Sorting Error

Chapter 4

Forget Me Not

"Aconite," Percy told the gargoyle in front of him. It slouched aside from the door. Percy smiled at it anyway and rushed inside. The stairs moved particularly slowly today; Percy caught himself tapping his wand against his arm. There was something so pleasant about expecting a check. It was like a little prize, a monthly testament to one's abilities. And Percy had worked hard this past month; he had been slaving even before the students arrived. He knew he would deserve every penny.

Percy remembered the headmaster's office as a place of hums, clinks, twitters and whirrs. It had never been well-lit, exactly, but there had been flashes of brightness, from a feather, perhaps, or a miniature French horn. Now the room was dark and still. Even the rows of portraits were quiet-- no whispers or snores escaped them. The furniture was draped in green and black, and the only light came from a yellow lamp set above Snape's desk. Snape sat there, almost motionless. His left hand held his parchment flat; the quill hovered in his right.

For a moment Snape's face reminded Percy of his mother. He had seen that wrinkle at the corner of her eyes so many times, as she set a new winter cloak against robes for the twins, coal against marmalade. Percy wondered if the Head had noticed him at all. He coughed slightly.

Snape jerked his head up, obviously startled. "Ah, Mr. Weasley. I suppose you are looking for remuneration?" He made a commanding gesture in the air with his quill. Nothing happened. Snape's nostrils flared slightly, his wand fell from his sleeve into his hand, and he gestured again. An envelope appeared before Percy, hovering on black wings, like a bat's.

Percy took the envelope and slipped it into his own robes. He took a step toward Snape's desk, to say goodbye, and noticed that the headmaster was still gazing into space, commandingly, as if he was waiting for another envelope. "Are you all right?" Percy asked cautiously.

Snape stared him full in the face. Percy wondered how he could feel so short, when he was standing and Snape was sitting down. "Do you really want to know?" the headmaster asked.

"Yes!" Percy said quickly, straightening his spine.

"Well . . . How would you feel about teaching a few lessons of History of Magic?"

"I could do that, sir," Percy said, trying to suppress the squiggly feeling at the back of his throat. He was already exhausted long before the last period of each day, and the thought of facing those fifty squirming children for more than an hour on end . . . He didn't know if he could bear it. But of course he would, if asked. The extra lessons were an opportunity, a demonstration that the Headmaster trusted him.

"That's rhetorical, Mr. Weasley," Snape said abruptly. "You needn't go so white."

" . . . Sir?"

"As you have no doubt determined, given your brilliant intellect, Professor Binns is in need of a vacation. Has, in fact, collapsed due to a nervous breakdown and is demanding transportation to Saint Ina's Home for Invalid Ghosts in New South Wales."

"Couldn't we hire someone new?" It was surely disloyal, but Percy felt that the quality of instruction at Hogwarts might be improved by a new and enthusiastic History of Magic professor.

"We can't afford to add the position."

"But surely Binns was-- " Percy said in confusion.

"Surely Binns wasn't! I should think a Ministry lickspittle like you would know better than that. It is entirely illegal for ghosts to own property. It always has been. Otherwise half the manors in England would belong to phantoms, and the heirs would be trailing about in the street."

"Do you mean he was working for free, sir?"

"We kept up his office, maintained the subscription to Awfully Obscure Historical Happenings, and so forth . . . But no. We weren't paying him. How long does it take for facts to percolate to your brain, Weasley?"

Percy noticed, inconsequentially, that Snape had addressed him without a title. Was that scorn, or a familiar attitude? He hoped it was the latter.

"At any rate," Snape continued, "Binns can't stay, none of us can pick up his lessons, we can't leave the poor snivelling children to take their exams without assistance . . . There's only one solution."

Percy waited with bated breath.

"We'll have to go before the Board."

"And?"

"And ask them for more money, you dolt!"

"But why ask the Board, sir?"

"Because that's what it's for! I suppose in your Gryffindor-induced somnolence you imagined Lucius Malfoy had done nothing more for Hogwarts than to purchase a set of exorbitantly priced broomsticks. Even Dumbledore had to tolerate him, Dumbledore who could insult the Ministry, ignore the parents, run Hogwarts as his own perfectly medieval little fief . . . We don't have peasants any more, Weasley." Snape shot a black look at an empty portrait. It might have been resentment, or grief, or simply his habitual expression.

Percy sat for a moment with his mouth half open, then snapped it shut as he realized what he was doing. He felt as if he had been hit over the head with a gently padded brick-- but that sentiment soon faded, to be replaced by a bright inner glow. Illumination, Percy thought. Epiphany. Hogwarts, his second home, his second family almost-- Hogwarts, which had given him a chance to rise-- Hogwarts was poor. Was reduced to dressing in its threadworn best and asking for money. But Hogwarts had not abandoned him. It still respected his opinion, was flexible enough to change . . . And the Headmaster had trusted him, had (probably) told him first. Percy felt the glow inside him ignite. He could save Hogwarts! They would rise from poverty toward their rightful place, together.

Snape was staring at him. Percy hoped he wasn't blushing.

"I suppose," Snape said slowly, "Ministry lackey that you are, you may know something about begging. Would you care to join this expedition?"

Percy did blush, then. It felt like acid, or being born. This was a backhanded, backwards offer, but-- he would meet the Board! He could speak for Hogwarts, directly! The Board would recognize him, know him, admire his zeal. Percy could not imagine a brighter opportunity.

And he would stand beside the Headmaster. He looked at Snape as if for the first time, wondering what the Board would see. The long nose, the brilliant eyes-- Snape had classic features, noble ones. Anyone would trust that face with power.

His robes, though . . . Even in this light Percy could see that Snape's robes were stained, splashed here and there with the results of particularly exuberant experiments. And his hair. Snape's hair shone beneath the lamp with years and years of accumulated grease. Something would have to be done.

"Headmaster Snape," Percy asked, "Have you considered, for the Board . . . washing your hair?"

Snape threw his quill down. Droplets of ink splashed as high as the lamp. The headmaster's face was spattered with darkness, and his eyes were like pits. Percy watched him advance. It was strange to be looking up at someone, he thought uneasily.

"I am, as far as anyone can determine in so deliberately obscured a field, Britain's greatest master of Occlumency. Perhaps the best in all of Europe," Snape said finally, breathing heavily. "Do you have any understanding of what that means, Mr. Weasley?"

"I've always known you were very wise, sir."

"The details, damn it! Do you even know what Occlumency is?"

"The study of methods and techniques for protecting one's mind from hostile influence," Percy recited. Except for the headmaster's glare, this was just like the NEWTs-- he was even slightly less nervous. Probably less nervous.

"And the tools of Occlumency? Tell me!"

Tools? That hadn't been on the NEWTs! Percy felt himself grow cold. Improvisation had never been his strong point. "Well, your mind," he stammered, playing for time, "and a wand of course, and . . ." He cast his gaze about the room, praying for inspiration, and noticed some sort of bowl in a dark corner. "And a cauldron, or . . . A Pensieve?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, a Pensieve. I assume you have never used one?"

"No, sir."

"Then we will educate you. Immediately." Snape set his hand on Percy's shoulder and pushed him toward the bowl in the corner. It really was a Pensieve, set on a low green stand. The wide bowl was filled with strands of silvery liquid. They looked like combed snow, Percy thought, or even hair.

"Now. Take out your wand--" Percy obeyed helplessly-- "and think of a memory you would like to lose."

"Sir?"

"A memory! You are going to place a memory in the Pensieve. As a demonstration, since you are embarrassingly uninformed. And I am not planning to return it. What do you want to forget, Mr. Weasley?"

Forget? Percy thought. There were so many things he would prefer to forget. Immediately, though, one memory began pushing into his mind. Fudge had come into his office; the Minister of Magic himself had visited Percy, and he had rushed to his feet, feeling hot and cold at once, nearly bursting with excitement-- and then-- and then the smile that had made Percy first warm and then cold with fear. He was shaking before he really understood he was to be let go. To leave the Ministry.

Snape gripped Percy's right hand, pushing his wand inexorably toward his forehead. Percy watched his memory twist around the wand and slide in silver-gray curls down to the basin, where it disappeared among the other thoughts. It was gone. As easily as that.

Snape dropped Percy's wrist, and stepped back a pace. Percy put his wand away, and ran his hand through his hair self-consciously. Was it his imagination, or was his hair just a little bit slick?

"Do you understand?" Snape demanded. "I do not need to wash my hair. The silver is a sign of mastery."

Percy nodded and fled the headmaster's office. A few hours later, on his fourth cup of tea, he began to wonder what Snape would see in the memory he had left behind. By that time Percy was not even sure what it had been. He rubbed his finger around the top of the cup, trying to decide whether it was worse not knowing, or remembering.

***

Hermione straightened the papers in front of her and glared first at George, who was sitting on the left side of her desk, and then at Fred, who was sitting on the right. They had been having the same argument for at least an hour, with no result. They all agreed someone had to break into Binns' office; he clearly knew something about the Hat's odd behavior, and with Snape in charge of the school, there was no other way to find out what it was. Fred and George knew exactly where the office was. They'd admitted as much forty-five minutes ago, with matching lopsided grins: "Useful, isn't it?" and "It's a bit of an accomplishment, getting detention from a ghost, you know." Clearly, Fred and George had to apparate inside; they thought between them they might be able to carry Hermione, as well, since she had the expertise in history. But the three of them couldn't do everything; somebody had to make sure that Snape or Filch didn't interrupt their mission.

"There's a smart lad in with the first-years," said Fred. "Used to come into the shop all the time."

Hermione was doing her very best not to shout. "Why do you want some eleven-year-old Hufflepuff when you could have Harry and Ron?"

"We're spying," George said.

"We want a surgical operation," said Fred. "Not Ron and Harry being heroic."

"They don't even know we're here yet," George added.

"But that's stupid, anyway! If you hide things from Harry, he just goes off and acts like an idiot!"

"You mean he isn't acting like one already?"

They had a point. That was the problem with this argument; the twins kept being right. Harry and Ron had been sulking at each other for weeks now. On the other hand, a raid on Binns' office seemed like exactly the sort of project to make them be reasonable again.

"Look," Hermione said. "Just let me ask them, all right? They're my best friends."

"You can't just-- " Fred began.

George stared steadily at his brother for a moment, then turned to Hermione. "So . . . If we allow you to blow our cover, what will you do for us?"

"You could start with blowing--" Fred snickered.

Hermione did her best to stare him down, in turn. She wasn't very good at it; the corners of her mouth kept twitching unexpectedly, and the longer she stared at the three freckles at the corner of his eye, the more reasonable Fred's proposition sounded . . .

***

Harry took a spoonful of his breakfast, and realized it was frog-flavored porridge. He had eaten half the bowl without noticing. Even life with the Dursleys had never been that terrible. But Ron was just across the table from him, and he could feel the fact that they weren't talking weighing on his brain. Like a lead pillow, Harry thought. It could be a Transfiguration project.

Hermione seemed to be drawing runes in her porridge. "Harry, Ron," she said, "Can I talk to you after breakfast?"

Harry's kept his gaze fixed on Hermione's spoon. "Um, I have this essay I'm supposed to be working on for Divination . . ."

"Yes," Ron said hastily, "It's been an awful lot of work lately."

Ron didn't want to talk to him either, Harry thought. They weren't friends any more. Why couldn't Hermione let them alone? Why was she looking at them like that?

"It'll only be a couple of minutes," Hermione said. "I need your help, right? Meet you in the library?"

The morning owls entered the hall with a great whooshing sound. Harry took a deep breath, grateful for the distraction. Maybe Hermione wouldn't ask again. Maybe he would even have a letter. Not that anybody wrote him letters-- nobody had ever cared that much, except for Sirius, and he was dead-- but there was always a chance, right? At the moment even a newspaper sounded marvelous.

All the mail went to Hermione, though. She had the usual pile of papers, a pamphlet on careers in the Ministry of Magic, and a thick red envelope coated with stamps, which she cut open with her butter knife and began reading.

"Who's that from?" Ron asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Oh, just Viktor," said Hermione.

Harry could see Ron swallow. He looked wildly around the hall, obviously expecting a second letter for himself, but by now all the owls had vanished. "I guess . . ." Ron said. "Tell him the Quidditch practice really helped, OK?"

Hermione nodded absent-mindedly and went on reading. Ron stared at her letter, as if he wanted to grab it and eat it. Harry stared at Ron until he noticed what he was doing, stared balefully at his porridge for a while, then gave up and watched Hermione read her letter. He was sure nobody had ever been so interested in one of his letters. What was so wonderful about Viktor anyway? He wasn't even good-looking.

Suddenly Hermione threw the letter onto the table. "I don't believe it!"

"What?" Ron demanded.

"Viktor just asked me to marry him."

Ron choked on a mouthful of toast, and ended up spitting it onto the table.

"It's completely irrational," Hermione continued. "He must be under some sort of pressure, from his parents, maybe his manager. I mean, he's talking about not interrupting my studies, of all things."

Ron gasped and sneezed. "You can't marry him!"

"But I'm not going to marry him! Why would I?"

"Because he's almost as smart as you! And massively talented! And strong, and . . . He was Seeker for the World Cup, Hermione!"

"So . . . I should marry him for his Quidditch position?"

"No! You shouldn't marry him at all. You always get everything, it isn't fair, just because you're such a goddamn swot . . ." Ron bit his lip, struggling for words.

Hermione dropped the letter in her porridge. "I'm . . . not . . . going . . . to . . . marry . . . Viktor."

"Yes you are!"

"Ron. Listen! I can't marry him. I'm with Fred and George."

"You're what?"

"Seeing Fred and George," Hermione said, blushing.

"No! You can't! . . . What? You can't do that either! Why do I never . . . You all . . . That's impossible!" Ron stumbled to a stop.

Harry stared at Ron. He seemed tiny, suddenly, with the whole of the Great Hall looking at him. There were fine drops of sweat on his face, and he kept pushing at his teeth with his tongue.

Ron was right, Harry realized. It was all impossible. He couldn't bear seeing Ron like this, so vulnerable, so angry. He would leave, he would run up to the Owlery and sit with Hedwig, fuck lessons, fuck Hermione's library meeting, fuck Ron!