Spectacle

Spectacle

Chapter 1

Things You Don't See Every Day

Hermione Granger strode down the corridor toward the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's Transfiguration classroom. She was walking fast and talking faster, and her left arm was linked through her friend Ron Weasley's right as she practically dragged him down the hall. Her right arm sliced the air with an enchanted quill pen, drawing complicated figures of blue and gold sparks. Harry Potter, on most days the leader of their infamous trio, wore a baffled look on his face as he puffed to keep up. With two quick glances, Hermione took in the dark-haired wizard's bewildered expression and noted that Ron seemed equally lost. She huffed in exasperation but didn't let it slow her frantic speech for a millisecond. With only eight minutes to go until the period bell - eight minutes and counting - these two were simply going to have to use their brains for a change. If they found that a bit painful, well, Hermione was absolutely beyond all sympathy.

After all, she'd been researching their project for a month, while her two partners had apparently managed to forget the very meaning of the words 'group work.' And despite the countless times as she'd tried to bring them up to date on the discoveries she was making, she'd never been able to steal their attention away from Quidditch strategizing or Slytherin bashing for quite long enough to get her message through. Sure they'd listened - with half an ear and still trading the odd Quidditch comment throughout. And after each attempt she'd gotten a smile and a vague "Good work, Herm" that said clear as the bells on a goblin's garters that so long as she knew what she was talking about they didn't need to.

Well, Harry and Ron might not care that the entirety of their Advanced Transfiguration grade would depend on this project or that their first marks were going to come from the project proposal they - all three of them - had to present to the class that very day, but Hermione most certainly did. Last night she'd resolved to reach the boys at any cost, only to find them scribbling off eleventh-hour Divination essays on the symbolism of the suite of wands in a standard tarot deck. They couldn't be convinced that a year-long research assignment might be more important than a single essay, so she'd made them swear on their hopes for the Quidditch cup to meet her that morning before breakfast. In retrospect she wasn't surprised they'd slept through the meeting after pulling Divination-driven all-nighters. The owl post had interrupted her explanation during breakfast. They'd both said the page of 'essential points to know' she'd slipped them during Charms was confusing. During lunch Ron had still been scratching away at on that damned tarot essay. And now they were on their way to class and the boys still stood an excellent chance of lowering their marks and Hermione's by staring blankly through the presentation. That could not happen.

"If you'll just think about it, you'll see the spell's driving force comes from the combined imagistic consciousness of the wizarding and likely even the Muggle world," Hermione reiterated, making herself perfectly clear - to herself. She scribbled another diagram with her sparking quill tip to illustrate the point.

Draco Malfoy was lounging against the corridor wall surrounded by his usual crowd of admiring Slytherin sycophants. So far it had been a depressingly dull day; his only consolation was that bored and listless went quite well with his typical superior and aristocratic look, so he was sure he was lounging attractively. He was just about to utter a very conceited remark to that effect and attempt to amuse himself by counting how many of the girls in his entourage jumped to simper their agreement when some sort of commotion emerging round a corner a few cross-corridors down caught his attention.

He smirked. That walking blue and gold fire hazard could only be one thing - Granger. Draco had been amused no end when her habit of constantly carrying a quill had begun to give way at the end of fifth year to actually writing in the air with it as she spoke. Now this Pyroscriptus charm - she must have dreamt that up over the summer and cast it on her quill the first day she was back at Hogwarts and allowed to use magic. As far as Draco was concerned, it was solid proof that the Mudblood had reached the absolute lowest depth of nerdiness. Though he had to admit that walking about accompanied by her own fireworks show bespoke a flair and flamboyance worthy of, well, a Malfoy. Not a respectable British one, obviously, but perhaps one of the Continentals....

Usually the sparks could be seen dancing merrily in front of Hermione as she chattered to her friends, but today they hissed dangerously through the air, alerting the other students clogging the halls that she was in a towering foul temper and the wisest thing would be to clear out of her way double quick. A fiendish light flickered into Draco's eyes. He pushed himself off the wall, delighted by such a perfect opportunity to annoy the witch.

"Morning, Granger," sneered the Slytherin, falling into step beside her and her two companions. "Looks like the sparklies are going a bit mad today. What's the matter? That demon cat of yours piss in your panty drawer, or did the Weasel here put a paw some place he shouldn't have?" Harry and Ron stiffened at his words, but Hermione simply dragged them onwards. She'd stopped crying over Malfoy's malicious gibes a couple years ago when she realized there wasn't a single person at Hogwarts to whom they made any difference. The Slytherins got their share of laughs out of them, true, but it wasn't as if a mere words could make the serpents think less of her than they already did. And her friends didn't like or respect her any less just because some puffed-up bully had a dirty mouth. Since that realization, Malfoy's viciousness had become background noise to Hermione, though she did spend more time than she enjoyed holding her best friends back when they got the urge to pound the blond prat to a pulp.

Draco spun and planted himself squarely in Hermione's path. He'd gotten used to her thick skin, of course; most days he wouldn't have wasted breath on a second insult, but this day had the unmistakable flavor of a special opportunity. Hermione was clearly, without question, extraordinarily brassed off, and angry people are vulnerable people - Draco couldn't let her spoil this with her typical "the better person walks away" routine. "I'd like you to listen to me when I'm talking to you, Mudblood," he snarled.

Another day Hermione would have had the time and patience to ignore Malfoy, but just then she needed him out of her way immediately. As she heard the word "Mudblood" leave his mouth, she stabbed her perfectly sharpened quill into her left palm, wrenched her arm free from Ron's, and ran her bloody hand down Draco's chest where his school robes hung open to reveal an elegant white silk shirt. Harry, Ron, Draco, and his Slytherin posse gawked at Hermione as though she'd gone mad, and the students who'd been merely passing by began to crowd around as they caught an unusual dumbstruck note in Draco's voice. "What the fuck was that, Granger?" he spluttered.

"You've been going on about my dirty blood for years," the furious witch stated coldly. "Can't seem to get it off your mind. I thought you might be covetous."

"Are you insane? This shirt cost more than your boyfriend's house."

"Don't whine; if you can't manage something as simple a cleansing spell, you've no right to be at Hogwarts in the first place."

Draco grimaced, wiping disgustedly at his shirt. "There's no spell strong enough to get out something this foul," he glowered at her.

"Are you saying your glorious Pureblood magic is weaker than a little Mudblood stain?" Hermione raised her eyebrows meaningfully. "And get out of my way," she added, pushing past him. Harry and Ron scrambled after her as she breezed into the Transfiguration room.

"Why the hell'd you do that, Herm?" Ron demanded before they'd even reached their seats. He looked a little scared.

Instead of answering, Hermione held out her injured hand. "Salutae this, one of you," she ordered bluntly. Harry managed a quick and clumsy healing charm; then, though the two boys fired at least thirty more questions at her in the few minutes remaining before class, she didn't say another word, not even about the project that had been so all-consumingly important moments ago.

Inwardly, however, she felt anything but quiet. She was still breathing heavily from the quick march to class and the excitement with Malfoy, and her hand was throbbing in testament to the mediocrity of Harry's healing skills, but it all felt...strangely satisfying. As if there'd been pressure building and building inside her, and she had no idea why she'd suddenly chosen to vent it in such a sensational way, but now that she had there was still steam rising off after the explosion...

For perhaps the first time in her academic career, Hermione didn't even notice when class started. She completely missed the other trios of students taking turns outlining their research schemes at the front of the room; in fact, the period was nearly finished when Professor McGonnagal's voice finally interrupted her strangely manic reverie. "Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, and Mr. Weasley. Would you come forward, please?"

Hermione quickly reigned in her thoughts and bounced up from her desk. "I think it had better be just me, Professor," she answered cheerily. "I haven't gotten a chance to explain our project to Harry and Ron just yet."

In the Great Hall that night dinner conversation concerned nothing but the confrontation outside the Transfiguration room. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws kept shooting admiring glances Hermione's way; the Slytherins collectively seemed to be trying to slay her with evil eyes. At the Gryffindor table itself, the mood was euphoric. There was whooping, clapping on the back, and congratulations galore. Dean and Seamus had even conjured up a baldric for Hermione to wear emblazoned with the words "Hermione Granger - Slayer of Dragons" and in smaller print "(if by 'dragon' you mean a slimy little worm)." They explained that they'd asked themselves 'What Would the Weasley Twins Do?' and that had been their best idea. The first years were staring with awe-struck eyes, and Lavender was squealing yet again, "But Hermione, how could you? It must have hurt sooo much. And it was creepy..."

"Creepy but cool," Dean interrupted as he had the last time five times she'd made that comment.

Hermione was deeply amused as she sat in the midst of all the hubbub. No one made a bit of fuss when she, say, aced an exam, but getting in one good jab at Malfoy made her Queen of the House. Most of the Gryffindors hadn't even seen the incident, so she'd been forced to retell it more times than she could count. It was, she thought, completely crazy, .

In fact the only people at the table not joining in the celebration were Ron and Harry. They'd been sending her meaningful "we need to talk" looks all through dinner, and she was getting annoyed that they couldn't at least act more patient. She'd given them back any number of understanding nods, and that was really the best she could do until she managed to escape the crowd.

The Slytherins, meanwhile, were spitting venom. "Bloody Mudblood" sounded and resounded like an angry litany, and it was accompanied by a heavy assortment of other oaths, rude noises, and vengeance plots.

A fourth year was muttering about "hexing that sodding quill of hers to explode the next time she tries to write with it."

"Or we turn all her precious books into mice. Then we could feed them to her cat and she'd have to cut the ugly thing open if she wanted them back," suggested Millicent Bulstrode, who preferred her evil with a certain artistic flair, likely because she herself was so unattractive.

"Huh, or we could just tie her up and poke her with knives," Crabbe chuckled. "That'd make her squirm."

"Yeah, then we could call her Squirmy Hermy," Goyle added with oafish enthusiasm. Everyone momentarily dragged their attention away from the Granger problem to deal with the immediate necessity of clouting Goyle over the head.

The only Slytherin who didn't put in a word (or a blow to Goyle) was Draco. In the midst of all the seething and scheming, he was pensive. He'd wanted a reaction from Granger that afternoon and he'd certainly gotten one - one that had surprised the hell out of him. She'd been so wrought up, defenses thin; he'd been anticipating a return to those pleasant days when he'd been able to hurt her. But her anger had been cold, and really rather brilliant. How in the name of bloody fuck had she gotten the best of him? Well, that was rather obvious, actually. He'd been firing at easy targets for too long. Potter and the Weasel were so predictable - a light jab at one of their sore spots (and they had so many!) and they'd shout, "Don't talk about _____ that way!" and prepare to duel. Half the time they'd forget their wands and just lunge, fists flying, which Draco thought the stupidest and most entertaining thing in the world. But Granger - insane stabbing thing aside - had fought with her head. And she'd humiliated him without resort to even one cheap ferret crack. That said something. She was good. Or rather, she was good when she stopped being so bloody good. Or maybe it was a case of when she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad... Draco smiled. But Hermione was never bad. Today's incident had surprised her as much as him; she'd be embarrassed about it tomorrow, when he sought his revenge. And if by some small chance she wasn't, if she really planned to make a habit of fighting back, well, having a worthy opponent would be...interesting.

The commotion at the Gryffindor table didn't end until dinner did. As most of her housemates rose to leave the Hall, finally giving Hermione the space to breathe a little, she felt Harry and Ron close in on either side of her. With a small sigh, she let the boys hustle her back to their common room. They deposited her in a corner armchair, and Hermione sighed again when they took up position before her, glowering down like disapproving schoolmarms. Hermione leaned back, folded her hands over her stomach, and waited. Their glares deepened - clearly she was supposed to know what was wrong. She did, of course, but her uncooperative mood was still with her and she wasn't about to start things off with an apology.

After a moment, Ron exploded. "What the hell was that in Transfig today, Herm?! Ratting us out to McGonagall - what were you doing?"

"I was being perfectly honest with a professor and explaining that my project partners..."

"We're your best friends!"

Hermione gave him a pointed look, "...even though they do happen to be my best friends, weren't capable of describing our project to the class because they hadn't done a bit of work on it or bothered to listen to me explaining it to them."

"And it made us look bloody ridiculous!" Ron fumed.

"No more ridiculous than you would have looked up in front of the entire class babbling your way through a proposal you knew nothing about." She gazed from one boy to the other, and Harry at least fidgeted a bit.

"Yeah, but Hermione," he argued uncomfortably, "you don't just treat your friends that way."

"Oh? And how do you treat them? You stick up for them through thick and thin, I guess?"

"Of course!" Ron chimed back in enthusiastically.

"But that doesn't mean pulling your fair share of a group project. It only means covering for someone who's been taking advantage of you and making a damn poor show of being your friend."

"We had Quidditch and stuff."

"That's thin, Ron. That's where you tell yourself tough luck and stick by me because I'm your friend and your partner. And that's without my even mentioning that I'm taking four more classes than you."

"Yeah, but you like studying," Ron sounded a little more uncertain, and Harry shook his head.

"Even I think you sound like a prat now," he told his friend. He sank into another armchair, and Ron followed suit. Hermione was pleased they were finished with the part of the conversation where the boys played at towering over her, physically and morally. Harry was gazing at her sheepishly, "We're sorry, Herm," he was saying, "but you were a little harsh in class, too."

"You didn't listen when I tried to talk to you - and I did try to talk to you I don't know how many times since we started this project," she eyed them both severely, but her voice was much pleasanter than it had been a moment ago. "Seems like it needed a little demonstration to get your attention."

The boys nodded. "We'll try to..." Harry started to say, when Ron cut him off suddenly.

"Hey!" he exclaimed. "Speaking of that, you certainly got Malfoy's attention before class."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I've heard enough about that already for one night, if not my life."

"Yeah, but it was still great," he grinned, then frowned slightly, "though if you're so good at putting that arsehole in his place, it wouldn't have been too hard for you to defend me a little too, would it?" Hermione looked puzzled. "When he made that crack about my house," he prompted.

"He said my boyfriend's house, Ron, and you're not my boyfriend."

"But people knew what he meant," Ron persisted.

"Ron," Harry's voice carried a note of warning, "Now might be a good time not to have another argument and for us to finally let Hermione explain our Transfig project. So we can help her with it."

Hermione smiled gratefully at Harry as Ron groaned his reluctant agreement. A few minutes later, that corner of the common room was filled with blue and gold sparks, and a short while after that, expressions of dawning understanding and amazement began to grow on two Gryffindors' faces.

Since his first year at Hogwarts, Draco had made both an art and a science of tormenting Harry Potter. He was sure he'd perfected the practice. For example, memorizing the schedule of Harry's classes and the routes he took between them. Draco had done it every year. Some might call it obsessive, but in fact it was the most effective way to get the job done. Which was more obsessive - searching all over the school for the Scarred Wonder each time a taunt had to be delivered or going straight to the right spot, jeering, and getting on with his day?

The memorization had other benefits as well. Mocking Potter was a convenient way to keep up status in Slytherin House but only if done in a way that fueled the other serpents' admiration - something fruitless searches through the hallways would not do. And the bloody Boy Who Lived always traveled between classes with his loyal sidekicks. It was like a special promotion at the Bully's Emporium - buy one Potter, get a free chance to hassle the Weasel. Or in this case, Granger. A satisfied smirk spread across Draco's face. Yes, here they came now, along the trusty Herbology to History of Magic route. He let them draw nearly level with him and his gang before calling out.

"Hold up there, Mudblood." He thought he saw some slight, sudden tension in Hermione's shoulders, but she kept walking determinedly past him. "Fine, then," he drawled, "if you really have to be that way. I only wanted to thank you..." Ha, that had gotten her attention. She turned, Harry and Ron with her, and arched one questioning eyebrow at him.

Draco continued smoothly, an arrogant smile on his lips, "For that thoughtful display yesterday. Considering it's you we're talking about, you couldn't not know that blood sacrifice is a powerful form of worship offered to gods - I'm so pleased you've finally realized the proper relationship between us." He studied her reaction; damn it, he'd been wrong about one thing. She clearly wasn't going to be embarrassed by a little mention of her 'display.'

She was gazing back at him quite levelly, a restraining hand on either of her friends' arms. A crowd was gathering around them, much like yesterday. "But you must realize bloodletting's also used in traditional medicine, and since being near you does make me feel rather ill..."

"Overwhelmed by my godly splendor? The unworthy often are."

"Then there are other applications. Blood ritual to banish demons, for example. I must have been trying to kill two birds with one stone."

"You forget ritual requires pure blood..."

"Yours would look rather nice spilt on an alter - or anywhere..."

"...and since yours is no better than muck... Or maybe you were thinking of 'pure' in a different sense. And everyone does know that aside from Weasley's inept attentions the only love affair you'll ever have is with books..."

"You'd be surprised what you can learn from books, Malfoy. More than you know, I'm sure." Hermione's eyes, which had only been cold before, had gone suddenly hard as granite. Draco nearly botched his next line; he'd been so anticipating a reply along the lines of "just because 'snake pit' is another word for 'den of sin...'" that his retort had already been on his tongue. He swallowed that one and drawled lasciviously, "Why, Granger, I'd no idea you were so desperate. And books aren't even the right shape. Now, scrolls on the other hand...oh dear, do I need to warn Madame Pince I've given you ideas?"

"I'd fetch her myself for the pleasure of hearing you tell her that." She drew her wand. "Prefects' Emergency Summoning Charm for any member of the staff - shall I?"

Draco's smile was small and smug. "Only if you want to be late for class."

Hermione nodded, slightly and just as smugly. She turned and headed off toward History of Magic. Draco walked calmly away in the other direction. A bewildered Harry and Ron trailed after Hermione; a gaggle of Slytherins followed their leader; and quite a few students stood murmuring in the hallway for a several minutes afterward, wondering what they had seen.