Hogwarts Reimagined

Anyway. Content warning for bullying, abuse of power by a teacher over their students, ableism both in manner and specific words, misgendering and thinly veiled transphobia, panic attack meltdown and trauma. I repeat: a SPECIFIC warning for panic attack, meltdown and response to trauma! I don't know how great my depiction of it is, but being autistic myself I did base it on my own experiences with flashbacks and panic attacks combining into a meltdown, so it may be quite vivid - I don't know, I tried. Reiterating that warning up there, again - please read with a friend or in a place where you're safe to go for help if you think this may hurt you in any way, PLEASE <3 I care about you!

This good cheer carried Harry through her evening studies into the next day, thankfully this time without the tumultuous beginning to it that her first had. Callie still insisted on accompanying her to class from inside her shirt or backpack, but as their first class that day was Herbology and Professor Sprout, the short, stocky woman with a ready smile and flyaway grey hair who taught the class, was adamant about no pets being allowed in the greenhouses. “I’m in two minds about having kids in here, let alone cats. She’ll survive.” she admonished Harry, who had to leave a complaining Calypso to stare at her pitifully through the greenhouse door.

Herbology was also shared with the Hufflepuffs, and Harry could see immediately why the greenhouses weren’t the best place for a cat – especially one too young for basic survival sensibilities like Callie. Magical plants didn’t stay put the way usual ones did, and while they didn’t handle any truly dangerous ones at their level, the amount of unusual toxins and defenses that the plants had... Harry didn’t like to think what could happen should her curious tortoiseshell shirt-warmer with any of them.

Herbology was certainly one way to gain a new respect for nature, and Harry enjoyed the fresh air start to the morning – although truly, she had to wonder who thought to call the slimy, ill-tempered pot of tentacles a Flitterbloom.

Following Herbology, they split from the Hufflepuffs to join a crowd of Slytherin first years for Defence Against the Dark Arts. This was taught by Professor Quirrell, the sickly-looking teacher Harry had noticed at the welcome feast. She sympathised with his obvious social anxiety, especially under pressure of snide comments from their Slytherin peers – among them the drawling blond who Harry had met twice before – but Harry had developed a headache by this time and struggled to concentrate on the material, especially as Professor Quirrell rarely maintained a coherent narrative to his stories and regularly changed topics in the middle of teaching them.

Release to lunch break was a relief, and Harry settled with Hermione and Emilia to try and piece together some sort of cohesive understanding from Defence, since the lesson hadn’t been any better for the Ravenclaws than it had for Harry and Hermione’s class.

Last for the day they had double period Potions. Harry was intrigued by the subject and already read a great deal of the set material, and the science of it appealed to her. But they’d been warned at breakfast that the Potions master, Professor Snape, tended towards favouritism in his class and since they’d be taking that class with the Slytherins also, it dampened Harry’s enthusiasm somewhat. But this was balanced by a bright spot – a note delivered to them at lunch delivered by a very disgruntled saw-whet owl, that when Harry unfurled it read out in a meandering script she recognised.

Dear Harry,

Just wanted to check how you’re settling in, so would you like to come have afternoon tea after class? I want to hear all about your first day.

Hope you’re making friends – you’re welcome to bring them too if you like.

Hagrid

Harry smiled, she could almost hear the big man’s low Cornish accent in the untidy scrawl. The little owl waited very politely, so Harry flipped the paper over and pulled a pen out of her pocket to scrawl a reply (yes, would love to, see you 3:30ish) back. Most teachers frowned on use of anything but a quill in class, but the dry scratching grated on Harry’s nerves and energy levels throughout the day so for regular study or otherwise outside class she usually had several pens on her person to use. The owl nibbled affectionately on Harry’s finger as she rolled the letter back up and returned it to the owl’s little leg pouch, and she giggled at the strange pinching sensation as she let the small bird go.

Both Harry and Hermione were in similar states of rising anxiety as they filed into the Potions class. It was held in the dungeons, and while the light here was certainly kinder on Harry’s receding headache, she did have to admit it was certainly pretty cliche that there was a dungeon at all, let alone that it was where they held this particular class.

Unlike their usual classes, there were scattered tables rather than rows of desks, and stools rather than benches or usual chairs – which Harry supposed made sense in terms of access to a cauldron.

The usual class chatter died as the Potions master entered the class a little behind them. Harry certainly couldn’t fault his dedication to the dark and dramatic aesthetic, and it silenced even the Slytherins. The tall man’s dark eyes roamed over the assembled class, his mouth souring as he took in the Gryffindors. He halted his search on Harry, and raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment.

“Well, what have we here! A veritable celebrity, I should have been warned so I could appropriately... prepare.” Professor Snape drawled, his thin lips curved into a mocking smile. “One so famed, she thinks she can bring a cat into a potions laboratory as if rules are for lesser mortals.” he taunted. Harry had forgotten about Callie who was curled up in her backpack, but Snape didn’t give her a chance to complain as he seized the cat and strode to the door. He tossed her out into the hallway, where she skidded and stared up at him wide-eyed before bounding away. A seed of intense dislike sprouted in Harry, and she bit back the flurry of anger that wanted to spill out at the professor’s treatment of her cat.

“Mister Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived... or I suppose it must be the Girl Who Lived, as rumour tells.” he continued, a lift of his eyebrow on the words telling Harry he knew exactly what she was trying to pull off, as he toyed with his power in that knowledge.

“You are here to learn the subtle science, the exact art, of the potioneer. Most of you are unteachable. You think with your... wands... first.

That will not serve you in this class. Nor will you coast on what minimal talent any of you may possess. Wands away. We will be preparing a simple potion to cure boils. The instructions are on the board, if you have foolishly seated yourself where you cannot see then I suggest you endeavour to move to somewhere you can. “

Professor Snape carried on in this fashion, though as he had not given any permission to begin the class watched him with a sort of bewildered horror, Harry most of all. There was something very ominous about the sneering way in which the professor commanded his class, at once fascinating and fear-mongering with his talk of brewing glory, bottling fame, stoppering death, the whole hyperbolic lot of it.

This impression was confirmed in the next few moments. “Potter!” Snape barked out, and she looked up from her note-taking with wide eyes behind dusty glasses.

“Since you are our class... star, perhaps you will have the answer to a brief theory question.” he drawled, with ever that emphasis on the jeering description of her social status. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Panicked, Harry cast around her brain for the answer – she’d read this, she knew she had. “W-well, it’s not the full potion method but those are the active ingredients in the Draught of Living Death, sir.” she answered finally, biting her lip. Snape, on the other hand, curled his. “Active ingredients indeed. Before later refinement, that single combination was the potion itself with no other documented method aside from personal variation. This potion, even in its’ older and less stable form, is so powerful that references to it remain in muggle literature to this day.” he sneered, and his tone was such that Harry really couldn’t tell if he considered it the correct answer or not. She made note of his commentary, snideness aside, for later information – if nothing else, it was fascinating how references to real magic still existed in fairytales.

“Very well, since you have a basic

knowledge of potions at least... where would I find a bezoar?” Snape asked. Harry fought the rising urge to respond with ‘an apothecary’, the professor’s manner grated on her nerves. “Stomach of a goat, if a fresh one is necessary. S-since it’s unlikely to find a goat at a moment’s notice, you’d be be-better to try the jar to your right.” she replied, her tone flat and tense with frustration. Random questions in class were one thing, but this teacher was targeting her specifically and she had no idea why.

Snape’s heavy brows drew together, and he took down the jar in question to set it upon the desk he stood beside. Opening it, he took out a dry, brown gnarled lump – a bezoar. “A point from Gryffindor for your cheek, Master Potter. It matters not whether you are correct if the manner in which you say it is so rude. But indeed, this is a bezoar. Antidote to most common poisons, and not an excuse to slack off in your studies of such.” he continued, with another glare as he warned the class – though as with every criticism, it felt as if his barbed criticisms were for Harry alone.

“Finally. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” he challenged. Hermione raised her hand to answer, but retracted it as if shot by his scowl, shrinking in her seat.

This one, Harry didn’t have to actually cast for – and she resented trick questions. Irritation spiking at her words, she resisted the urge to swear at the self-important professor. “They’re the same plant. Also called aconite. Small, purple, grows in graveyards, surrounded by a certain degree of superstition. As the name suggests, they’ve been central to methods of attempting to cure and control lycanthropy, most successfully in the form of the Wolfsbane Potion.” Harry snapped, her temper flaring again as she summarised what she’d taken from her study – werewolves as a subject interested her, as were one of the many groups marginalised by magical blood purism and supremacy both socially and legally.

At her answer, Snape smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. It was more a bitter grimace. “And this, class, is what I meant about not coasting on existing knowledge or talent. Knowing how to brew an antidote is all well and good, but you still haven’t actually done it. Textbook learning will get you only so far in this class.”

Harry sank in her seat, the tips of her ears turning red under her hair and frustrated tears stinging the corners of her eyes. The professor seemed to revel in her shame, and turned back to the rest of the class.
“And with that, you may begin.” He instructed, a tap of his pale wand filling the blackboard with the instructions and a gesture of his free hand sending the rest of the class to gather ingredients.

Harry found herself separated from Hermione, sharing her table instead with a Gryffindor boy, Neville. He was as shy as she, and spoke with a slight stutter in his heavy accent – Scottish for the most part but rounded on the edges, as if he couldn’t quite hear it. Maybe he couldn’t – Harry wasn’t unfamiliar with that feeling.

Unfortunately, Snape’s scathing criticism of her capabilities wasn’t entirely incorrect. For all she knew of the theory and context, she had no experience with the practical aspects of magic, and that extended to magical sciences too. She helped Neville as best she could with some simple mistakes, from what she gathered he was just too frightened by Snape’s name and shame teaching methods to concentrate properly. But between helping her classmate and her own work, she missed small steps, misdirected her stirring and other things that didn’t seem critical but added up to a potion that appeared nothing like the description on the board.

Snape passed, his lip curling as he took in the state of her sullenly violet potion as he drifted on to the Slytherin tables, praising Malfoy’s timing and steady hands in particular. He was so occupied with aggrandising his own students that it took a biting acid reek and Neville’s shriek of pain to alert him to any sort of struggling with his other students.

Neville, somehow, had managed to melt his cauldron and the resultant scalding mixture flowed freely across the table. Most of it spilled onto Neville, but Harry went stiff and hissed as some splashed down her leg. Preoccupied with the pain, she didn’t notice the source of it until Snape loomed over her and Neville, his vicious grin said I told you so in a way that hardly seemed to belong on an adult’s features.

“Idiot – no wonder your grandmother thought you were a squib. Anyone would know to add the porcupine quills after it was removed from the fire, given that it’s underlined twice.” he snapped at a quivering Neville, the frightened boy whimpered in pain as his burned skin erupted in boils. Professor Snape then turned the weight of his disgust on Harry. “And you, Boy Who Lived – did you think it would make you look better if he failed? I saw you talking to him, making him think you were helping. Ten points from Gryffindor. Get to the hospital wing, the both of you.” he snarled. Harry’s hands trembled as she swept what she could of her supplies back into her kit, she locked eyes with Hermione who nodded, and breathed a little easier – Hermione would clean up the rest.

Her own leg began to sprout horrific boils and she winced as she stood. Poor Neville whimpered at even a slight touch, as she slung his arm over her narrow shoulders and helped him limp out of the classroom.

By this point, Harry was driven mostly by bitter stubbornness. Hermione called it the mum friend override – she could work through her own panic attacks and meltdowns to support someone else’s. Neville sobbed, tears stinging his burnt face as they hobbled up blessedly immobile stairs towards the ground floor, Harry had passed the hospital wing during the previous day’s lunchtime with Hermione as they roamed the castle to better familiarise themselves with the layout. He mumbled some repetitive phrase Harry couldn’t quite make out, and tears stung her own eyes at the unfairness of it all – a better teacher should have kept an eye on a struggling student. She felt guilty she’d missed the crucial mistake in Neville’s potion, even though rationally knew she’d been busy with her own work it didn’t make her feel any better when it felt like she was being swamped with Neville’s pain and blind upset.

Thankfully, they both made it to the hospital wing albeit with many rest stops. Both had blood, pus and other general filth all over their robes at this point, and Harry’s mouth tasted of copper as she’d begun biting her cheek at some point. A horrified woman in her fifties separated the two and settled each beside a bed. Harry settled on to hers to wait, as Neville was obviously the more urgent case, and took out one of her history books to continue reading while she waited.

Eventually, the nurse had Neville improving to a point where she was able to hand him to an assistant who gently led the boy away to what looked like bathroom cubicles, Harry assumed to help him shower. Her leg throbbed, and she was immensely glad when the nurse came to see to her. “I’m Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse. I’ll clean you up and then you can change into fresh robes,” - the short woman somehow had a stack of clean clothes, Harry’s own clean clothes, and Harry just figured it was better not to question. “And then, before you head out, if you’d fill me in on what happened, please.” she added, kneeling to inspect Harry’s swollen leg. She fought the urge to flinch away from the touch, as Madam Pomfrey removed the shoe on that leg and gently stripped off the ruined woollen sock. She went to push Harry’s skirt up to better access the injury, Harry almost slapped her as she grabbed at the bottom of the skirt and pulled it down again.

Madam Pomfrey sighed and nodded, and a wave of her wand had the curtains slide closed around the bed. Another enveloped them in a transparent bubble. “I assume you’re transgender.” she stated frankly, patting one of Harry’s trembling hands. Harry could only nod mutely, too shocked by the nurse’s bluntness to speak. Madam Pomfrey smiled sadly. “It’s alright, child. No one else can hear. I understand you’re frightened, and quite probably uncomfortable with your body but unfortunately you’ve got this all over your stomach, and right down from your thigh, and I need to get an antidote onto it. I promise I won’t tell anyone, and that I hold no judgment about it.”

Harry shivered, tears pricking at her eyes again. Somewhere a clock ticked, setting her mind to mimicking the sound. She tilted her head back and forth slightly in time with it. “Okay,” she muttered miserably. She hurt much more now that she could stop to notice it.

Having to undress for what was a relatively simple treatment was possibly the most uncomfortable experience she’d had so far at Hogwarts, and she squeezed her eyes closed for most of it, trying desperately to ignore even the relatively comforting sensation of antidote being spread – by wand, thankfully, not hand – onto her injury. Blessedly, it worked quickly, so Harry had to shiver in her underwear only for a few agonising minutes. Now she sat perched on the end of her bed, in a pair of jeans and a cuddly sweater she’d borrowed from Hermione and never returned, wearing a spare pair of pink socks with rainbows on them in her school shoes. Calypso had turned up in the hospital wing some time earlier, and settled on the bed beside Harry.

Madam Pomfrey sat on a bed across from Harry, the hospital wing now deserted aside from a sleeping Neville enclosed by curtains. “Now, what happened?” She asked, her kind face creased with concern. Harry pushed her palms into her eyes, it was too quiet to think and too bright. She took a few breaths before she could answer. “Potions. Cure for boils. Neville messed up because Professor Snape was talking about how great this other student was doing instead of checking he was doing alright. He didn’t notice until Neville’s cauldron melted. I was trying to help but I was doing my own work and I didn’t catch the mistake that made this a-a-and Professor Snape took house points because he blamed me and it’s my fault and I’m really sorry and please tell Neville I didn’t mean to hurt him, Snape said I did it on purpose and I didn’t I really didn’t I don’t want him to hate me-”

Harry was cut off as Madam Pomfrey moved across to sit on the bed beside her, and then pulled her into a gentle sideways hug. Harry liked Madam Pomfrey. She didn’t state what she was doing, but she intentionally telegraphed all her movements so that Harry wasn’t startled by the contact, and she seemed to know exactly how Harry needed communication to work.

From one of the pockets of her apron, Madam Pomfrey produced a clean handkerchief and handed it to Harry to dry her eyes with. She moved a little distance away, somehow intuiting how Harry found extended contact uncomfortable. “It’s not your fault, dear. I will write up the report, and how many points did he take?” she reassured Harry. As the girl held up her open hands, then another finger separately, she scowled and muttered something uncouth. “Have fifteen points for compassion towards your classmate. I’ll write up the report. You’re welcome to visit Neville tomorrow if you want to bring him to breakfast, and I’ll be sure to tell him you tried to help – not that I doubt he already knows it.”

Harry closed her eyes and sighed, relieved. She took a notebook from her bag and a pen, and set about writing on it – just a simple note for Neville, she guessed he’d be really disoriented when he woke up. “I-I’ll do that. Thankyou again. I’m sorry.” She stammered, her words all tangling together. Awkwardly, she thrust out the small folded page. “For when he wakes up. He’s probably going to be really stressed.” she explained. “And I’ll tell Ron to look after Neville’s frog – urk, toad. That. So he’s okay too. Thanks.”

Bouncing her hands off the sides of her thighs, Harry stood and headed for the door without waiting for further comment as she’d reached her quota of awkwardness. She envied her cat comfortably settled back in her backpack. Harry focused on her feet as they crossed lines of marble tile, and was so engrossed in not stepping

on a line that she collided directly with Hermione as her friend entered the hospital wing, clearly looking for her.

“Harry, you’re alright?” Hermione asked. Her hair was frazzled, one braid had lost its’ tie and looked a little chewed. Harry nodded, spreading her arms wide to indicate clean comfy clothes, no more injuries, all good. She grinned lopsidedly as she fell in step with Hermione, the two of them heading out of the castle and across the grounds. It was a little closer to 3:45 now than either would like, but they hoped Hagrid wouldn’t mind. “I’m ok. Gotta get up early tomorrow to check on Neville though so I might not see you at breakfast.” Harry explained briefly. Hermione shook her head. “I’ll come check on him too, it’s alright.” she offered, and Harry felt a surge of affection at her friend’s insight – she knew Harry wasn’t really comfortable with the idea of wandering the castle alone.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to Hagrid’s cabin, which was situated at the edge of a vast forest that seemed threatening even in the waning afternoon sun. The hut itself was small – for Hagrid’s stature at least – and sturdy, and an enormous crossbow leaned against the wall outside next to a pair of muddy gumboots. When Harry knocked timidly on the door, a chorus of barks started up inside and part of Hagrid’s face appeared as he opened the door. “Back, Fang! Back, ya wiggly bastard,” he swore, wrestling with what was obviously a dog behind the door. Harry tensed. In all the sick panic that had been her experience with the three-headed dog monster, she’d not had time to panic about specifically the dog – if anything, she’d been sorry for it.

But the same was not true here. Dizzy memories of Uncle Vernon and his sister’s dogs flashed across Harry’s tightly closed eyes, ten years worth of terrible visits blurring and overlapping with the sound of Hagrid’s dog as it struggled to get loose. Hermione shook Harry’s elbow, to no use, as Hagrid opened the door. The dog managed to pull itself free of its’ master’s grasp – it had slipped its’ collar, not that Harry could really see, and she stumbled blindly backwards as it barrelled towards her, tongue lolling and tail wagging excitedly. It leapt at her and Harry threw up her arms to protect her face, so the dog’s paws got her in the shoulders and she went down with a painful thud, rolling into a ball on the grass beneath the dog.

To Harry, it didn’t matter that this dog was licking and not biting her. At that point she might not have noticed the difference, as she quivered in a tightly curled ball on the dry autumn grass, a high-pitched keen of distress becoming louder until the dog stopped, confused and worried, before beginning to lick and nose at her in earnest, clearly worried she was in danger.

This all happened over only a few moments, and both Hermione and Hagrid lunged for the over-exuberant dog. Hermione managed to break through to it with a sharp enough voice that it couldn’t help but listen, while Hagrid knelt beside Harry. It had never been more apparent to him just how small she still was, sobbing and rocking on the torn grass. He tried to brush her hair from her face, but at her panicked cry he had quickly settled back. He looked to Hermione desperately for help. Hermione was hardly in great shape either, flapping persistently with her left hand and bouncing it against her thigh as she opened and closed her mouth wordlessly, trying to form a coherent idea. “Blanket. Heavy. For her.” she managed, her speech halting. She crumpled to the ground beside the now-dejected Fang, her arms around his neck and shoulders for comfort and her forehead pressed against his neck.

Hagrid some kind of heavy blanket, much like a woollen saddle pad for a horse but much larger, and spread it over Harry. The weight of it bore through her panic and she stilled, her cries quieting. Hermione breathed a deep sigh of relief, releasing her slightly too-tight grip on Fang to edge closer to Harry. Now her friend was calmer, she could brush her hair from her face and gently combed it with her fingers, braiding it messily – she knew Harry liked the feeling, and also found hair in her face distressing. “Hey. You’re safe. It’s just me and Hagrid.” she murmured. After a few more minutes of quiet murmurings, Harry sat up and leaned against Hermione’s shoulder, still hugging the blanket. It smelled of horse, which for some reason comforted them both despite the rough fibre of the blanket itself. Harry began to mumble something, probably along the lines of sorry and Hermione shook her head, gently squeezing her with the arm she had wrapped around her friend’s shoulders. “No sorry. You had a really bad panic, that’s not your fault.” Hermione murmured, “Do you wanna stand up? I think Hagrid’s pretty worried, and it’s starting to get cold.” she asked. Harry nodded numbly, and Hermione helped her stand. Hagrid took the heavy blanket from them and helped them both inside, where they shared an oversized armchair while Hagrid perched precariously on a dining chair that appeared to be on its’ last legs, so to speak.

“It’s a bit late for afternoon tea now but, well, I can get the tea hot again easy enough. You both look like you could use it.” Hagrid offered, and he stood to set a kettle on the fire. Harry still glanced fearfully at Fang every so often, but the initial panic had faded. Hagrid still saw, and he rested his shaggy head on one hand. “I’m so sorry, lass. If I’d had any idea I’d have shoved him out the back.”

Harry smiled weakly, and fiddled with the leg of her jeans as she was curled up beside Hermione, barely squished at all. She rolled the left leg of her jeans up, pushing her sock down and stuck it out to show Hagrid a collection of old scars littering her bony calf and shin, some so old they were white, others dull purple and angry against her skin She gestured vaguely at the rest of her body, then nodded to Fang who cowered in the corner. Hagrid shook his head, his brows drawing together. Anger was a rare look for the gentle man. “I figured something of the kind but nothing like... lass I’m so sorry. Are yeh alright with him in here now, or do you want me to put him out?”

Harry considered this, then shook her head, offering a weak smile – she didn’t want to put the dog out in the cold. He wasn’t exactly well-trained, but he didn’t mean to scare her. She reached out to grab a newspaper from the floor, and she and Hermione shared it as Hagrid fiddled with the tea. When he handed it over, she squeezed his hand gratefully, and the three of them sat in silence for a while as they drank their tea. Something about the paper jumped out at both of the girls, the page it had been open to. Circled in messy orange highlighter as if the reader had struggled to concentrate without it, the article read:

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the now-confirmed break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, now widely believed to be the work of Dark magicians unknown.

Gringotts’ goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied that same day.

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,’ said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

Below the article, which both girls already prickled at the unflattering light it painted the bank’s employees in, was a cartoon image of a goblin holding closed a pair of towering doors, clearly intended to represent Gringotts. Seemed wizards didn’t like being told no and none of your business.

The article prodded at a memory, a recent one. A vault that had been emptied that same day... Hagrid had emptied vault seven hundred and thirteen, if removing a single grubby package counted as such. Harry opened her mouth to say such and choked on the stuck words, her throat clogged. She coughed, spilling a little tea on the paper as she did so, and tried again in a tremulous voice. “Hagrid?” she asked, holding up the paper awkwardly, gesturing to the highlit section. “That’s the same day as we were there, and that package and all.”

Hagrid’s usually open face went flat, a wall went down behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed non-committally. Harry leaned forward, anticipating, but nothing was forthcoming. “Does that happen much?” she asked, trying to prompt a response out of Hagrid. “Nah. Never before – at least, never without bein’ caught. Guess it makes sense that... Ah, nevermind. Safest place in the world for anything, Hogwarts.” he finished off, not meeting their eyes.

Harry decided it was safest to drop that topic, though it niggled in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to upset Hagrid. “It’s getting dark. We probably have to head back... I’m sorry I ruined our tea,” she apologised. Both Hagrid and Hermione shook their heads, and she smiled wryly, shooting Fang another nervous glance as she pried herself out of the chair. The great black mastiff whined, peering up at Harry with his pitiful droopy eyes. “We can try again some other time, now I know you’ve got this great mutt yeah? And maybe I’ll work up to petting him sometime. His ears look really soft and good.” she offered by way of goodbye, setting the newspaper back on the chair as Hermione pushed herself off it also. It really was getting dark outside, sometime after six now, and Harry worried they’d be in trouble as she and Hermione set off across the grounds back to the castle, with Hagrid’s promises of a do-over leaving them feeling warm and safe even in the growing dark, hands held tight to ward against fears of monsters in the shadows on their way.

This warm feeling dissipated as the girls were confronted at the main doors of the castle by a stooping, grey-haired man leaning on a heavy staff, from the curving top of which hung a lantern. This had to be the caretaker, and seeing his walking staff certainly made sense of the peculiar sound of his gait they’d heard in the deserted hallway. Faced with him now, Harry received mostly an impression of malign glee. “Students, out at night!” he exclaimed, shifting his grip on the staff. “Can’t have that, Mrs Norris. It’s detention for you lot, and don’t you forget it!”

Worried now, Harry and Hermione were herded on inside to join the tail end of dinner. They weren’t up for eating a great deal in either case, with the tiring events of the day wearing at them and now the threat of detention hanging over their heads, setting both of them to worrying right until they both fell asleep.