Harry Potter and the Maze of Anomy

Chapter Eleven: Slowly Going the Way of the Buffalo

(A/N: I’d like to dedicate this chapter to the letter ‘F’ and the number ’13.’)

Harry didn’t even bother to ask how Hermione knew the password to Albus Dumbledore’s private office; he was very afraid of what she might do to him if she thought he was attempting to take any attention away from himself. Instead, he gestured to Ron to remain silent as she led them into his private chamber with a fierce determination.

“Professor Dumbledore, we need to speak with you, immediately.”

“Well, if it’s as important as it looks, Miss Granger,” the aged wizard said, looking slightly surprised as Hermione barged into the room and walked swiftly towards the large oak desk where he was seated. “You have my full attention.”

“Harry has something he needs to tell you, Professor,” Hermione said boldly, turning to face the raven-haired boy who was still cowering in the doorway along with Ron.

“He does?” 

“I do?”

The two boys responded together, wearing equally baffled looks.

“Of course you do!” Hermione said with irritation as she walked back to the entranceway, grabbed Harry by the arm, and dragged him towards the twinkling eyes of their Headmaster. She stopped before the desk, loosened her grip, and stared at him expectantly. Professor Dumbledore placed the large feather quill he had been using down on the surface of the desk gently, and leaned forward resting his chin on his hands. Ron coughed in the background, and Harry looked between Hermione and Professor Dumbledore, not really sure what he was supposed to say.

“Err….”

Well, if the look on Hermione’s face was anything to go by, that definitely wasn’t what he was supposed to say.

“What did you say to me yesterday, Harry?” she asked impatiently, and then, when he continued to stare at her with glazed eyes, added, “In the Room of Requirement?”

“Err… I’m a daft fool, and I’m sorry?”

Nope, that wasn’t it, either.

With a heavy, disappointed sigh, Hermione turned to face the Headmaster.

“Harry said he feels like someone’s controlling him, Professor. He said it feels like someone’s making him not care about anything.” As she said this, the silver-maned Headmaster dropped his hands to the desk slowly, and leaned back in his chair.

“Is that true, Harry?” he asked calmly.

“Yes, sir.” Harry replied solemnly.

“It’s Voldemort, Professor.” Hermione cut in. “I know it is.”

“Do you, Miss Granger?” Professor Dumbledore asked amusedly, eyeing the bushy-haired girl as if she were a toddler who’d just used the potty on her own for the first time. “And tell me, what else do you know?”

Hermione drew a breath before continuing. “I know he’s behind those disappearances, and I know that each one of them was a failed attempt to get Harry.” At this, Harry’s head turned towards her, and Ron walked forward, joining the other two in front of the large desk. Professor Dumbledore sat back on his chair and watched Hermione for several moments.

“I’m interested, Miss Granger,” he said slowly, “as to why you feel this way.”

“It’s all pretty simple, really,” Hermione said pointedly. “Don’t you think it’s a bit coincidental that Harry’s two bunkmates were the ones who went missing? Out of all the people at that camp, those two?

“And then, there’s Colin. Why is it that a boy who follows Harry around incessantly was the one to go missing? Why not someone else? And Madame Rosmerta. There’s nothing coincidental about the fact that she disappeared around the same time that Harry was at the Three Broomsticks. You pair that up with the fact that something or someone is throwing Harry off guard, and you’ll have only one conclusion: Vol-“

“-demort.” Harry finished for her, dropping his head. “Why didn’t I see it before? This whole time I’ve been so terrible to you- thinking I was right the whole time.” He really had been a daft fool.

“Well,” Professor Dumbledore said after some time. “I can see why Voldemort would be eager to push you away from Miss Granger, Harry. She seems to be your voice of reason, after all.”

“I realize that now, Professor,” Harry replied, staring Hermione in the eye – desperately attempting to express his gratitude with a single look. She blushed, and Ron made an odd gurgling noise in the background. Hermione turned her attention back to the older man before them.

“I think Harry should resume Occlumency lessons immediately, Professor.”

“I agree with you, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. “Though that shouldn’t come as a surprise. I will alert Professor Snape that he will begin teaching you again,” he turned to Harry, “effective immediately.”

Harry’s face fell. “But Professor! Why him? Can’t someone else teach me?” he pleaded. “Can’t you?”

“I’m afraid, Harry,” Dumbledore said, folding his hands together and leaning back into his chair, “that there is no one better suited to teach you Occlumency than Professor Snape, myself included.”

-  -  -

Ron was particularly quiet over dinner that night, which Harry never would have noticed if Luna Lovegood (now a regular at the Gryffindor table) hadn’t continued to point it out.

“For the tenth time, there’s nothing wrong with me!” Ron nearly shouted as Luna continued to prod him. He stabbed at his pork chops (that had remained untouched, even after twenty minutes, making Harry begin to believe that Luna might be right) and Luna sighed heavily.

“Don’t take him too seriously,” Ginny offered from her seat beside Luna. “Ron gets his knickers in a bunch over the stupidest things these days.”

Ron slammed his fork down harshly and glared at his younger sibling. “What kind of a thing is that to say?” he growled. “And who are you to judge what I do with MY knickers, anyway?”

“What’s all this about knickers?” came a new voice from behind. Hermione took a seat next to Harry and raised an eyebrow as she surveyed Ron, who now had his fork outstretched threateningly at Ginny, a battered pork chop dangling loosely from its prongs. Ron made a gurgling noise in response, dropped the violated slab of meat back on his plate, and stood up.

“N-nothing,” he stammered. “I- I have to go. H-homework.” And then he picked up his battered dinner, and left.

“What was that all about?” Luna asked as she watched Ron’s retreating form.

“I don’t know,” Hermione replied, watching him as well. “But if Ron’s eager to do homework, something is definitely troubling him.”

-  -  -

“I still don’t see why this is necessary.”

“Because it may one day save your life.”

“I don’t see how something like this is going to save my life, sir.”

“Just do it, Mr. Malfoy.”

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a sight to be seen, indeed. After practicing on various inanimate objects for several weeks, Kingsley Shacklebolt had finally graduated the class to practicing Carpe Rectracto on moving targets; namely, on each other.

The first two students Kingsley selected to attempt the connection couldn’t be worse for each other. Harry had a hard time wondering what was going through the Professor’s mind when he’d made the selection. Was he mad? Did he think anything good would come of it? Certainly not. Besides, the last few confrontations they’d had with each other didn’t exactly went well, and this certainly wouldn’t be any better. If only he could get out of- 

“This is ridiculous,” Draco growled, breaking through Harry’s thoughts, as he stared defiantly at Kingsley. “When am I ever going to need help from him, anyway?”

“Don’t make me ask you again,” Kingsley said with some finality. Draco sneered.

Kingsley sighed.

Ronald Bilius Weasley looked absolutely put-off.

Draco tied a blue handkerchief around his eyes and pulled out his wand. Pointing it at Ron’s general direction, he said the incantation, “Carpe Retracto.” Almost instantly, a white-hot jet of light shot out from the tip of Draco’s wand and connected with Ron’s chest. Ron stepped back, at first, with a dazed sort of look on his face and Harry found himself jumping forward. However, a strong arm blocked his path.

“Now, now, Mr. Potter,” said Kingsley. “No need to play hero today.”

“But sir, he’s hurting him!” Harry shouted angrily, doing his best to push past the taller man’s grip.

“Just watch,” Kingsley replied. Harry watched with narrowed eyes as the blindfolded Draco followed a silver line across the room to where Ron was standing, enveloped in light. Slowly he walked, until he was inches away from Ron; Ron held out a hand to stop him. Draco took off the blindfold and slapped his hand away.

“Don’t touch me, you Mudblood-loving filth-”

“That’s quite enough, Mr. Malfoy,” Kingsley interrupted. “Mr. Potter, you’re next.”

“What?” Draco and Harry asked in unison.

“You want me to work with Scarhead?”

“You want me to work with that ferret?” 

“Absolutely not!” Draco shouted defiantly. “It’s one thing having to put up with this Mudblood-loving filth touching me… you’re not making me touch Scarhead! No bloody way!” Kingsley Shacklebolt stood straight up at this, towering over Draco, whose lip began to twitch in quite an amusing way.

“Mr. Malfoy, I will be taking fifty points from Slytherin for your use of inappropriate language, and if you don’t settle down I’ll make it a clean hundred.”

“But that’s not fair!” Draco retorted angrily. Kingsley eyed him defiantly, and took the handkerchief from him. Walking back towards Harry, he held it out.

“As I am the instructor in this classroom, and you, Mr. Malfoy, are not, I believe I’ll determine what is fair and what isn’t. Harry, if you please…”

Harry wasn’t quite sure, but as he moved forward and tied the blue handkerchief over his eyes he thought he heard someone murmur, “stupid Scarhead” under his breath.

No, this wasn’t going to be much fun at all.

“All right, Harry,” he heard Kingsley say. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Harry raised his wand and pictured Draco’s sneering face in front of him as he clearly said, “Carpe Retracto.” Instantly, he felt a warm sensation in his hand and then, just as suddenly, the most amazing thing happened; he could see Draco clearly through the dark fabric tied about his eyes. It wasn’t Draco exactly, though; it was what he expected Draco’s shadow would look like if it were made of pure light and attached to a shimmering silver string. Harry walked forward timidly, afraid of walking into a desk or other objects as he moved. He was halfway to the illuminated Draco silhouette when it shifted suddenly, and started moving further across the room.

“Mr. Malfoy,” he heard Kingsley shout amidst a new wave of muffled laughter and annoyed huffs. “Stay where you are!” Harry continued to follow the silhouette, which continued to move despite the continued warnings of the professor to stop now or lose more than just house points.

Slightly enraged by Draco’s treachery, and fueled by the need to show the fair-haired Slytherin up, Harry started moving faster. His brow began to sweat as he concentrated on maintaining the connection between them, and the fear of bumping his knees was swallowed by the desire to catch the two-faced ferret swiftly. After a moment, Kingsley even stopped calling for Draco to stop, and he could hear the voices of the other students in the room cheering him on. The white shadow moved even quicker before him, and Harry picked up his pace to a run. He heard a loud “Ohh!” from several people in the room as his leg connected with something solid and pain registered to his brain. For a moment, the silver string before him began to flicker and Harry concentrated hard to regain his control over the spell. The color of the string began to intensify, and Draco’s form began to focus slightly. He almost thought he could make out a scowl on the white shadow before him, but chalked it up to memory and dove forward.

He had something in his grasp; it was some sort of heavy cloth. Looking up, a white face shouted, “Get off me, Scarhead!” and pushed at him furiously. Someone hoisted him up from behind and removed the blindfold. Harry turned around to find Kingsley Shacklebolt staring back at him with an amazed look on his face.

“That’s some of the best spell work I’ve ever seen, Mr. Potter,” he said proudly.

“T-thanks, sir,” Harry replied, smiling feebly as he dusted himself off. Kingsley turned back to Draco with a bemused expression.

“You’ve made me curious, Mr. Malfoy, to see if anyone else can catch you. I think we’ll use you for one more demonstration.” Kingsley turned to the opposite end of the room, where a mass of students awaited, and pointed his long, slender finger.

“Miss Granger…”

“WHAT?” the white haired Slytherin shouted hoarsely, his face full of shock and outrage. “No. No, no, no. There’s no way I’m working with that know-it-all Mudblood!”

“Don’t call her that!” Harry shouted, taking a bold step in Draco’s direction.

“Oh, but it’s all right for you, is it?” Draco replied sardonically. Harry stopped in his tracks and stole a glance at Hermione, who was watching him with an expression on her face he couldn’t read.

“That –that’s none of your business!” he stuttered, turning his attention back towards Draco.

“Made up then, eh, Scarhead?” Draco replied, a nasty grin spreading across his face. “Well, she’s not much to look at, but I suppose a bloke like you’ll jump on any opportunity for a shag.”

Thus, the backside of Harry Potter’s balled up fist was re-introduced to the long nose on Draco Malfoy’s sneering face.

With very, very impressive force.

-  -  -

Somehow, Harry walked away from his latest Malfoy confrontation with nothing more than the low, low punishment of a month’s detention doing lines with his Head of House. Professor McGonagall, looking not at all like she wanted to cut him a break, but more like she wanted to see her house win another Quidditch cup, had allowed him to skive off some of his detentions for practice time. He was, however, expected to return to her classroom as soon as practice finished, and would continue to do so until she said otherwise.

And that was why it was with the patience of the most patient sixteen-year-old on the planet, he  decided, that Harry Potter did NOT shout at Hermione Granger for marching onto the Quidditch pitch unannounced halfway through practice to declare that it was officially over for the day.

“I hope you’re proud of yourself!” Ron shouted with all the tact, Harry decided, of the least patient sixteen-year-old on the planet, as the two scarlet-robed boys flew down to meet her. “I happened to be on a streak!”

“Well, I’m sorry there are more pressing events in the world than your darling practice, Ronald,” Hermione replied, in a voice that made Harry very happy that he happened to be the most patient sixteen-year-old on the planet. “Now, if you’re quite finished being a royal prat,” she continued, gaining a ruffled look from the red head, “I need to talk to you both.”

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Harry asked, taking a step closer, broom in hand. He fought the urge to join Ron in his incessant scowling, and instead forced a look of concern.

“Hagrid’s missing.”

The forced look of concern changed to full out disquietude.

“What do you mean, Hagrid’s missing?” he and Ron barely shouted in unison.

“I just ran into Dennis Creevey,” Hermione responded calmly. “He said Professor Grubby Plank’s teaching Care of Magical Creatures.”

“Well, that might not mean anything,” Ron said in a bothered voice. “What if he’s just sick?”

“I already thought about that,” Hermione responded with an equally annoyed tone, obviously upset that Ron wouldn’t expect her to follow up on this information.

“That’s why I got this.” Reaching into her robes, she pulled out something Harry recognized instantly.

“The Marauder’s Map!” Harry exclaimed, staring at the tattered bit of parchment she held forward. “How did you get it?”

“Oh, well, err- I just wentthroughyourthingsuntilIfoundit.” she replied loftily.

“You WHAT?” Ron shouted angrily with a quick step in Hermione’s direction, surprising both her and Harry. “Those are his personal things! You can’t just rifle around in someone’s belongings like they’re public property! What the bloody hell has gotten into you?”

Feeling, surprisingly, not at all upset with Hermione – rather, more protective than anything – Harry stepped between the two. “It’s all right, Ron.” he said calmly, raising his hands in defeat.

“No, it’s not, Harry!” Ron shouted back. “What if you had it hidden under, your- “he paused, “you know, unmentionables?”

And that’s when Harry Potter’s face turned redder than a beetroot.

Hermione’s face was, however, currently sporting what could only be described as a very, very evil glare.

“The point is,” she continued, turning her attention from Ron, her face softening as she met eyes with Harry. “That I’ve checked this map over three times, Harry.” she continued, opening the map and tapping the center meaningfully. “And Hagrid’s not on it. Anywhere.”

His mind jumbled between thoughts of frustration at someone rifling through his personal belongings as if they were public property, anxiety over Hagrid disappearing, and embarrassment at the thought of Hermione rummaging through his ‘unmentionables,’ Harry did what he always did when he needed to clear his mind.

He got on his broom, and he flew.

But not before Hermione Granger grabbed him around the middle and hopped on that broom right behind him.

 

-  -  -  -  -

A/N- You guys are still around? Sheesh! I thought I got rid of you with that little stunt I pulled in Chapter Nine! Man, tough crowd.

J/K of course, I’m so excited that you’re still reading my story – it made 15,000 hits!!! Can you believe it? I’m ever so humbled. And thanks for all of the comments, good and bad. You’ve really helped me improve as a writer. Special thanks to Pottermama for helping so much with this story, and of course, special thanks to the FF Fanfiction Group.