinitely more entertained by this than he was, Harry drew in a deep breath and yelled like bloody murder.

"That's excellent! Now, I had wounded the creature, and that's all it really takes. I drew my wand and cast the Homorphous Charm. The magic sank in through the open wound, and quick as a whip, there stood a normal man before me, cured of his foul curse."

The most irritating thing was that he looked as though they should all be impressed beyond words. Harry sighed and refrained from looking at his watch again.

Tim raised his hand. "Professor? Isn't the Homorphous Charm only temporary?"

"Not at all, Nott," Lockhart tried to dismiss the question.

"But sir, it says right here in-"

"Perhaps such restrictions apply to ordinary wizards, Nott, but Gilderoy Lockhart is no normal mage."

"You're abnormal alright," Harry heard Jenna mutter. He bit his tongue in order to keep from laughing out loud.

* * *

That week flew by without Harry even really being aware of it, and before he knew it, he was stuck in History of Magic again on Friday afternoon. Yawning hugely, he rested his head in his hands and gazed off into nothing.

Hermione Granger was paying attention, and as she was the only thing in the room showing more life signs than a corpse, Harry decided to watch her. It wasn't really fair to say that she was the only one who paid attention. Several of the other Hufflepuffs also tried to keep up. Harry saw Justin Finch-Fletchley lean over to ask Granger a question. He'd never spoken to the curly-haired boy and knew his name only by hearing Professor Binns call the roll. Another girl, Harry thought her name was Megan Jones, leaned towards them and whispered something back. Were these Granger's friends then? Somehow he'd never thought about the Muggleborn witch as having friends.

Harry pondered the social circles of the Hufflepuffs for the rest of the lecture. There were only two purebloods of his year in that House. Did they get on at all with the Muggleborns? What about those of mixed blood? His musings kept him occupied and, more importantly, awake for the rest of class.

He pulled himself out of his seat with some difficulty once Binns stopped boring everyone to tears. Draco waited for him as the other Slytherins hurried to escape. Harry groaned as he moved stiff muscles.

"I think I started to put down roots," he complained.

"We really need to get a new teacher for this class," Draco commiserated. "I can't take six more years of this. It's such a waste of time."

"Maybe once Abraham finishes school he'd be willing to come back and fill our young minds," Harry laughed. Abraham Montague, former Slytherin prefect and now Head Boy, was one of the only students at Hogwarts who enjoyed History. They had just exited the classroom when they heard voices coming from around the corner.

"I'm so excited about tomorrow," an unfamiliar girl was saying. "Hermione, you're going to love the cake my mum is sending up. Nothing beats her lemon surprise."

"I'm quite certain it will be scrumptious," Granger replied. "Thank you so much for having her do that."

"Mum likes to bake," the girl replied.

"Well that works, because I like to eat," a boy's voice joined in.

"And what makes you think you're having any of my birthday cake, Justin?" Granger teased him.

"Because you love me?" he asked slyly. "Can't bear to see me waste away to nothing, knowing that you could have prevented it?"

"Justin, you're impossible," the girl laughed.

"I try, Meg, I really do."

"Isn't that sweet?" Draco let the words roll off his tongue languidly as he turned the corner. He sounded bored out of his mind. "Three happy little Mudbloods latched onto each other like leeches."

Granger's back stiffened, and she turned a pale face to stare down the two Slytherins. "Go away, Malfoy," she said defiantly.

"I heard it was your birthday tomorrow, Granger. Can't a chap wish his schoolmate a happy birthday anymore without-" Draco began in a mock-offended tone.

"No!" Granger burst out. She pointed an accusing finger at him. "Don't try to twist things around. You just want to make some nasty comment and see me cry."

"Harry, did I say I want to make her cry?" Draco asked innocently.

"No, not at all," he smirked.

"Go away!" she shouted at them.

Draco took a moment to wink at the three Hufflepuffs. "I'm going," he said, "but only because I want to."

Harry followed along. "Why do you enjoy bothering her so much?" he asked curiously once they were out of earshot.

"Who, Granger?" Draco acted as if he didn't know. "I'm not sure. I guess just because I don't really even have to try. It's an effortless, instant mood booster."

"What would you ever do without her to torment?" Harry laughed.

"There are others," Draco said soberly. "And if all else fails, Weasley."

* * *

October arrived in due course, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. The miserable weather spawned a spate of head colds all over the castle. Students, including Weasley's baby sister, and staff, Professor Sinistra especially, checked in with Madam Pomfrey to get a dose of her Pepperup potion. The stuff worked instantly, but it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterwards.

It was Monday morning in the first week of the month that saw the first notable news from the world outside Hogwarts. As the morning post owls began dropping copies of the Daily Prophet into students' waiting hands, a low murmur began to spread through the Great Hall, undercutting the normal dull roar. Harry unfolded his copy and scanned the headlines.

As Harry turned to show Draco what the paper said, he was already reading over Pansy's shoulder. When he had finished, Draco raised his face and smiled broadly. "Weasley's father is out of a job," he said, sounding very pleased with himself.

"Didn't his Office get shuffled down into a sub-sub-sub-area of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?" Harry asked. "That's what the story says."

"Yes, but look here," Draco told him. "Arthur Weasley transferred to Centaur Liaison Office."

"Literally transferred, wow," Tim marvelled. "Well, he should have plenty of free time in which to better himself as a wizard."

"I don't get it." Harry was confused.

"It's very simple, Harry," Blaise explained. "No centaur has ever even been to the Liaison Office."

"So that's why it pays so little!" Harry was pleased with his little deduction. Nobody had taken the time to explain to him the jokes they'd been making.

"Right. Now, being transferred to that office has long been simply a euphemism for getting the pink slip, but someone's father thought it would be funny to actually transfer Weasley's dad there."

"Father has a wonderful sense of humour," Draco declared.

"I thought it was funny," Tim added.

"You would," Pansy snipped.

"I'm going to take a stroll," Draco announced.

"No, you're not," Pansy said, turning on him. "We'll be able to get plenty of digs in on him during Potions. Which we have to get to right now."

And digs were exactly the course of the day. As they entered the Potions classroom, Professor Snape was busy inscribing notes on the board with his wand. He was using black chalk on the black slate of the board, so they couldn't read the notes until they were all sitting and Snape waved his wand at the board, changing the black chalk to white.

"I am making a change in our lesson plan," Snape announced. It may have been Harry's imagination, but the greasy professor had a note of amusement in his voice. "Today you will learn about the magical properties of centaur hair and what use it can be in potionmaking."

to be continued...