Chapter 8: The Toast
After a lively breakfast that had Remus and Hermione chattering on about a rather unpleasant-sounding cure for the Conjuctivitus Curse, of all things, Harry had submitted to Hermione's prompting and was now working quietly on his Charms essay.
While waiting for him to finish, Hermione looked over the Occlumency books Dumbledore had leant him. She had been nearly beside herself with glee when he had pulled them out and had rattled on for quite some time about how pleased she was that he was continuing his lessons.
"I had no idea Occlumency was such a complicated discipline," she piped, flicking through the pages. She tapped her finger on a passage that he could not see from where he was sitting and read aloud, "'The tendering of false memories is an intoxicating and empowering ascension of the mind to create and command a masquerade of the imagination.' Oh, it must be wonderful to learn this! I'm envious of you, Harry."
"It's not nearly so wonderful as all that," Harry muttered darkly. "Having someone mucking about in your head - it's awful."
Hermione blanched at once and closed the book on her lap. "Oh… that was a foolish thing to say," she admitted, giving him an apologetic look. She seemed to think on what he said for a moment before nodding to herself. "You're right. I don't think I would want anyone else knowing my innermost thoughts - not even Dumbledore. I can't imagine what it must have been like with Professor Snape. I know he can be unreasonably hard on you."
"That foul git," Harry dutifully slandered, but it was half-hearted at best. His thoughts were not on Snape's lessons, as unpleasant as they had been. Instead, he remembered what it had been like to feel Voldemort inside of him… to have his very body betray him and respond to commands that were not his own… to see things that Voldemort was seeing - and worse, to feel all the ruthless joy in cruelty and human misery that Voldemort himself so enjoyed.
Harry was startled by the tip of his quill breaking off noisily against his parchment. He had been pressing it too hard while lost in his thoughts. He noticed Hermione give him a searching look and reddened slightly.
"You're not thinking about Snape," she said softly after a moment of penetrating silence. Harry was surprised by her insight.
Before he could respond, a dark shape glided past the drawing room window, startling them both. A great, brown owl had landed on the windowsill and it tapped its beak impatiently against the glass.
Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. It was clear neither were expecting any post.
"Best find out what it wants," Harry said at last and stood up to see if he could get the window open. If possible, it was even dingier than the one in his bedroom and Harry had to push his shoulder into it with some force to finally prise it loose. The bird made a squawking noise in protest as it fluttered back to narrowly avoid being knocked off the sill before looping inside and alighting on the fireplace mantle. It dropped its cargo - two letters with wax seals - before promptly flying out the window again without so much as stopping for a drink of water.
"Rather impatient," Harry said absently, fetching the letters. One had his name on it, and the other, Hermione's. He went to hand it to her when he noticed the look on her face. She was wide-eyed and pale. Harry was on guard at once and glanced down at the letter. What about it could be upsetting her so? "Hermione? What is it?"
"Oh, Harry, those must be our O.W.L. results," she whispered haltingly. She pushed a few of her fingers against her mouth in nervous apprehension.
Harry's stomach dropped. He was certain Hermione had nothing to worry about - she was the smartest witch he knew, after all - but he was much less secure about his own results. Whatever was in this letter could make or break his chances to become an Auror.
He sat down heavily on the drawing room couch and Hermione dropped down next to him. He held out her letter again and this time she accepted it. "No time like the present. We're Gryffindors, after all," Harry joked weakly.
To back up his words, he tore the end off his envelope and tapped it against his palm, coaxing the letter to slide out onto his lap.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hermione trying desperately not to look at his results and allow him his privacy. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt and pretended to be terribly interested in the ceiling. Harry sighed. "You can look, you know," he said, and she smiled at him guiltily.
Harry unfolded the paper and held it open for them both to see. He was still reading the introductory paragraph (a dry recitation on the importance of O.W.L.s and information on contacting the examination authority with questions) when Hermione let out a great squeal and nearly tackled him.
"Hermione!" Harry exclaimed and had to turn his head to keep her hair out of his mouth.
"Oh, Harry, I knew it! I knew you'd do well!"
With his arm crushed between them, Harry awkwardly held the letter where he could finish reading it, not daring to hope. He skipped down to his scores anxiously.
His mouth dropped open. He had scored an 'O' in Potions. Potions! He read it three times before he could believe what he was seeing. A quick glance through his other scores revealed that he had completely pantsed History of Magic, Astronomy, and Divination (which he was altogether unsurprised by), but that he had more than acquitted himself in his other exams. There was even a small notation next to his Defense Against the Dark Arts score - he had rated the highest mark in the year.
He would be able to continue to all the N.E.W.T. level courses he needed to become an Auror.
"Potions…" he murmured and refolded his letter absently. He was so relieved he was hardly aware of what he was doing.
Hermione let go of him and plucked the letter from his limp fingers. She read through it again, making pleased noises and shooting him smiling looks. He hardly noticed, overwhelmed as he was.
Finally, Harry seemed to come back to himself and turned to Hermione with an expectant look. "Well?" he asked. "Aren't you going to open yours?"
Hermione's anxious look returned, but she seemed to take some courage from Harry's results, and she tore hers open. She hadn't given Harry the same permission to read her own letter, so he dutifully stared down at his boots.
No excited squeals seemed forthcoming and Harry began to grow anxious. He chanced a look at her to find that she was somehow managing to worry her lip in her teeth and smile at the same time. He grinned at the picture she made. "Break all the records at Hogwarts, did you?"
She flushed, but her smile, if anything, grew. "Oh, of course not, Harry. I did well, but - oh, that mistranslated rune!"
"May I see?" Harry asked and she handed him her scores. He read through her results - she had scored an 'O' in each lesson except DADA and Ancient Runes, which both had E's. Her Charms, Muggle Studies, and Arithmancy scores all had the notation for highest mark in the year.
"Hermione, you were brilliant! You got even more O.W.L.s than Percy."
Hermione pinked adorably and took her results back. "Thank you, Harry, but - I'm sure I could have done better! I knew that rune was incorrect the moment I walked out of the exam - I should have concentrated more. And that silly boggart! I- I don't know why I have so much trouble with them."
"Hermione, your scores are smashing," Harry sighed. "But how did you get an O.W.L. in Muggle Studies? I thought you dropped it after third year."
"You can sit for any exam you like, Harry. I thought I might try it since I didn't have much trouble with the actual class. I remembered that a lot of the careers in those pamphlets we were given last year required a Muggle Studies O.W.L."
Harry looked bemused. "I reckon you just want to beat out Padma Patil for Head Girl."
"Harry!" Hermione laughed. "I'm hardly in a competition with Padma."
"Too right, you aren't - I'm sure they're already engraving your badge. Even overlooking your marks, who else has done more for the school than you?"
"You?" Hermione said, the corner of her eyes crinkling.
"Well, I hardly think I'm in the running for Head Girl."
Hermione smirked and refolded her results. "Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Hedwig later? I'd like to write to my parents - I think I might have been driving them a little mad going on and on about exams all summer. They would probably like to hear how I did."
"No. She's upstairs - she'd probably enjoy the fresh air."
Unable to help himself, Harry read through his results one more time, as if to verify that he hadn't imagined them. He paused again on his Potions mark and wondered how on earth he had managed it.
"We should celebrate," Harry decided and stood up from the couch. "I bet there's some firewhiskey stashed around here somewhere. Sirius was always pouring a bit into his tea."
"We'll not be having firewhiskey, Harry," Hermione said primly, "but I think celebrating is a wonderful idea. Oh! I nearly forgot! I have your birthday present in my trunk! Let me go get it."
She stood and bustled up the stairs. Harry tossed his results on a dusty cabriolet table and strode into the kitchen to grab two bottles of butterbeer from the icebox. Hermione had not yet returned when he reentered the drawing room, so he set the bottles down and decided he might try to get the old victrola working. Some music might be nice.
He blew into the horn, releasing a great mass of dust, and reasoned that the machine was likely operated with a wand the same as the cooker had been. Harry searched a nearby claw-foot cabinet before finding a neat arrangement of phonograph records. He pulled one from its sleeve. There was no title on it - in fact, there was no writing whatsoever. Harry set it aside and reached for another, but found that one to be similarly unmarked.
"What are you doing, Harry?" Hermione asked from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that she had a small, wrapped package in her arms.
"I thought I might see if the phonograph works."
"Good idea! What records do they have?"
"They don't seem to have any titles," Harry said, holding out one of the records for her to take. She looked at it curiously and shrugged.
She stepped away and placed the record on the victrola. She set the needle on it and then looked at it in confusion when no sound began to play. Harry shot her a look and she seemed to catch on immediately. "Oh, of course. It's magical," she said, more to herself than him. She tapped it with her wand and immediately the room was filled with dour-sounding chanting and a mournful noise that sounded suspiciously like an animal wailing.
"What the bloody hell is that?" Harry muttered. Hermione looked so disturbed by the music that she didn't comment on his language.
Harry plucked the record off and put on a new one. This one was slightly better - it was a piano playing a sonata that he didn't recognise. However, it was so depressing that he immediately took that one off, too. The next record he tried was nothing but the screeching of bats.
Hermione started laughing and Harry glanced at her in confusion. "It's just funny, how ridiculous it is," she explained.
Harry quirked an eyebrow at her before tapping his wand on the victrola and ending the horrible sound. "Let's skip the music."
Hermione smiled and held out her present. Harry took it, feeling a bit embarrassed, and turned it over to examine. It was about the size of a paperback novel, but it was soft and flexible. Not a book, then.
Curious, Harry tore the paper away, revealing a pair of woolly, black fingerless gloves. He rubbed his thumb over them, feeling the soft material.
"I know it's July and this is just about the least sensible gift I could give you right now… I started them before Christmas but so many things were happening, I didn't have a chance to finish them until a few weeks ago," Hermione explained. She looked a bit apprehensive about his reaction. "Do you like them?"
"Hermione, did you make these?" Harry asked in surprise. They looked as well-made as any he had seen in a store. Better, even.
Her face shone with something halfway between pride and pleasure and she babbled, "I've been getting better, I think, but those were quite difficult. The finger openings - they were a bit tricky and I had to start over a few times. I know you like your gloves not to have fingers because you sometimes wear them when you play Quidditch, so that's how I wanted to make them. I even sewed a little piece of leather onto the palm to make them easier to grip with, do you see?"
Harry turned over one of the gloves and, sure enough, there was a thin strip of black leather sewn neatly onto the heel of the palm. "Hermione, they're brilliant," he said. And they really were. They were exactly the sort of style he would have picked himself -simple and mutely coloured.
She smiled in relief. "Oh, I'm so glad. I wasn't sure - they're a bit practical for a birthday gift, but your gloves are so worn, and, honestly Harry, they don't fit you anymore. You've been growing so much. Goodness, I hope these fit! You should - could you try them on?"
Harry dropped the torn paper onto the couch beside them and tugged them on, one at a time. They felt great, if not a bit snug around the palm and thumb.
"Oh no," Hermione moaned, grabbing his hand and examining it closely. "I can't believe it! They're too small."
"No they aren't," Harry assured hastily, tugging his hand away as if to prevent her from taking back the gloves. "They're much better than my last pair."
She looked at him in dismay. "I appreciate you trying to spare my feelings, but they're clearly too small. I'll have to pull the stitches out on the palm."
Harry felt awful. "Can't we just get Remus to magic them bigger?"
"Harry, you know transfiguration isn't permanent," Hermione sighed impatiently. "Eventually they'll just go back to being too small again. It's fine. I'll re-knit them - it will give me something to do until school starts. I'm sorry, Harry…"
Harry stared at her incredulously. "Sorry for what? They're the most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given me."
"Oh," she said, caught between hopeful pleasure and being taken aback. "I- I'm relieved you like them. I wasn't sure…" she admitted softly. "Well, it won't take me long to fix them. I'm much better at it now, really."
"All right," Harry agreed reluctantly. He tugged off the gloves and handed them over. "Thank you, Hermione."
"You're welcome, Harry. Now - is one of these for me?" Hermione picked up one of the bottles of butterbeer and held it up for him to see. Harry nodded and took the other, thumbing off the cap and lifting it to his lips.
"Wait," Hermione instructed, touching his arm. "Why don't we have a toast? Since we're celebrating and all…"
Harry did not have much experience toasting and he was certain he would not be able to come up with anything good to say. "You do it, then."
Hermione nodded and held up her bottle. "To… best friends," she pronounced after a moment of thought. "May we always stay together - no matter what happens."
Harry shifted his weight and a shadow passed through his eyes. For some reason, Hermione's toast unsettled him. He lifted his bottle somewhat hesitantly and clinked it against hers. "No matter what," he murmured. The words tasted like sand in his mouth.
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Despite their accord to celebrate the completion of their O.W.L.s, the late afternoon found Harry and Hermione cleaning the linens from his bed in the claw-foot tub. Crookshanks supervised with a discerning eye from his position on the vanity, flicking his tail back and forth.
"I can't believe you actually slept in these last night," Hermione huffed as she dunked a pillowcase in the soapy water.
Harry didn't bother glancing up from his work scrubbing a brick of soap on his sodden sheet. "I was too tired to go looking for a clean set," he explained. "Not that there's likely a clean set anywhere in this hell-hole."
"Harry," Hermione chided for his language.
"Sorry," he said, but didn't particularly sound it. "Aren't your bedclothes disgusting, as well?"
"They are, but not nearly as bad as these. They were laundered last year when we stayed here over Christmas. I'm not sure when these were last cleaned…"
"The Queen mum's first birthday, I reckon. It was a special occasion."
Hermione tried not to look like she found this funny, but her lips twitched despite herself.
Harry was about to rinse the soap off by dropping the sheet back in the tub, but thought better of it. The water was probably less clean than the sheet was now. He rolled his sleeve further up his arm with wet fingers before reaching in to pull the drain plug. The grey, murky water began to empty, leaving a nearly black ring around the ancient tub. When all the water was gone, Harry replaced the plug and coaxed the tap back on with a rap from his wand.
As the tub refilled, Hermione wet the pillowcase once more before lifting it out and squeezing some of the water from it. When it was no longer dripping all over the bathroom floor, she stood up and hung it from the silver towel rack.
"What are you going to do about the duvet?" she asked as she smoothed the wrinkles from the pillowcase. "You'll ruin it if you try to clean it this way - it's made of down."
"I'll ask Remus later - maybe he can clean it with his wand," Harry muttered absently. He pulled the sheet from the water and climbed to his feet to look at it critically. Despite all his hard work, it was still a bit grey. Aggravated, he dropped it back in the tub with a plop. "I don't understand how things can get this filthy. I'm convinced Kreacher must smuggle in bags of dirt at night and sprinkle them in all the beds."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry froze. His fingers twitched into an involuntary fist and he jerked his head to look at Hermione. Her eyes were wide, and she was standing as still as he was. They stared at one another, hardly breathing, and it was clear they were sharing the same thought: where was Kreacher?
"Have you… have you seen him since you came here?" Hermione asked hesitantly. Her voice was quiet and Harry almost didn't hear her through the pounding of blood in his ears.
How could he have forgotten Kreacher? What if he was somewhere in this house right now… watching them? He was a house-elf, Harry remembered. He was bound magically to Grimmauld Place - he had to be there.
Harry ignored Hermione's question and stalked out of the bathroom.
"Harry!" Hermione shouted after him. "Harry, wait!"
One by one, Harry ripped open the doors in the hallway, striding inside and shoving old furniture and piles of junk out of his way as he searched each room. Hermione hovered in the doorways, watching anxiously, but for whatever reason, she did not try to stop him.
On this floor, only Remus's door was left unopened, and that took a monumental effort of will.
Harry went downstairs and continued his search. He threw open door after door, sending great clouds of dust drifting into the air. He could vaguely hear some portraits grumbling at him for making so much noise, but nothing they said really registered. There was still no trace of Kreacher.
Hermione was waiting for him on the landing, looking at him sadly. He strode past her and down to the next floor.
Again, he turned over each room, lifting furniture to look underneath and tearing open cabinet doors to peer inside. Finally, he ripped back the moth-eaten curtains in the study, sending a colony of doxies screeching and scattering into the air. He was certain one of them bit him - he could feel the venom creep through his blood and he began to feel woozy. The doxies fluttered madly about his head and he swung at them angrily, striking nothing but air, but somehow sending the lot of them careening against the wall on the far side of the room. They struck with force and dropped to the ground, injured or disoriented, and Harry staggered backwards from the fuzziness in his head.
Something took hold of his bicep and he turned his face to see that Hermione had wrapped herself around his arm and was looking at him in considerable alarm.
"Harry, please!" she cried. "You've been bitten! I need to get you the anti-venom!"
"How could I have been so careless?" he growled. He could feel beads of sweat appearing on his forehead and he began to feel very cold. "He could be anywhere! Who knows what he's done to this house - he could have set up traps, he could have poisoned our food… who knows what that twisted creature could have thought up! Who knows who he's been communicating with!"
"Harry, let's go!" she pleaded, tugging at him with all her strength. He didn't budge. Her face swam strangely in his vision and he stared at her uncomprehendingly. She glanced anxiously at the doxies, some of which were beginning to stir, flapping their beetle-like wings against the floor. She dropped Harry's arm and took his face in her hands.
"Harry!" she commanded and her voice was strong and agitated. "You will come with me this instant!"
Harry's eyes seemed to focus for a moment, and this time he didn't resist when she began to tug him into the hall. She pushed him against the wall beside the doorway and tried to hold him there with her shoulder while she tugged the door closed behind them. She let out a little shriek when his knees began to give out - his weight was clearly too much for her. She took two handfuls of his shirt and tried to hold him up, but he dropped like a stone, pulling her down next to him.
"Harry!" Hermione shrilled and clamoured to her knees. She put her hands on his face, feeling his clammy skin, and pushed his hair back off his forehead. She hovered over him, blocking his view of the ceiling with her face and hair. "Harry, I'll be right back! I know we have anti-venom somewhere! Please stay awake!"
Harry vaguely heard her take off down the hallway in a great rush, then a strange clattering, and then he heard nothing at all.