Lesson Plans

"The Porlock is a horse-guardian found in Dorset, England, and in southern Ireland. Covered in shaggy fur, it has a large--er --"

"Quantity."

"-- quantity of rough hair on its head and an exceptionally large nose. It walks on two cloven feet. The arms are small and end in four st-stu --"

"Stubby."

"-- stubby fingers. Fully grown Porlocks are around two feet high and feed on grass."

"Gregory, that's excellent work," Hermione said. She closed the copy of*Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them* she'd had on her lap to follow his progress with and gave him a smile. "You've come so far in the past few weeks. You have every right to be proud of yourself."

"Thanks," he said, reaching up to scratch his fingers through the rough bristles at the back of his head.

Hermione'd spent enough time with Goyle since taking on the challenge of tutoring him that she recognized this as his typical gesture of shy embarrassment. The more time she spent with him, the more she realized how little she knew him and how easily she'd let herself assume he was just like the people he chose to associate with. She'd been utterly unprepared for his often childlike mannerisms that left her to wonder what his home life must be like. She had a strong suspicion that he had not received much praise or encouragement from his parents. Would he have turned out to be the fearsome bully so many of her fellow students believed him to be if his early years had been different? Ever the optimist, she liked to believe that anyone raised in a properly nurturing environment could achieve anything.

Then she thought of Harry. Harry, she knew, had been raised in deplorable conditions with no affection of any kind since he was a toddler, yet she could think of few people with a more generous heart. How could two people likely raised in similar circumstances turn out to be so different? Was it possible Goyle wasn't what people perceived him to be? Was it possible that, if freed from the unhealthy influence of people like Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe, he might turn out to be someone she'd be proud to call a friend?

Goyle had been nothing but kind and respectful with her since they'd started their weekly tutoring sessions, though it had taken her a few weeks to break through his gruff exterior. When she found that he responded eagerly to praise, becoming almost puppylike in his effort to please her, she tried to direct the tutorials in a way that would allow him to succeed without succumbing to his need for reinforcement. He'd worked hard, and the results were becoming more and more apparent; only at the last moment had Professor Snape averted complimenting her in their meeting last week.

Goyle had caught her off guard recently by inquiring about her upbringing. She'd been hesitant to respond at first, suspecting him of improper motives, until she realized that to him a Muggle upbringing was as alien and unimaginable as an Eskimo childhood would be to her. She opened up then and talked at length about her parents, her schooling, and growing up surrounded by Muggles with no knowledge of the existence of the magical community.

When Hermione told him about that wondrous June morning when the owl fluttered in through an open window and valiantly persisted in presenting her with her letter of admission to Hogwarts even while her mother swatted at the bird with a broom, he leaned forward to rest his chin on his folded arms and gaze up at her from beneath his heavy, dark brow. At that moment he reminded her quite fondly of a brindled mastiff her uncle had owned many years ago.

He'd asked then, "Did you know before you got the letter you were a witch?"

"Not really. I'd suspected I was different, somehow, from the other children in my school, but until that day I'd chalked it up to being a better student. I was already two years ahead, you see."

He'd gaped at her in astonishment. "I didn't know you could do that."

"It's not very common."

He'd asked then about how her parents had reacted to the invitation, and what it was like for her to go home during the holidays. She'd talked about growing apart from the few Muggle friends she'd had before she came to Hogwarts, and how she'd come to prefer spending her holidays with the Weasleys. He'd scowled at that, but said nothing.

He hadn't asked again about her life before and outside of Hogwarts. She'd never asked about his, despite her growing curiosity. She knew from Harry that Goyle's father was among those Death Eaters who witnessed Voldemort's resurrection nearly eighteen months ago, though, oddly, the senior Goyle had not been included in the mission to take the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries last June. She also knew that Goyle had been a member of the Inquisitorial Squad though, again oddly, he had not been among those who captured her and Harry in Professor Umbridge's office the night Sirius died. Part of her--the part that still believed anyone was capable of change for the good--wanted to find meaning in this. Part of her wanted to believe Gregory Goyle was not beyond redemption any more than he was beyond learning to read.

"Should I read on then?" he asked, interrupting her reverie.

"Hm?"

"Reading? Should I continue?"

"Oh, no, I think we've done enough for this week, wouldn't you say?"

He shrugged. "I reckon so."

"Professor McGonagall's set a Transfiguration exam for just before the Christmas holiday, so I thought next week we should work on spell paradigms."

He made a face. "Do we have to?"

She laughed. "It's one thing to read what's put before you, but you need to be able to process and interpret what you read so you can rephrase it in your own words."

He looked at her blankly. "Whatever that means."

"Comprehension, Gregory," she said, tsk-ing at him. "You need to show that not only can you read but that you understand as well. If I can get you to master spell paradigms for Professor McGonagall, then any other challenges you may have to face should be a piece of cake."

"Easy enough for you to say." He turned away from her then and began stuffing books and scrolls into his bag.

"Gregory," she said. When he didn't respond she reached out to rest her hand over his. He flinched as though she'd just hexed him, but she didn't let go. "Gregory, look at me." He refused to comply, but she could tell by his awkwardly frozen posture that she had his attention.

"Don't give up so easily," she said softly, as though he were a wounded animal she'd stumbled across. "It won't be easy, but I know you can do this. Think about how much progress you've made since we first started."

"S'pose so," he mumbled, still half-turned away from her.

She squeezed his hand. "You're not stupid. I don't care what anyone else says, because I know it's not true. Even Malfoy --"

The violence of his reaction terrified her. He yanked his hand away from hers and stood up so quickly his chair went flying across the room and smashed into the opposite wall. "Don't talk to me about him!" he yelled, his face dark with fury. "You don't know *anything* about him! You and Weasley and Potter sit there at the Gryffindor table and think you're so much better than him, but you're not!"

"Gregory, I --"

"Shut UP, Mudblood!" His fists pounded the table so hard her stack of books jumped.

Hermione refused to let his size or temper cow her after that. Marshalling her strength to keep her voice even she said, "Mudblood, is it? After all I've done for you this term, after the kindness I've shown you, you still can't get past the fact that I'm a Muggle-born? Fine. You can find someone else--someone pureblooded--to help you from now on."

She scooped her books into her arms and swept out of the room, heedless to his calling her name. She was so angry tears filled her eyes, obscuring her vision. Consequently she never saw the two people lying in wait just around the corner, or the wands they had drawn on her.

The last thing Hermione heard before the curses hit her was Goyle's anguished cry of, "Malfoy, NO!"

* * * * *

"Miss Granger?"

"Mmph."

"Miss Granger, I need you to wake up. Come now, child, sit up so I can give you this potion."

Hermione felt as though she'd been trampled by a herd of centaurs. The simple act of opening one eye to look at Madame Pomfrey's kind face took twice as much strength as she had at the moment. If it hadn't been for the matron's firm support beneath her head, she wouldn't have managed to lift it on her own.

"That's a good girl. Tilt your chin a bit so you can swallow."

Hermione coughed at the taste of burned licorice dribbling down her throat until she realized that coughing sent waves of pain crashing through her body. She slumped back to the pillow. "What happened?" she croaked. "Why am I here?"

Madame Pomfrey's features darkened. She corked the potion bottle and set it on the bedside table before finding a place to sit on the bed. She then took Hermione's wrist and checked her pulse. Apparently satisfied with the results, she lay Hermione's arm across her stomach. "You were attacked last night," she finally said.

"Attacked?" Hermione tried to rise, despite the stiff soreness in her limbs. "How? By who?"

"Easy, child, easy," Madame Pomfrey said, gently pushing Hermione back down. "You've taken a terrible thrashing."

"Was it --" Hermione moistened her dry lips. "-- the same as with the others...the other Muggle-borns?"

Madame Pomfrey nodded as she held a glass of water to Hermione's lips. "It looks to have been. The curse injuries follow the same pattern."

"D'you know who found me? Who brought me here?" Hermione struggled vainly to remember anything after she'd fled the classroom. She had a vague memory of shouting, but that was all.

"Gregory Goyle," the matron said, her eyes wide in apparent disbelief. "He was in a right state about it, too."

"Gregory?" Once again she tried to sit up, but Madame Pomfrey pressed her firmly back down. "Where did he find me? Did he see who attacked me?"

"I don't know, Miss Granger. He left before I had a chance to ask him anything. You'd have thought he had a Quintaped on his tail, the poor boy was so distraught."

Realizing she wasn't likely to get any useful information out of Madame Pomfrey, Hermione willed herself to relax and look around the empty infirmary. "Where are Ron and Harry? Why aren't they here?"

Madame Pomfrey smiled. "I reckon they're still asleep. It's only just morning. Professor McGonagall thought it would be best to wait until breakfast to inform them of what's happened. I expect they'll be beating at my door before long."

Before long came sooner than either of them expected. At that moment the doors to the infirmary flew open and in rushed Ron, Harry, Ginny and Neville, all of them demanding explanation at once. Luna wandered in behind them, her expression as dreamily vacant as usual. She showed no outward sign of the trauma she'd suffered earlier that term; whatever internal scars she bore Hermione doubted even Neville knew about.

Madame Pomfrey got up then and bustled over to them, her arms held up in an effort to both placate and silence them. "This is a medical ward, as you lot should very well know by now, having spent far too much time here as patients yourselves." Hermione tried to suppress a grin. "I am not about to let all of you barge in on Miss Granger in this fashion. Mr. Weasley, since you're the Gryffindor prefect, you may stay. The rest of you will have to wait until he rejoins you."

Both Harry and Ginny protested vehemently, but the matron was having none of it; she shooed them out of the infirmary along with Neville and Luna and shut the doors firmly in their faces before returning to her desk. In the meantime Ron had hastened over to Hermione's bedside and was now gazing down at her with a stricken expression.

"I'll be all right, Ron," Hermione said.

He dropped his school bag to the floor and took a seat on the adjoining bed. "Professor McGonagall said it was the same thing as what happened to the other Muggle-borns."

She nodded. "That's what Madame Pomfrey told me as well."

"How did you get here?" he asked. "Who found you?"

Hermione hesitated. She knew, sadly, that nothing she said would ever convince Ron that Goyle wasn't as bad as his reputation made him out to be. If she told Ron that Goyle had been her rescuer he'd immediately assume the worst, and neither high water nor wild horses would keep him from finding the other boy and challenging him to a duel--or a fistfight.

"I don't know," she finally said, cringing inwardly at the thought of lying to one of her best friends. "Madame Pomfrey said someone came in while her back was turned and left me on one of the beds. She never saw who brought me in."

Ron narrowed his eyes but didn't question her or press for more details. "What were you doing out of Gryffindor Tower after curfew anyway?" he asked instead. "You're one of the most prominent Muggle-borns at Hogwarts. Surely you didn't think you wouldn't be a target?"

"I knew there was some risk, but I thought I could handle it. I'm not helpless, you know."

"Maybe not, but obviously you thought wrong."

As Hermione reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose she realized the potion Madame Pomfrey had given her earlier seemed to be working; she no longer felt quite so exhausted or sore. "Ron, I'm really not of a mind to argue with you right now," she said with a sigh. "Can I at least rely on you to take good notes in class today?"

He gave her a crooked grin. "Good thing we don't have History of Magic."

Hermione made a moue of disapproval. "Ha, ha. You really should pay better attention --" she began.

"Right," Ron said, grabbing the strap of his school bag and standing. "I'd best go before Harry nicks all the bacon. You'd think it was going out of style, the way he eats." Hermione chose not to comment.

Ron slung his school bag over his shoulder and walked to the door. Just as he got there he turned and said, "It's a good thing someone found you when they did. It makes me sick to think what might've happened to you if Malfoy and his lot came across you first--if they're not the ones who did this to you in the first place." He gave her a serious look. "I'll catch you up later."

"Bye, Ron," Hermione said distantly. Her mind was a whirlwind. Without meaning to, Ron had triggered her subconscious, releasing her memories of those last seconds before she'd been knocked unconscious. She knew who'd attacked her and the other Muggle-borns.

More importantly, she knew that Goyle had known all along.