Chimera’s Call

Chapter 2

The good thing was that Hogwarts was nearly vacant, so no one saw her shuffling up the stairs like some half-drowned version of a sheepdog. The high vaults of the castle echoed from the squelching of her wet steps and Hermione could only hope that Mrs. Norris wouldn’t be anywhere near. The thought of scrubbing the corridors instead of having a steaming cup of tea was far from pleasing.
‘That’s what you get when sharing such company,’ she thought. Detention seemed to stick to Harry and Ron like a second shadow, and so naturally it stuck to Hermione, as well. Since she befriended those two scoundrels she’d been constantly in and out of trouble -- and wasn’t she ever so glad about it. A wide grin spread over Hermione’s flushing-red face as she hastened up the last few steps to the portrait-hole. The Fat Lady glared rather disapprovingly down at her, taking in her soaked coat and dishevelled hair.
"I’ve expected a little more from you at least, Miss Granger," she sniffed. "I never thought you one of those . . . yobs."
"Sometimes a girl needs a little fun," Hermione prompted and shot a brilliant smile up to the Lady, secretly quite surprised at her own boldness. She did not at all know what had gotten into her today, but she felt rather . . . daring.
The Fat Lady’s face darkened considerably as she apparently lost all interest in conversation. "Password?"
"Chocolate Parfait."
The portrait swung open and the Fat Lady moved into the farthest corner of the canvas to prevent contact with a dripping Hermione. The girl ducked her head as she passed the painting, still not able to make the grin vanish from her face.
The gentle heat of a crackling fire welcomed her in the Gryffindor common room and the sudden warmth made her even more conscious of her own coldness. The gentle heat of a crackling fire welcomed her in the Gryffindor common room and the sudden warmth made her even more conscious of her own coldness. Quickly, she walked over to the fireplace and rid herself of her near-freezing scarf and coat. She looked around for something to spread them on and her glance passed the low tea-table next to the sofa. On it still stood a chessboard with its now dormant figures. When she moved closer , she beheld greater detail of the chessmen’s postures. The black queen and one of her knights had cornered the white king. The king himself lay sprawled on his back, one of his stony shoulders crumbled. Hermione smiled despite her usual scepticism towards the game’s rudeness. She was amused, because she remembered the game that had led to this checkmate. As so often it had been Harry and Ron, brooding over the checks of the board. Hermione knew little of chess, but she knew enough to predict doom coming along. In this case, Harry had been the one to face destruction. As per usual.
Hermione remembered Harry’s muttered curses and the pitiful crumbling sound his king made when Ron’s queen struck him down. Ron had uttered a satisfied ‘huff’, while Harry let out a snort.
"One of these days, Ron . . ." the bespectacled boy had threatened good-naturedly.
"Empty threat, Potter," Ron had quipped. "The day you’ll beat me at chess will be the day Hermione stops reading."
Even as Hermione remembered the friendly clash, she grinned. He had a point. Harry stood close to no chance at all at ever beating Ron. Yet . . .
Her memory slid further and she nearly heard her own words again.
"What if?" she had asked without raising her head from the books she was reading.
"Excuse me?" It had been more of an "oh, you’re here, too?" statement.
"What if it happens?"
"If what happens?" Ron had crinkled his nose and stared at her, bewildered.
"What if I stop reading?"
Ron had looked at Harry and then burst out laughing. "That’ll be the day Snape will teach Potions in bright blue robes."
Now, like then, the mere thought made her giggle. Alone to imagine such a picture . . .
An icy-cold drop of melted snow chose that moment to drip down on her nose. The sudden coldness – and the tremendous sneeze that followed– hauled Hermione back into present. The fire of the hearth had begun to warm her back, but wetness and chill shivers still clung to her skin in a very uncomfortable way.
In haste she shoved the chess-board and figurines aside and spread her cloak over the table. It should be close enough to the fire to warm nice and quickly. Another sneeze shattered the silence of the common room and Hermione wasted no more time. She rushed up to the girls’ dormitory where she rid herself instantly of her jumper and threw it on the floor.
More clothes quickly added to the pile as she peeled herself out of the drenched fabrics. Her brow creased slightly as she took a final inventory – goodness, even her stockings were wet.
‘I hope they’re mighty uncomfortable, too,’ she thought with a sudden hint of grimness. Allying against her in such a mean way – they deserved what came out of it. Maybe Ron would even have icicles on the collar of his flimsy robe. She pressed her lips together and tilted up her head. ‘It’s their own fault. If they throw caution to the wind, then runny noses are what they shall get.’
Hermione nodded firmly and walked over to her wardrobe. While she put on dry clothes, she made a mental note to prepare a large pot of hot chocolate for Harry and Ron’s return. The two could talk as much as they wished, but sometimes they just needed someone to take care of such elemental things. Otherwise they never would be able to pick their way safely through the small and greater dangers of a term at Hogwarts. They were boys, after all, and every now and then frightfully clumsy and thoughtless.
With a sigh, Hermione shook her head over those truths. Quips and teases, such you could easily get from Ron’s tongue. But try to urge some reason out of him – it was tiring. Sometimes Hermione got the feeling that Ron could talk on end without even pondering one of his words. Though she must admit that sometimes listening to Ron was pleasant, no matter what he was saying.
It hadn’t always been that way. But now, finally in their fifth year, she had become aware of it. It hadn’t been a spectacular moment. Nothing ever was quite spectacular around Ron Weasley. How could it be with that many siblings? There was always someone with more grace, more wit, and more charm. ‘Well, maybe not more charm,’ she corrected herself, refusing to blush.
So, what was it that made listening to him so different lately? His voice had changed over the summer, Hermione had noticed. It had come to her attention when Ron had to read that bit of text in History of Magic. She half remembered the odd feeling that his voice had caused. His voice . . . it had suddenly seemed so new to her. It was deeper, for one, and the boyish tone had been replaced with something slightly more mature. It was nice to listen to, Hermione mused.
With a shrug of her shoulders she let the memory fall and slipped into fresh socks. They were warm and soft and Hermione’s toes instantly felt more at ease. Out of another drawer she picked a towel and began to rub her hair dry.
To her astonishment some frozen snowball-remnants still crumbled out of her curls.
‘When was the last time you were involved in a snowball fight?’ she asked herself. Never. She’d never participated in any such games before.
Slowly, Hermione let the towel sink into her lap. When she looked back to the winters before Hogwarts she always saw herself sitting in her room, alone, most times with a book in front of her. She didn’t mind at that time, though, or at least thought she didn’t. Studying was everything for her and the more she accomplished, the higher her spirits rose. There seldom seemed to be room for other things. When she’d looked out of her window and saw other children building snowmen she told herself that it was good that she wasn’t invited to join them. She had some chapters to read, after all.
When she came to Hogwarts, it became different. Books were still her good friends, but they were no longer her only friends. For the first time she had real companions, to whom she could talk, who annoyed her often enough, but on whom she could count on, as well.
Thoughtfully, Hermione twisted the towel between her hands. How had it changed? She really couldn’t tell. She only knew that she’d scarcely ever felt as good as now. And it was not because of her outstanding marks at Levitation or any other subject. In fact, it were the book-less moments, those small events that slid past or actually broke the rules that excited her.
‘Bad influence,’ she thought. ‘Bad, bad influence.’ A chuckle escaped her and in a sudden flash of inspiration she grabbed her wand and made the towel soar back into the wardrobe. With a satisfied ‘huh’ she planted her hands on her hips and nodded. She was getting better and better. Soon she would be able to levitate really heavy things, maybe even a person. It was worth working on it, after all – one never knew what new evil would steal into the school and what spells would then be needed to stop it. In such a case, Hermione preferred to be both useful and prepared.
And it was best to waste no precious time, Hermione told herself. If she already was deprived of further fun at Hogsmeade, she could as well study.
She walked over to her bedside-locker, her hands reaching out for the pile of books that laid there. Almost tenderly did her fingers brush over the velvety cover of the uppermost primer. Hermione wondered how some people lived a life long and never understand the wonderful experience of reading, absorbing and just feeling a book. But then -- how would you explain that to a Ron Weasley, whose face turned green at the mere mentioning of a herb-lore encyclopaedia.
With a smile Hermione tugged the books under her arm. She might change her habits slightly, but she would still stay Hermione. She would never stop reading.
Which of course meant that the unfortunate Harry would never beat Ron at chess.

***

The library was deserted, too, although Hermione thought she’d seen the shadow of the librarian whiz past behind the shelves at one point. The books she had taken from her dormitory she’d returned at the counter and by now had already found a good number of new ones she planned to occupy herself with. There was only one book missing, the work of a deceased wizard called: ‘The Higher Art Of Animal Levitation or How To Make A Cow Fly Unnoticed Over A Muggle-Roof.’ Hermione found the title very striking.
She’d come to the row of shelves where she expected to find the book when a slight noise made her stop in her tracks. There it was again – a hushed whisper, nearly inaudible.
Well, that was strange. Hermione knew the librarian to be an overty silent woman. In fact, she thought she’d never heard the librarian’s voice so far. But despite Hermione’s wondering, the whispering went on. Now she was curious. Was someone else in the library? That would be even queerer than a murmuring librarian. It was Hogsmeade day, a free day for all the students. The only person who would be cracked enough to visit the library at such a day was Hermione herself, she was sure of it.
Muffling her steps as best as she could, she tiptoed around the shelves in search of the noisemaker. But suddenly there was no whispering anymore and she had nothing to lead her. She was about to give up on her attempt to find the other being around when she circled a shelf and found herself faced with the person in question.
A most undignified squeak left her mouth as she froze to the spot, staring. The shock was so big, Hermione almost dropped her books. A mere couple of steps before her stood the towering figure of Goyle, his hand risen as if he was about to take a book from the shelf. Obviously, he was as dumbfounded as she was, for his eyes grew as big as saucers at her side. Neither had time to recollect their thoughts as two other figures came down the narrow aisle between the bookcases. At once Hermione recognised them -- the plump shape of the second was unmistakable as was the shock of pale yellow hair of the first. Malfoy. Crabbe.
A snapshot of the scene would have been funny indeed, and surely found a place in the outtake section of the yearbook. Surprise was written on each of the four faces.
It was Malfoy who found his voice first. "Granger," he hissed. "What are you doing here?"
A jolt passed through Hermione’s body as she instinctively gripped her books more tight. She swallowed hard and forced her own voice to drop to a cold level. "Searching for books, what else?" she shot back and tilted her chin. "And what are you doing here?"
Something like a flash of guilt flitted over Malfoy’s face and Goyle went instantly pale. That was queer. It almost looked as though they had something to hide. Malfoy masked his anxiety almost immediately, but his two partners in crime were not nearly so crafty as to disguise their bad conscience.
Hermione frowned and only then did she recognise where they had met each other. This was the aisle that lead to the iron grilles that separated the south wing of the library from the rest. It was the corridor that led to the restricted area! And Malfoy and Crabbe had come from the only door in the grilles. Realisation dawned on Hermione. Her eyes widened as she stared unbelievingly at the trio.
"You were . . ." she stammered, but came no further as a long, spidery-knuckled hand landed heavily on her shoulder. Gasping in shock, Hermione whirled around and found herself eye-to-eye with the Hogwarts librarian, Madam Pince. A pair of tiny, grey eyes behind wire-framed spectacles looked sternly down at her, then rose and directed a stone-hard glance on the three boys.
"I don’t believe students have any business around here, not without a permission at any rate," the librarian said in a raspy way; her speech seemed as dusty as the books surrounding them.
So that was how her voice sounded like, Hermione thought irrationally. Her glance shifted from the three caught Slytherins to the elderly librarian and back again. At the venom in Malfoy’s piercing eyes Hermione felt the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rise up and she went cold instantly.
"You had better come with me," said the librarian, her spectacles shimmering dimly in the semi-light of the aisle. Hermione’s heart began to beat loud and fast in her chest as she turned back to Madam Pince and half opened her mouth to speak. The hand on her shoulder squeezed slightly but Hermione saw the librarian nod as well.
"I know you’re not one of the company, Miss Granger," said Madam Pince. "You may go back to your studies."
Hermione swallowed slowly. The librarian let go of her shoulder and addressed the Slytherins with a cold glance. "The three gentlemen follow me." With that, she turned and slid past the shelf. A hesitant and very uncomfortable-looking Crabbe and Goyle followed her; even Malfoy said nothing in protest to the thin librarian’s orders. But when he passed Hermione, he stopped briefly, his glance practically shooting daggers at her. The aisle was narrow, and Hermione could feel the books in the shelves behind her press into her back and Malfoy’s breath on her forehead.
With Harry and Ron at her side, she wouldn’t have worried in the least. And she wasn’t usually so affected by Malfoy and his threatening behaviour. But this look on his face was different than usual. There was cold hatred in the pale eyes.
"You didn’t do that for nothing, Granger," he hissed. "I’ll get you for this."
Hermione opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but by then he was already around the corner and out of sight.
Hermione remained back in the corridor, her heart hammering in her chest.

***

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