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christmasspirit) wrote2023-12-23 10:28 am
christmasspirit) wrote2023-12-23 10:28 am
Entry tags:
- autumn,
- beginnings,
- christmas spirit au,
- draco malfoy,
- ella wilkins,
- endings,
- fanfic,
- first term,
- friendship,
- gryffindors,
- harper hutchinson,
- harry potter,
- healing,
- hermione granger,
- hogwarts,
- hogwarts eighth year,
- hurting,
- moving on,
- notice-me-nott,
- pansy parkinson,
- post-war,
- prefecthood,
- protego,
- slight angst,
- slytherin house privacy charm,
- slytherins,
- start of term,
- trace
"soaring part 12" by gingerbred
chapter 12, stalking
Characters: Harry Potter / Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson, Ella Wilkins, Harper Hutchinson
17 September, 1998. A handful of Snakes and Moggies make their ways through the castle corridors late in the evening.
Originally Published: 2023-12-23 on LJ / DW
Words: 4.8 k
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Characters: Harry Potter (8G, Captain, Seeker), Hermione Granger (8G, Head Girl), Draco Malfoy (8S, Prefect, Captain, Seeker), Pansy Parkinson (8S, Prefect), Ella Wilkins (7S, Prefect with an interest in Healing Charms), Harper Hutchinson (7S, Prefect, Chaser)
Previously:
The previouslies are very robust. If you've recently read the Christmas Spirit stories, skip them, if not, no worries, I've got you covered. You can find links to the individual stories / chapters in the "christmas spirit index" (LJ / DW / AO3).
Summer 1998. Harry and Hermione spend much of their summer striving to see Professor Snape and Malfoy exonerated for their parts in the War due to their other deeds in the War. Unfortunately those are just the things that most - those couldn't be arsed to fight when push came to shove, it should be noted - seem exceedingly inclined to overlook. S 01 The Ministry still deems it necessary to place Traces on the wands of the majority of the older Slytherin boys, and some of the young women's as well. S 03
12 September, 1998. A group of masked individuals attack Draco and Pansy, the 8th year Slytherin Prefects, as they make their rounds Saturday night. Harry and Ron, coincidentally in the vicinity due to some late night mischief of their own, come to their rescue. S 02 In a bid to regain leverage over the Ravenclaws now that they've hopelessly lost all chance at the House Cup, with the added benefit of making any rumours of an attack on students the night before seem highly unlikely, Sunday morning Minerva expands the eighth years' privileges, eliminating their curfew, amongst other things. Severus is every bit as thrilled as one might expect. S 06
As his students are very demonstratively at risk, cheers, and Minerva has now presumably flooded the corridors with potential attackers, ta, Severus resigns himself to the added chore of clandestinely escorting the Prefects to ensure their safety. As if he hadn't enough to do. While preparing himself for the task, he discovers the Prefects are already being followed by two sets of individuals, who eventually begin to duel. With Protegos. As one does. Frankly it's a wonder any of them ever earn a N.E.W.T. Merlin's bloody bonnet. S 11
Thursday, 17 September, 1998 - three nights before the new moon
the Corridors of HogwartsThe corridors aren't particularly well lit at this hour, casting a Lumos would defeat the whole point of his Disillusionment, quite, and so firstly Draco had had to wait for a stretch with many windows to finally be able confirm his suspicions. The problem was this close to the new moon, there was precious little moonlight to help cast light on things, and the damnable cloud cover only made of that little 'less'.
Merlin's beard.
He's finally had a spot of luck, the second thing he'd been waiting on is right up ahead, and he can now also say with certainty, there are two pair of shoes following fairly closely behind them. Idiots. Had they really thought to go unnoticed? Had they believed the Slytherins wouldn't look after their own?
They'll pay for their temerity - and this frankly insulting bit of stupidity - if it's the last thing he does prior to his most likely inevitable expulsion. So be it. He refuses to be cowed.
He casts the House Privacy Charm on his little group of housemates and calls out to Harper and Ella, "We're being followed.
"Don't turn around now," he's forced to warn Ella quickly right after.
Merlin's bloody bollocks.
She's about as stealthy as a Hippogriff.
Harper chuckles as he takes Ella's hand surreptitiously and gives it a short squeeze to soothe her anxiety. No one is going to do anything to her as long as he's in the vicinity; they'll have to go through him first. She knows that, but the reminder, just at the moment, helps. They've grown up together, been best friends all their lives, and he's the closest thing to a brother the only child has. She gives him a slightly unsure smile, trying to show him she gets the message, even if she is a bundle of frayed nerves. Maybe next time she'll take a Calming Draught first. She'll need to give that some thought.
"Don't worry, they can't hear us," Draco thinks to reassure them. Pansy attempts to swat him for not mentioning it sooner, numpty, but as they're both Disillusioned, she fails to connect in the least, and Draco merely chuffs in amusement as he feels the air move past his hand, its meaning all but confirmed by her slightly frustrated, disembodied 'harumph' that follows.
"How many?" Harper asks, still casually continuing down the corridor, Ella close by his side, but both of their hands free now, prepared for whatever might come.
Pansy pauses for a moment to turn around for a look as Draco answers, "Two. Two pairs of feet."
"Feet?" Ella checks, still struggling not to look herself. This would be so much easier if she were Disillusioned, too.
"Shoed," he assures her, as if that were the point, but as it makes her smile, a little less uncertainly this time, maybe it's the relevant one.
"Shoddily shod," Pansy rejoins, pleased at the pun. Feeling clever distracts - at least a little - from all the other things she's trying to pretend she doesn't feel.
Circe's left tit.
"With no taste in shoes or appreciation for quality, I'd say we have nothing to worry about," the eighth year continues trying to make light of the situation as she closes in again on the others.
"No, I can't say shoes scare me much," Ella agrees, trying to ignore the beating of what must be her heart in what she's pretty sure is her throat, which is not at all where it belongs. Absolutely none of the texts she's read suggest that's possible, except for maybe with the use of one particularly nasty Curse that rearranged one's organs... But this seems rather too specific for that.
"Especially not cheap ones," Pansy retorts, and then thinking of the state of Harper's family's accounts and the quality of his and his brother's clothing as a whole, wishes she hadn't said anything. Damn and cast. She bites her lip nervously, while Draco shakes his head, taking full advantage of the fact she can't see him. Some days Panse just seems to live to put her - well shod - foot in it.
"We'll agree the fit matters more," Harper ripostes in an effort to let her know he understands why she's so nervous, he does, and he's unlikely to Hex her for her thoughtlessness. Well, not tonight anyway.
"Oh they fit very poorly," Pansy hastens to grab the lifeline he's thrown her and, without caring if the statement is true or not, she lays it on thick. "They're practically flopping. Clown shoes. Flap flap flap." For the love of the gods, someone Avada her now... She's not the only one thinking it.
A nervous giggle escapes Ella, no matter how hard she tries - Pansy, bless - and it's Ella's turn to nudge Harper's arm. He's used to it. Exceedingly poor boy, generally rich House? It hardly registers any more.
"Well then they're fools and we have nothing to worry about," Harper assures Pansy. "You can't fight if you can barely walk.
"That's why you didn't want to switch positions with us, Draco?" They hadn't as originally intended when the seventh years' patrol duty ended.
The blond nods for all the good it does in his Disillusioned state. Habits. "I couldn't see how to do it, shy of a Notice-Me-Nott, and that would have led to other problems. They'd have known we were onto them. This way they kept following us until I could be sure."
"How do you want to do this?"
"I assume they're using a Cloak..." Draco begins.
"I really wish Theo had been able to get us his family's..." Pansy sounds almost wistful.
Draco snorts, "I highly doubt the Ministry, having gone to all the bother of putting Traces on our wands, would have approved of releasing that piece of kit from impound. It's practically contraband even outside of Hogwarts." He has a point. "Anyway, trying to remove the cloak is only the second best option. They're mostly good for going undiscovered in the first place, that broom has flown, and they're highly impractical for fighting. Leave it in place, they'll have a false sense of security and you'll know where they are by their feet. They'll also have to try to move together to keep its protection, so it will hamper their range of motion, slow them down as they need to communicate those moves with one another, all while providing us a bigger target." Every now and then Ella has to ask herself why Draco knows things like that so definitively, but she's smart enough not to pour salt on that particular wound by asking.
He returns to Harper's question, "Either they're holding out until we get somewhere others are waiting, or they want a better location." Harper can't help wondering if the feet were just waiting for Draco and Pansy to put in an appearance, but keeps it to himself; unfortunately the two Slytherins in question are entertaining similar thoughts and leaving them unvoiced for the same reasons. "Either way, I doubt they've registered we're following you. There's a Slytherin portrait ahead, one of old Swoopstikes' cousins, when we pass it, you two keep going, we'll head them off there."
"What about you?" Ella asks. A nervous Pansy is inclined to agree. What about us?
"There's a second painting of another Slytherin around the next right turn; wait there. Tell them to pass along to the first portrait: if we're in trouble, we'll invoke Salazar's name; they're to let you know if we do, and then you two come running." Most of the Slytherin portraits of that era just so happened to also be attending an inter-epochal Quidditch match in a painting several floors below, although when examined, it was nearly impossible to identify anyone watching in the stands. As entertainment went, the bit of match was highly repetitive, even when casually viewed, and with no one recognisable, as portrait subjects went, it made no sense at at all, not until one realised it was exceedingly useful at passing information in often unexpected vectors through the castle. Given a straightforward, simple task - although the simpler, the better - even portraits could get the job done.
Usually.
There was no logic involved here. Keep their ears open for one word? That shouldn't be asking too much.
Hopefully.
"What if you can't call for help?" Ella asks. Only last Saturday the assailants had used a Silencing Charm on Pansy during the attack.
Draco knows exactly what she's thinking of and wishes she hadn't reminded an already nervous Pansy, as if the assault weren't centre of mind the whole time. "Wait a few minutes and then come anyway," he shrugs. Best to be practical.
"Bloody hell," Ella gulps, immediately chiding herself for the language; she is a Prefect after all. But they'd prepared for this. Why does it feel so dreadful now that it's happening? Well she and Harper had the best of it. All they needed to do was walk away and leave Pansy and Draco to face whatever may have been intended for the two seventh years. She's already feeling proactively guilty about the whole thing. Harper will explain to her later why she was probably wrong about who'd have likely been at risk here and why, but that's of little comfort now.
'Bloody hell' indeed, but they do as Draco suggested and keep going, not even turning back when they hear the first screams.
Bloody, bloody, bloody hell. Why did Draco think it made sense for the two of them to wait?
The portrait is a little further down the corridor than Draco's description suggested, but they reach it in short order - in part because they began to run as soon as they'd safely made the corner - it just feels like a lot more time has passed. After giving the instructions to the portrait, Harper answers the unasked question for her, "Trust him to call for help. Our job is to make sure they don't have help coming in from up ahead or that they haven't sent for backup." He turns her towards the hallway ahead of them and positions his back to hers, watching the opening off the corridor behind them. No one was going to sneak up on the eighth years on his watch either.
"'Sent'?" she asks, wondering how she could send for all the help she now wishes they had in spades. This plan doesn't feel good.
"We're not the only ones with portraits or ghosts," Harper erroneously assumes if they're using a resource, others are, too. "And have you ever noticed how half the school can cast Patronus? Everyone but us." It's a wild exaggeration of course, but he has a point as well, although as it illustrates the lack of universality of application of magic in the castle, it's a little ironic in that context. The magic witchards use can very much depend on whom they know.
Ella makes do instead with reminding the portrait again, "Remember, let us know immediately if he says 'Salazar'. 'Sal-a-zar'," she repeats more slowly, until even the portrait feels its intelligence is being insulted, a non-trivial feat.
Harper, not Disillusioned, has to try not to smirk at its virtually audible eye roll.
It's tricky going under the Cloak. This was so much easier when they were younger. It's harder to fit now, obviously, but if Harry can make it work with Ron - Ron, who is clearly much larger, albeit very likely better coordinated... - Hermione refuses to accept defeat.
Like the Disillusioned Professor Snape, following unnoticed behind them, as the hour advanced, they'd begun to worry if elsewhere in the castle, Malfoy and Parkinson were beginning their rounds without the benefit of their oversight. Hermione's Tempus had eventually made it clear the eighth years' shift had long since begun, and as Hutchinson and Wilkins show no signs of stopping their rounds, the two Gryffindors conclude they've changed duties. Maybe they're keeping the students who've already been attacked out of the line of fire, or maybe the older students are going to see to it the younger ones no longer patrol the hallways and are splitting this by days. As they hadn't mentioned any alterations to their plans to the Head Girl - as they probably ought, she can't help feeling - Hermione is unable to say.
As is, they don't feel they have much choice other than to keep following the seventh years. Wandering around the castle instead, just hoping to bump into the eighth years, who very likely aren't even patrolling in the first place, seems utterly pointless.
So they keep following and trying, hard, not to stumble too much over each other's feet - a good deal more difficult than one might think - following the Slytherins at what should be a safe distance.
The corridors aren't particularly well lit at this hour, there's so little moonlight tonight and far too many clouds, and then to top it off, seeing things through the Cloak is really not anywhere near as easy as Hermione recalls either. It's fine when there's light, but under the present conditions? She'd had to wait for a stretch with many windows to finally be able confirm her suspicions: there's an all too telling ripple behind the seventh year Prefects, which means someone, Disillusioned, is following the Slytherins!
Holy cricket.
Right, well they'd known this was a possibility.
What do they do now? She's pants at this sort of thing.
"Muffliato," she whispers and then alerts Harry to the problem. The Spell's familiar buzz lets him know he can answer without cause for worry.
"Do we know they're hostile?" He asks the obvious.
"They haven't attacked yet," she concedes. "Of course they may just be waiting for Malfoy and Parkinson?" She suggests.
That thought still does strange things to his stomach, which sort of flip flops in place. Maybe he should have eaten less dinner...
That's unlikely to have helped.
Right, so what should they do about this? He doesn't really feel like waiting to see Hutchinson and Wilkins recreate the scene from last Saturday, isn't great at remaining idle, and his wand hand sort of itching for action, he has an idea how to proceed. "Levicorpus?"
"Harry, you can't just go around attacking people for no reason," she scolds, like the mum he never had. He smiles at her indulgently, but takes her point.
He tries making a few more suggestions, Incarcerous, Immobulous... but she objects again, "They could be Slytherins for all we know." He doesn't seem entirely convinced that that's a bad thing, Hexing Snakes, and an exasperated sigh precedes her next attempt to make him see reason. "What if that's Malfoy and Parkinson doing their rounds after all. Do you really want to see them attacked twice in one week?" Now Malfoy? Innocently? Plausible deniability and all that, plus a largely harmless little Hex to boot? That might be funny - no, it really would be - but there's nothing remotely amusing about the idea of seeing Parkinson attacked again ever, so 'Mione finally wins him over.
Fine, no Hexing the ripples.
She does have a way of taking the fun out of things, though.
"So what do you want to do?" he turns to ask her, just as something that feels a lot like a moving wall slams into the both of them.
Oof.
It butts into him again, withdrawing slightly, apparently to build up momentum, but it gives Harry enough of a window to turn his head to see they've been struck by a Protego, or probably two. They're even harder to make out in this light than the Disillusionment was, but then they're a good deal closer.
Are they ever.
'Bloody hell,' as Ron would say.
They've got Protegos of their own up and begin shoving back, before Hermione drops the Muffliato thinking they might need to alert the two Prefects ahead. Sound in theory, less so in practice. Now that Harry has a chance to look, they seem to have vanished from sight.
Great.
Good to know they're keeping such a close eye on them then. He doesn't mention it to 'Mione, but there's virtually no chance it will escape her in the end. Still, in the thick of it, he's probably better off not distracting h...
"Ow!" He shouts as what must have been the Protego's edge slams into his left cheekbone. As if encouraged, it repeats the manoeuvre, and his next cry is more of a wail as it connects with his eye socket instead. Merlin's beard, does that ever hurt.
That's going to bruise.
Now very much wanting his own pound of flesh, Harry tugs 'Mione behind him with his free hand so he won't inadvertently pull the Cloak off her as he uses his wand to magically push his Protego forward with all his strength, slamming it some from side to side, and hoping he connects with something, someone, as he goes. Hermione's Protego mostly seems to be providing them cover, which is nice, sure, but hardly the way to win this fight, and he'll need to have a word with her about that later. For now, he smirks when a masculine grunt greets his onslaught, score!, and he redoubles his efforts until they're soon rewarded by a second, far more feminine, cry.
One that sounds vaguely familiar...
There's that feeling in his stomach again.
Anyway, it came from ahead of them, and he's reasonably sure it wasn't 'Mione, as he still has his hand clamped on her arm behind him, that is, he did, until she surges forward, breaking his hold as he hadn't been prepared to be rushed. The briefest of moments later, she clears the Cloak before he can do anything else about it, and stands there now, visible to all in the midst of a battle - they definitely need to talk - hands raised, palms outwards, and wand held idly at rest by her thumb.
Bloody hell.
What on earth is wrong with the witch?
She's been good enough to leave her Protego intact, though, where it still provides him cover, so there's that.
It also, as it transpires, keeps him from moving forward to stand beside her, and, he assumes, it will likely also prevent him from getting off a shot should the need arise.
Hmm.
That talk might need to be a protracted one, assuming she survives this bit of stupidity that is.
"Wait! Wait!" She cries, her voice betraying less confidence than her posture had suggested. Brilliant. "We're trying to help. We're only trying to help..."
At which point Malfoy apparently Finites his Disillusionment, appearing almost uncomfortably close right before her, his nose bloodied, oops, but he's unlikely to have nearly the bruising to show for their escapades that Harry can no doubt look forward to tomorrow. Hmm. Malfoy's evidently just as unperturbed by 'Mione's proximity as he is by the almost pristine track of blood, still making its way slowly down his pale chin.
"'We'?" The blond remarks pointedly and Harry realises this will probably be a lot more convincing if he drops the cover of the Cloak as well. No sooner thought than done, he can be decisive like that, and soon he's shrunk and pocketed it once more, relying in part on Malfoy to be good enough not to fire anything untoward in the meantime, although the fact 'Mione's Protego meant Harry was both shielded and unable to do much of anything no doubt contributes to the casualness of his actions.
"Why?" Malfoy asks next, which seems a little insulting - as if they'd never helped him before - and still he stands there all unruffled and everything, as though he were somehow above the whole thing, and his pulse hadn't raced like the Gryffindors' had, all while the blood continues to drip down his chin.
Evidently 'Mione has as much difficulty watching it as Harry does and Tergeos it, Malfoy never even blinking as she'd raised her wand, the arse, although she's still cautious enough not to cast the Spell silently. There was that witch's cry yet to be accounted for, and, unless she's very much mistaken, there's still a telltale distortion behind the Slytherin that very likely explains it.
Malfoy greets her kindness with a disdainful glance and not a word of thanks - probably because he considers it a bridge too far to be forced to thank someone for cleaning up the mess they've made, mentally lumping the Moggies into the same category as last weekend's attackers as he does - that sets Harry's blood to boiling. What an entitled knob.
"We saw someone following Hutchinson and Wilkins. After last week, what else were we supposed to do?" Harry retorts.
'What else?' Draco considers making him a bloody list. This whole thing needn't have happened had Potter only kept his ruddy nose out of their business. And yes, his bloody nose bloody well hurts, but the last thing he's going to do is give the fool Moggies the satisfaction of showing it.
"Of course we followed," Harry continues, now building up steam. Hermione recognises the tone only too well, but shy of a Full Body Bind or Silencing Charm, there's not a lot to do about it. "That piss poor Disillusionment Charm you used was only too obvious," he hurls at the blond, attempting to add insult to injury. Hermione, utterly devoid of an Exploding Snap face, actually winces, now calculating the odds they'll get Hexed yet. It's probably not coincidence that she still hasn't dropped the Protego in front of Harry. "That close on their heels? What were we to think?"
Again, Draco contemplates making him a list. Potter is a fool, and evidently not given to thinking much.
In as much as Harry had sincerely thought the blurs following the seventh years might be up to no good, enough so as to keep pushing his Protego even after 'Mione had deemed them no longer a threat, the Slytherin may be right on that score. The residual embarrassment from that helps fuel the vehemence of Harry's condemnation of the Snake's Charm.
"Trace, remember?" Draco twirls his wand almost defiantly at Potter with very practiced fingers. It's such a pity that something he loves so much is so compromised. "I'd have needed to cast it wandlessly."
At that, the second blur ceases to exist and Parkinson steps forward, clearly more offended just now than hurt by the scrape on her forehead. That's what fringe were for. Harry's stomach drops again at the sight of her, already ahead of his rational thought processes, and then it plummets further yet as he realises he's responsible for that blemish to her otherwise perfect skin.
"It was my Disillusionment Charm, cheers," she informs him, and just like that, Harry's tummy somehow sinks lower still. "And Draco's is better," she feels pressed to defend her friend, "but we figured my wanded Charm would be better than his wandless one."
Now that they've seen hers in action, no one elects to comment on that.
"We were just trying to help," Hermione tries to steer things back to safer ground.
"Why would you?" Parkinson is the picture of defiance, and despite Harry's 'we had no choice but to follow' gambit, his explanation ignores why they were positioned to do so in the first place. It's one thing to inadvertently encounter an assault and help, and another altogether to follow them around to see to it it didn't happen again.
Hermione's eyes narrow dangerously and her hair crackles in warning. Harry knows enough to be on alert, but the Slytherins clearly don't. "You know damn well I know a thing or two about being attacked," she snarls, reaching for and rubbing her left forearm - the arm Bellatrix Lestrange had so sorely abused not half a year ago - either in reflex or illustration, Harry couldn't say for sure. All he knows is he feels terribly guilty, suddenly understanding her motives here a lot better. This had never been just about a crush. Parkinson, however, unmistakably doesn't follow 'Mione in the least, and the Gryffindors turn almost as one to look at Malfoy who just shakes his head subtly: she doesn't know.
It seems he hadn't told the other Snakes, or at least not all of them anyway, about what happened to 'Mione at the Manor, and maybe in part it's shame that kept him from it, but surely there would have been a way to leverage it to his advantage, and Hermione just appreciates that he didn't.
And yet, despite that appreciation, in light of what Parkinson had so recently been through, in an effort to bridge the divide between them, Hermione now rolls up her sleeve, a little awkwardly as she's still holding her wand in the hand that does so, and shows the Slytherin the still mangled flesh on the inner side of her lower arm.
'Mudblood'
This close to the new moon, it's looking about as good as it ever gets, which still is anything but good. Draco winces at the sight. His aunt Bella had been without peer. Just as well, as the world could hardly have afforded to deal with two of her kind.
Pansy stares at it in horror. She has no idea of the story behind it, only the certainty that Granger won't have allowed someone to do that to her willingly. No one would. Pansy now knows a thing or two about that loss of control, that nature of assault and victimhood, herself. And of course there were always Hestia and Val, who'd been attacked by the werewolves last year. It's unlikely that was all there was to the story, not that anyone would dream of pressing them for more details, and the lycanthrope infections they'd suffered were plenty bad enough. But yes, in a way she couldn't have even a year ago, Pansy now understands. Enough anyway.
Granger has just begun to lower her sleeve, her agitation under Panse's unwavering gaze apparent in the increased clumsiness of the action, when suddenly there's a scream behind them.
Bugger.
Written with oodles of love for lostangelsoul3 and
erexen.
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Thank you for taking the tremendous amount of time and monumental effort to continue writing, You are Deeply appreciated. 💝💗💖