Harry Potter and the Carrot Cake of Doom

Chapter 2: Ye Gods and Little Fishies

Hermione had changed over the summer, and those changes were starting to make Ron nervous.

Very nervous.

Extremely nervous.

Not that he liked her That Way, of course; the voice he had heard, which was probably just a dream anyway, since he wasn't really the sort who heard voices, had been dead wrong. Must have been wrong. He was just... surprised. Yes, that was it. Surprised. He was surprised. Yes. Surprised. Surprised at the way her figure had developed, the way her face seemed to have become even prettier - wait, did I just think that? - but those things had nothing to do with anything, because he didn't like her That Way. And he was not nervous. And his brain did not feel like a hamster on speed whenever he looked at her.

Damn.

Maybe he was just concerned about Harry, what with You-Know-Who being back and all. Yes, that was it. He was concerned. Concerned about Harry, that is. And if the thought of Death Eaters hurting Hermione because she was Muggle-born made him break out in a cold sweat - well, that was what best friends were for, right? So it had nothing to do with whether or not he liked Hermione That Way. Nothing at all. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing -

And the faint smirk on Ginny's face as she looked between them was Not Helping.

Finally, unable to stand the way she was implying something that was absolutely, positively, totally, and completely wrong, he turned to her and snapped, "What are you laughing about?"

This, however, only served to make the smirk even wider as Hermione immediately retorted, "Ron! Don't bully her!"

"I wasn't bullying her," he protested. "I was just asking a simple question!"

Hermione huffed, but didn't reply. Ron shook his head and looked out the window, trying not to look at either Hermione (who, damn it, did not look cute when she was angry) or at Ginny, who was innocently gazing at the ceiling. Girls. He would never understand them.

Finally (having grown bored with staring out the window) he turned his head back in Ginny and Hermione's direction and said, "I wonder where Harry is. You don't think those lousy Muggles are keeping him away, do you?"

"Don't be silly, Ron," Hermione said immediately, although she looked a bit nervous. "Dumbledore wouldn't let them. They're probably just running late."

"Look," Ginny put in suddenly. "Is that him?"

Ron glanced out the window again. Sure enough, Harry was making his way through the croud, trunk in tow. Almost reflexively, Ron let out a sigh of relief and turned to Hermione. "Guess you were right," he said, grinning.

She rolled her eyes as if to say, "Well, of course I'm right!" but smiled back.

Now, if he could just get Ginny to stop smirking like that, everything would be perfect.

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Ron hadn't changed - well, not much. He was still the gangly, grinning boy she had said goodbye to at the end of last term. A little older, maybe, and a bit more serious since the rise of Voldemort, but still basically the same person. So why this sudden nervousness around him? It simply didn't make any sense. And Hermione had always prided herself on being a logical thinker.

"Say, Hermione," Ginny said in a suspiciously casual tone, "how did your visit with Viktor go? You didn't say anything about it in your letters."

At this, Ron's head snapped up from where he had been watching Harry's approach, but said nothing. For some reason, Hermione felt her cheeks grow slightly pink. "I didn't get to visit him," she said rather ruefully. "My parents didn't think I was old enough to go alone." Why on earth did she sound so defensive? There was no reason to. No reason at all.

"You didn't go?" Ron said in a slightly strangled voice.

She glared at him, annoyed. "I'm not lying, if that's what you mean."

"Who said I thought you were lying? I was just surprised, that's all."

For some reason, that irritated her even more. "Oh, you've become a Seer over the holiday?"

"Erm."

The sound of Harry's voice made all three of them turn to the doorway. (Ginny had turned pink, and, from the look of it, was working her way up to bright red. Harry, mercifully, didn't seem to notice.) "Harry!" Hermione cried, leaping out of her seat to give him a hug. Maybe it wasn't the most socially correct thing to do, but she couldn't help it. Harry was just one of those people who could raise the protective (dignity forbade her from saying "maternal" - that was Mrs. Weasley's area) instincts of a particularly insensitive rock.

"Hi, Hermione," he said, grinning at her as he dragged his trunk inside. "How was Bulgaria? You didn't say anything about it in your letters."

Ron choked.

"I couldn't go," Hermione said, trying to not look at Ron. "My parents wouldn't let me."

"Good thing, too," Ron muttered. "What do we know about what that git gets up to?"

Eyes flashing, Hermione turned on him. "Oh, honestly! You didn't think that he was such a git when you were asking for his autograph, did you?"

"That was completely different!"

"How?"

"Because - because it just was!" With that piece of brilliant logic, Ron turned to Harry. "You doing all right, mate?"

Harry gave him a lopsided grin. "Yeah," he said. "I think so. Are you still going out for the Quidditch team?"

Ron snorted. "Of course! I've been practicing all summer! Hey, did you hear - " And they were off, talking about some obscure match that, she was sure, only a male Quidditch fanatic could possibly think was significant.

Boys!

Determined to not feel left out of the conversation, she turned to Ginny. "So," she said, "are you thinking of trying out for the team?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "Mum would have a fit. She won't let me near a broom unless I promise to stay away from the Quidditch pitch."

"Why not? She lets your brothers play."

"One of Fred's practice Bludgers broke my arm when I was nine - it wasn't serious," she added upon seeing Hermione's worried expression. "But now Mum is paranoid about it." She giggled. "Maybe I should try out for Beater next year."

"Ginny!" Hermione choked, trying to keep a straight face. "That's terrible!"

"What's this about Ginny being a Beater?" Ron interjected, looking puzzled.

"Nothing, Ron," Hermione said as calmly as possible, trying not to look at Ginny, who was shaking with laughter.

Ron shook his head. "Nutters, both of them," he told Harry (who looked like he was fighting a grin) loud enough for the two girls to hear. "Absolute nutters."

"Well, Weasley," came a familiar drawling voice, "it looks like we actually agree on something."

Ron's brows drew sharply together, and his fists clenched. "Sod off, Malfoy," he gritted out.

Malfoy just smirked. "God, Weasley, can't you come up with anything more original? 'Sod off, Malfoy,'" he said in a high-pitched voice. "It was fine when we were eleven but now - oh, I forgot. You never bothered to grow up, did you, Weasley?"

"At least he's not still a runty little ferret," Hermione snapped. Bloody Malfoy. Bloody, stupid Malfoy. "Missed out on that growth spurt again, didn't you?"

Malfoy flushed. "It's none of your business, Mudblood," he snarled.

Immediately, Ron was out of his seat, but before he could punch Malfoy, Hermione heard Harry say, "What do you want, Malfoy?" Something in Harry's voice made her turn. Her eyes widened at the expression on his face. Instead of looking annoyed or angry as he normally did when talking to Malfoy, Harry looked oddly... analytical. Almost like a theater critic observing an interesting play. She shared a glance with Ron, who was clearly as confused as she was.

Maybe Malfoy saw it too, or maybe he didn't. But he turned to Harry and said, smirking, "Oh, nothing, Potter. I just wanted to say hello. The school year wouldn't be the same without our little annual get-together, would it?" And with that, he gave them a mocking little bow and said, "Potter. Mudblood. Weasley. Weaselette. It's been a pleasure to see you." It was probably fortunate for Malfoy - and for Ron too, Hermione reminded herself, she didn't want to see him going to Azkaban for strangling the little ferret - that he left when he did, as Ron managed to wrench his arm free of Harry's grip about thirty seconds after the compartment door had closed. "The little bastard," he snarled. "Calling Hermione that... that name. Like he's the ruler of the world. And you!" He turned on Harry. "What in bloody hell were you doing back there? You looked like you were sharing an inside joke with him!"

Harry looked thoughtful. "I don't know. Maybe I was." Before Ron could explode, Harry said quickly, "I mean, I still don't like Malfoy. You know that. But outside - well, it's weird, you know?"

"What happened outside?" Hermione asked quietly.

"He thanked me."

Ron looked absolutely flabbergasted. "He what?"

"He thanked me. He fell, and I helped him up before I saw who it was, and he thanked me. Just like that. No insults or anything. That's what's weird about it all."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "You don't think we should become friends with Malfoy, do you?"

"No," Harry said uncertainly. "Just... watch him, I guess. See if he does anything different this year." He shrugged. "All we can do, really."

"He didn't have Crabbe or Goyle with him," Ginny put in, somehow managing to hide her blush. "Do you think that means something?"

Harry rubbed his head. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not." He looked at Ron, whose brow was furrowed. "What?"

"I don't know about anyone else," Ron said resolutely, "but if any of you give him a cute nickname, I'll disown you."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure why, but that made her feel much better. And as the whistle blew and the Hogwarts Express began to move, she couldn't help but grin.

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Draco was not stomping down the corridor. Oh, he might be making loud footsteps, but he was not stomping. Malfoys did not stomp; it was a physical impossibility. Therefore, he was not stomping.

Satisfied to have worked it all out logically, he made his way into his own compartment. As he entered, Pansy looked up from her conversation with Blaize Zabini and smiled, really more of a smirk laden with sweet viciousness. It was the sort of smile one might see on the face of a well-fed sabre-toothed tiger. "Out of sorts, Draco darling?" she cooed nastily. "Did the big, mean Weasel hurt Ickle Drakiekins' tender feelings?"

He slumped down in his seat, trying to ignore the sardonic expression on Millicent Bulstrode's face - it was always rather unsettling to be laughed at by someone who looked like she shouldn't be able to understand any words with more than one syllable. (And he never, ever wanted to know what Pansy told her troll-like friend about him.) "Oh, shut up," he said absently. "It's sort of a tradition by now. I hate to disappoint my public, you know."

"What, you're afraid that they might miss the way you annually go into their compartment and make a complete arse of yourself? Oh, Draco, I never knew that you cared."

"Shut up," he said again. "And I don't ever make an arse of myself."

Pansy shrugged. "Complete arsehood is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose."

He leered at her. "Oh, don't you wish."

She smirked at him, and went back to her conversation with Blaize.

Which left him to his own devices again. He'd always been rather surprised that being in Slytherin, the House of the self-sufficient (or, as Mother liked to say when Father wasn't around, the House of the paranoid and bloody-minded - she had always said that, being a Slytherin herself, she had a perfect right to describe her own House as she saw fit) he had always disliked being ignored, but there you had it. (Not that it was really something to worry about, of course; it couldn't possibly be a personality defect, as Malfoys didn't have personality defects.) On the up side, though, it gave him time to sort out his thoughts. So: look at it all logically. What had he accomplished since getting on the train?

One: Unless he had read Potter wrong, the other boy was now confused as hell.

Oh, like that's really a big difference.

Two: Weasley still thought that he was the scum of the earth, and probably would continue to believe that until the universe degenerated back into the primordial ooze.

Isn't it comforting how some things always stay the same?

Three: He had no idea what Granger thought.

Really smart of you, Draco.

Four: the mini-Weasley (Ninny or Ginger or whatever she was called), being firmly on the side of right and good and fluffy little bunny rabbits frolicking through the forest, no doubt thought some variation of what her brother did - but in a kind and caring way, of course.

Ah, Gryffindors. So squeaky clean you can almost smell the lemon polish.

Conclusion: He had accomplished absolutely nothing.

Well, so much for logic.

Maybe he could enlist Pansy. Maybe she and her friends could... No. Definitely not. Aside from the fact that he would owe her (a fact that she would undoubtedly wave in his face until his dying day, or at least until the favor was repaid), he didn't want to have to worry about a Pansy/Granger catfight, and he really didn't want to think about what would happen if Hell froze over and they teamed up. Pansy by herself was bad enough; Pansy combined with Granger's researching skills (and he definitely had to admit that the girl definitely knew what to do with herself in the library, Mudblood or not) was just... no. Absolutely, positively not. At least not if he felt like keeping his sanity intact. Not to mention his reputation, his ego, and his wallet.

So Pansy was out, and, by extension, Millicent and Blaize. He'd never actually spoken to Millicent (at least not with a crowd of people around) but knew enough about her to know that she wouldn't get involved, partially to preserve her reputation as a mindless troll and partially because of the fact that, according to Pansy, she held any and all political infighting more or less in contempt, and would be perfectly content to ignore it as long as she got what she wanted. Which, according to Pansy, she usually did. Blaize, on the other hand, was far more interested in all the usual Slytherin games (threats, bribes, and screwing over anyone who gets in your way) and would therefore be susceptible. But she also had a tendency to follow Pansy's lead on things, meaning that if he enlisted her, she would tell Pansy - and the last thing he wanted was to have Pansy after his blood for not letting her in on something potentially lucrative.

The boys, then? Well, Crabbe and Goyle were definitely out, but Will Nott... hmm. Will was a possibility, and had the added advantages of being both intelligent and the son of a Death Eater, but that was also a disadvantage: Will might tell the elder Nott, who would therefore have some clue as to what Father was doing, and he doubted that would make Father very happy no matter how much Will found out.

Well, that was the whole problem, wasn't it? The place where his social position was strongest (and therefore the place where he was most likely to find useful allies) was his own House, which was notoriously untrustworthy. Oh, he could probably charm a Hufflepuff girl or two, but honestly, what use were Hufflepuffs apart from wand fodder?

So he'd just have to rely on himself. Huh. Should be easy enough. They were just Gryffindors, for God's sake. They'd lap his story of "redemption" right up. It would be no trouble. No trouble at all.

Oh, help.

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Totally unaware of the fact that a few compartments down, one of his enemies was plotting his eventual manipulation, Harry was testing his skills as a Seer with Ron. Testing his ability to predict the taste of Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans, that is. "Ah, Harry," Ron said sagely, tossing a bean into his mouth, and then wincing (Harry later found out that it had been soap-flavored), "I just don't understand why Trelawney doesn't use these. They're so valuable for awakening my Inner Eye."

"Don't bother, Ron," Harry advised, picking out one that he sincerely hoped was lime, or something along those lines (it turned out to be mold, which he spat out). "Trelawney's jewelry just wouldn't do anything for you."

"Yeah, but if I was a Seer, I would have an excuse to not make any sense. Part of our otherworldly mystique, you know."

"You've never needed an excuse to not make any sense," Hermione said tartly, looking up from her book. "No wonder Ginny wanted to leave."

Ron mock-gasped, looking wounded. "So! The truth comes out! And to think that I actually believed that she wanted to sit with her friends."

Hermione snorted (it sounded suspiciously like a laugh to Harry) and turned back to her book. "Say, Hermione," he asked with sudden curiosity, "what are you reading? It's not Hogwarts, A History, is it?" he couldn't help adding. He heard Ron snicker.

"No," Hermione said with dignity, "it's not, actually. It's a study of magical dreams and - " She stopped at the arrested look on his face. "What is it?"

"I don't suppose you could find out - is there any way for objects to be given to people through their dreams?"

There was a long pause. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose you could do it, in theory at least, but - Harry, nobody could contain that much power without burning themselves out. There's only so much the human body can hold."

"Well, how thick do they have to be, to write a whole book about something that can't be done?" Ron demanded. "Seems a bit pointless to me."

Hermione tutted impatiently. "Well, the whole book obviously isn't about just that, Ron. Honestly, if you'd just read - "

But Ron had already turned to Harry. "So I guess you got something from a dream over the summer?" At Harry's nod, his eyes widened. "Bloody hell, that's cool. Can I see it?"

"Ron!" Hermione snapped. "We don't even know who it came from, much less what it is! It might be dangerous. Harry, when we get to the castle, you were going to show it to Dumbledore right away, weren't you?"

"Er - " Actually, he had almost forgotten about the herring until he had asked Hermione about her book. But there was no need to tell her that. "Well, yeah." When Ron looked disappointed, he quickly added, "But there's no reason you two can't see it. I've been living with the thing for almost three weeks and it hasn't done anything."

Hermione looked like she still might object, but Ron just rolled his eyes and said, "Come on, Hermione, what harm can one look do?" He looked at Harry eagerly. "Go on, show us."

"Hang on," Harry muttered, bending down to root through his trunk. "It's in here somewhere..." His fingers closed over the cardboard box that he had been keeping the herring in. He'd half expected it to stink up his room, but it had stayed perfectly fresh and almost odorless for the entire three weeks. "Got it." He lifted the box out of the trunk and tried to raise the lid.

The lid, however, had different ideas. No matter how much he tugged, and no matter how easily he had gotten it off before, it simply wouldn't come off. "Well," Hermione said, sounding rather relieved, "I guess that's it. You'll just have to take it to Dumbledore, Harry, and - "

No sooner did she speak these words, however, than the box began to tremble in Harry's hands. A light fluttering at first, but growing stronger by the second until he could barely hold onto it anymore - and there was a sense of gathering power, almost stunning in its intensity, that centered inside the box and its strangely-gifted... occupant? object? no matter, ripping through the conduit of his hands, screaming through his bloodstream, vibrating in his bones, sinew, muscle, tendon, marrow...

"Harry?" Ron's voice, scared and tense, cutting through the chaos. "Harry!" His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Only the power streaming outward, through him, ripping, cutting, shattering... "Harry! Harry, let go of the box! Let go!"

Let go? What did that mean?

Oh, yes. Relax the fingers...

He let the box go and it propelled itself straight backwards, colliding with Ron just in time to explode.

At least that was what it felt like. It threw him back upon impact, flinging him against the seat... the light was incredible, that flash of light far brighter than anything he'd ever seen, and twice as intense... he had no idea where Ron and Hermione were, no idea when it would end...

And then, miraculously, it stopped.

Groaning, Harry picked himself up and looked around, waiting for the afterimage to fade. When it did, he was shocked to see that, except for Ron and Hermione sprawled bonelessly on the floor and the innocent-looking cardboard box (along with the equally innocent-looking white herring lying beside it) sitting quietly beside Ron, nothing in the compartment had been disturbed. It was almost like the explosion had never happened. And yet...

"Ohhhhh..."

The sound of Hermione groaning herself awake immediately caught Harry's attention. "Hermione?" he called softly (he didn't think shouting would be a good idea right now).

Her eyes flickered open. "Harry?" she said groggily.

"Yeah. Look, I'm going to see if I can wake up Ron - he's out cold."

Sleepy eyes widened in alarm. "Ron?"

"Yeah. I'll try - just try to get yourself up. I'll wake him." He actually wasn't entirely sure about that, but there was no harm in trying.

Digging his wand out of his trunk, he cautiously approached his friend's prostrate form and shook him. "Ron? Ron, wake up."

No response. "Figures," he muttered. Then, "Ennervate."

Again, no response. "Let me help," Hermione said from behind him. He turned to see her standing, a bit shaky but still upright, with her wand in her hand.

"Okay, then," he said, sounding stronger than he felt. "Let's do it." Together, they pointed their wands at Ron's body and murmured, "Ennervate."

This time, Ron's eyes fluttered open, but as his body stirred, a new, unfamiliar voice filled the compartment. "Elba?" it cried. "Oh, Elba, you idiot, what have you done? How could you let me languish like this? Oh, how?" It was a woman's voice, deep, rich, and melodic. Harry didn't even know the person, but just from listening to that voice once, he felt like he could listen to her quite comfortably for years on end.

And it was coming from Ron's mouth.