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[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 14.5 (Interlude)
🕑 Added 2025-01-27 05:24:48 +0000 UTC"Hermione, you're unusually quiet today. You’re not feeling unwell, are you?"
Granger turned away from the passing fields outside the train window and looked directly into her friend's eyes. Whether it was the glasses reflecting the light or just the honest sincerity of his gaze, it was clear the question was genuine, without any hidden meaning.
"Are you trying to say I usually never stop talking, Harry?"
"Not exactly, but I thought I'd spend half the journey hearing about every book you read over the summer," Ron chimed in, completely unfazed by Harry’s sharp elbow jabbing his side. "Hey, didn’t you say the same thing?"
"I’ve always admired your honesty, Ronald Weasley," she said dryly.
"Well, you’re welcome, I guess. But seriously, what’s up with you? And, for the record, it’s not like we don’t want to listen to you."
"That was almost sweet of you. I'm just thinking about how I must be a terrible teacher."
"Oh, come on, don’t take it so seriously. It’s not like you’re getting paid for it. What’s the deal with that kid anyway? Why do you care so much?"
"Ron, are you jealous?" Hermione gasped theatrically, her eyes wide with mock surprise. She glanced at Harry, who had turned away to hide a grin, then returned to her usual tone. "And for your information, at least James wants to learn and takes school seriously—even before he’s actually started. Unlike some people, who barely made it to the train five minutes before departure. What would you have done if you missed it? I doubt you’d hop on a plane or catch the next train, and the next bus there only runs late in the evening."
"But Knight Bus only runs at night, right?"
"A Muggle bus, Ronald. Muggle."
"Alright, alright, stop nagging us. This time, it wasn’t even our fault, okay? We left early, but then we had to go back because Fred forgot his broom. Then we had to turn around again because George forgot his fireworks—or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, we got to the station twenty minutes before the train left, but there was this massive line because Aurors and patrols were checking everyone's trunks. You know, new rules. You were there, you saw us being searched."
"Sure, but that doesn’t excuse either of you."
Hermione, always cautious, had arrived at the station with her parents as early as ten in the morning, aware of the mandatory checks introduced last week. Worried that her Muggle parents, carrying plenty of non-magical items, might be held up at the entrance, she said her goodbyes outside and headed to the magical platform alone.
As expected, an Auror trainee in a robe had politely asked her to open her trunk and submit to an inspection for enchanted items. From what Hermione observed, adults were given a cursory glance, while most of the scrutiny was reserved for students—especially older ones, mainly from Slytherin. Those who protested loudly about the "outrageous invasion of privacy" were swiftly silenced by pointing to the freshly framed decree from the Ministry titled "On Enhanced Security Measures and Combating Dark Magic." After that, they had little ground to argue.
The rules weren’t draconian, though. Most confiscations involved enchanted Muggle items like mirrors, lighters, or glasses. Brand-name products purchased from reputable shops in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley were typically returned.
James Murphy, who had indeed come to see her off, arrived about ten minutes after her, oddly dressed in his school uniform. He passed through the checkpoint effortlessly, carrying nothing but his house keys. As he approached, Hermione noticed him exchanging a few polite words with another Auror trainee patrolling the platform.
"Hello, Murphy. Sorry, but I need to check something with a spell first," Hermione said briskly, grabbing his arm and leading him to a quieter corner of the platform. She hesitated before touching her wand in its holster. "Do I have your permission?"
"Good morning," he greeted calmly, showing no surprise at her assertiveness and allowing himself to be led away. "If it's safe, go ahead."
"Thank you," she replied, drawing her wand and raising it before her. She uttered a spell she had practiced over the summer: "Revelio."
James watched her movements warily at first, his body tensing as though ready to flee or fight back if the spell turned out to be hostile. But when nothing happened, he waited a few more seconds, shrugged lightly, and asked curiously:
"Practicing second-year material already? Impressive. Or is there another reason for this?"
"The times are uneasy. You’ve read the papers; you know what’s going on," she said nervously, nodding toward the Auror checkpoint. She tried to sound casual. "I was worried someone might try to attack me by disguising themselves as you, now that everyone knows you’re my ‘student.’"
"Really? Do you think someone would go to the trouble of impersonating me just to target a first-generation witch with no family debts or blood feuds, who’s only starting her second year of school?" he replied, his tone overly polite, though his gaze held a faint hint of amusement. "Are you hiding something, Miss Granger? Do you have worthy enemies already?"
"N-no, of course not! What enemies would I have?" she stammered, hurriedly putting her wand away and raising her hands defensively. "It’s just a precaution. Reasonable caution, that’s all."
"Is it?" James tilted his head slightly, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. "It feels more like an excuse. Maybe you’ve been wanting to try something like this for a while, and now the opportunity conveniently presented itself?"
"And why on earth would I do that?" Hermione’s voice rose an octave as she attempted an awkward defense.
"I don’t know. Maybe you find it unsettling to think that someone younger than you might know a little more about certain things?" James suggested evenly, shrugging once more. "And without being some sixty-year-old wizard who’s long since graduated and taught their own students. Do you think it’s impossible for someone to read just as many books in a few months and actually understand them enough to know about magic? Or am I wrong?" he asked suddenly, sharply meeting her eyes. "Perhaps I should ask someone older to use Revelio on you, just in case? It often seems to me that, for a first-generation magus, you know far too much…"
"No, no, no… wait!" Hermione exclaimed, feeling as though the ground could swallow her whole. His words struck uncomfortably close to her own thoughts, hitting their mark with painful precision. "Let’s just take a deep breath and calm down… Okay, slowly, calmly, without panicking…" She hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, you’re right. I’ll admit it—I did doubt whether you’re really just a Muggle-born who only learned about the magical world half a year ago. I wanted to confirm it. I’ll admit it was unfair… Very unfair of me. But, in my defense, you do know more about magic than any first- or second-year student I’ve ever met. Not that that’s much of a defense."
"Except you?"
"Maybe…" she stammered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. "In some things. I don’t know!"
"Trust between a teacher and their student is the foundation of a successful relationship. A lack of it can cost one their magic—or even their life, Miss Granger," James said distantly, his tone devoid of anger or resentment. That only made Hermione feel worse. "Was trusting you a mistake?"
"No! I… I don’t know anymore. Everything’s so confusing—these rumors, the inspections, a murder in broad daylight, the stone and its theft! I don’t know who to trust anymore, except my friends. What if anyone—even a professor—could turn out to be someone they’re not?" she cried, her voice breaking as she fought not to cry. She knew she’d overstepped, but she hadn’t expected it to spiral like this.
"It takes time to truly appreciate the value of advice like 'don’t trust strangers,' doesn’t it?" James replied. "I’m not angry you suspected me of something. We’ve only known each other for a couple of months, and you know little about me—just as I know little about you. In fact, I’m even flattered that you thought I might be some secretly skilled wizard. It means I’ve managed to impress you at least a few times."
"You’re not angry at all?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. His calm tone had kept her from spiraling into a full-blown panic, but she’d been bracing for accusations—angry, justified ones—not this.
"No," James said simply, shaking his head. Then, adopting a more instructive tone, he added, "If someone else had been in my place, your suspicion might have saved your life. In the magical world, where appearances can often deceive, those who trust too easily don’t last long. Perhaps that’s why they teach Revelio as early as the second year."
"I’ll admit, I’d never thought of it that way. Well, in any case…" Hermione hesitated, then extended her hand awkwardly. "Can we just forget about this? Peace, my student?"
"Peace, my teacher," he replied, shaking her hand easily. "But in the future, I hope for a little more trust—at least toward me."
"Of course. I won’t use that spell on you again without a real reason."
"I’m glad we cleared that up. But I wouldn’t abandon it altogether. During the war, they say dozens—if not hundreds—of people were placed under Imperius. It’s not as though all of them were cursed by their best friends; some could have been impersonated. Vigilance never hurts."
"Yes, yes, I’ll keep that in mind. So… um…" Hermione’s eyes darted around, searching desperately for a way to change the topic. Even the most awkward distraction would do; she couldn’t feel any more mortified than she already did. And then she found one. "I see you’ve had a haircut. Was that for today’s ‘special’ occasion?"
"And? Does it suit me?" James asked with mock seriousness, as though their prior conversation hadn’t happened at all. He even turned his head side to side for effect.
"Maybe it’s not for me to say, but the front looks fine. The back, though—it’s like the scissors exploded halfway through."
"Clearly, the barber was inexperienced. I’ve already decided never to set foot there again. Anyway, that’s trivial. What’s more important is that the new school year is starting—and apparently, your most important subject will be taught by… a writer."
"You’re still doubting Professor Lockhart’s competence?" Hermione asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. Under different circumstances, she might have been genuinely offended by such open skepticism toward her new idol. Instead, she settled for a quiet huff. "Just because he writes books in his spare time?"
"If he turns his work into novels rather than monographs or articles for reference guides, that’s his business," James replied indifferently, waving a hand. He’d already mentioned before that he’d read one of Lockhart’s books and found the writing unimpressive. "He’s not an official hunter of dangerous creatures, so he needs to make a living somehow. An enthusiast with extensive personal experience might have a lot to share, but I’m skeptical he’ll be able to present the material effectively to students. Different years require different approaches, and, judging by the biography in his books, he’s never trained as a teacher."
"You sound like you’re planning to teach at Hogwarts after you graduate."
"I wouldn’t rule it out entirely. In any case, I hope to hear from you on this once classes start. If Mr. Lockhart turns out to be a talented instructor with deep knowledge of his subject, I’ll be delighted. After all, that would mean I wouldn’t have to self-study the entire Defense curriculum next year—unlike with Quirrell, whose competence in that field was… questionable, to say the least."
They continued chatting about various topics while they had the time—conceptual magic, the protective barriers around the train station and railway, and whether the new Defense professor would last longer than a year or fall victim to the infamous curse on the position. When they returned to the train, Murphy casually introduced her to Tonks, the Auror trainee who had first introduced him to the magical world. According to Tonks, under the new Ministry decree, all patrols and trainees had been reassigned to protect magical settlements. Hogwarts, however, remained unaffected. The headmaster had declined additional Ministry protection, insisting that the school’s wards and staff were sufficient.
Hermione listened with skepticism—she’d already learned last year that the so-called infallible protections of Hogwarts were far from perfect.
Fifteen minutes before the train’s departure, Murphy gave her a formal, almost overly ceremonious farewell until winter, reminded her once again to write, and returned to Muggle London. On his way out, he passed the sizable Weasley family, accompanied by Potter. The arrival of such a large group practically paralyzed the "customs" process, especially since at least two of the students were guaranteed to have pockets full of enchanted items not on the approved list. As a result, Ron and Harry only managed to reach Hermione moments before the train’s departure, with more students still filtering onto the platform. It was a wonder the train wasn’t delayed by hours.
“You’re thinking about him again.”
“What?” Hermione realized she’d been sitting with Lockhart’s book open in her hands, reliving the morning’s events without actually reading a word.
“I said, you’re thinking about that kid again,” Ron repeated, watching her. “You’ve got it bad, taking this professor thing so seriously. You’ll stress yourself out over someone else’s studies so much your hair will stick up on end—and stay that way.”
“My hair is perfectly fine,” she snapped, reflexively smoothing it with her hand. “And why are you so fixated on him?”
“I just don’t like him. His eyes… they’re cold. Detached. Remember when Draco’s dad came over to sneer at us in the shop? He has the same kind of look.”
“Oh, honestly, what ridiculous nonsense you’re spouting. Aren’t you embarrassed to talk about someone like that behind their back?”
“Are you defending your students now?” Harry chimed in, finally joining the conversation after silently listening. “Next step, learning to turn into a cat.”
“What? Oh, I get it. But no, I won’t. I love cats, but I’m not about to turn into one—no offense to Professor McGonagall. Ron, you should be ashamed. You don’t even know James, not really, and here you are saying all these things.”
“I’m telling you, something’s off about him,” Ron insisted. “What if he’s using you to get to Harry? You-Know-Who’s still got plenty of followers left, no matter how many get caught.”
“If that’s the case, why hasn’t James asked me about him?” Hermione countered. “He hasn’t brought Harry up, not even once—not like Quirrell or Snape. The one time we talked about him… Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, but James said, ‘The boy’s done his duty; the boy can go.’ Not literally, but—”
“Come on, I went to school too, even if I wasn’t great at it. I know that saying,” Harry interrupted, clearly annoyed. “You think we’re all clueless?”
“Sorry, Harry. Anyway, he thinks you just got lucky, being in the right place at the right time. That it wasn’t really up to you at all. You-Know-Who destroyed himself through his own magic, triggered by some kind of ritual, magical phenomenon, or a mix of overlapping causes. Basically, James believes that after that night, you are just an ordinary wizard, not someone especially valuable to anyone. His words, not mine.”
“What does he know?” Ron snapped, bristling on Harry’s behalf. “You didn’t tell him about the stone or anything else, did you? About how they tried to kill Harry—or the warning he got this summer?”
“No. That was our business, no one else’s. I understand your point, but listen to me, too—Harry’s not important to James. He just wants to learn early, and I’m helping him because I wish someone had helped me like that last year. We met entirely by accident in a bookstore. I approached him first and didn’t let him walk away. Happy now?”
“I still don’t trust him.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Harry, what about you? What do you think?”
“If we’re being honest,” Harry began, “we’re focusing on the wrong thing. Even if this first-year somehow has ties to Voldemort, he’s not a threat to anyone for a long while. But this—this is happening right now.” He placed a newspaper on the table.
The now-infamous August 24 issue of The Daily Prophet featured a large, motionless photograph of a wizard and a bold headline: Francis Travers Found Dead in Diagon Alley! Hundreds of Witnesses, Widespread Panic! Where Was the Auror Department?
“I didn’t want to ruin the start of the year, but we can’t ignore it. There’s a dark wizard out there killing people.”
“The son of a Death Eater,” Ron corrected.
“And that makes it fine?” Harry shot back.
“Like father, like son…”
“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione scolded sharply.
“All right, all right, I’ll stop…” Ron muttered.
This was the topic they’d been avoiding all day, the one dominating conversations for the past week—the reason the Ministry had tightened security in magical areas and imposed inspections at the train platform.
A week earlier, while Hermione was working at the library, a bloodied, severely wounded wizard had apparated into the middle of a crowded Diagon Alley. By the time the screams subsided, the crowd scattered, and a few healers pushed through to assist, the young man was already dead. His face was so disfigured and bloodied that it took Aurors at St. Mungo’s to identify him as Francis Travers, the heir to an old wizarding family and son of Martin Travers, who was serving a life sentence in Azkaban.
Even under normal circumstances, such an incident would have caused a public outcry. But this one involved more than a hundred witnesses, the sheer brutality of the murder, and, most disturbingly, leaks from the hospital or Ministry hinting that the wizard hadn’t been killed by a mere curse—not even an Unforgivable—but by a cursed weapon. A weapon wielding the kind of dark magic the Ministry had claimed to have decisively defeated.
“Do you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did this too?” Hermione finally asked after a long silence.
“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted. “But he didn’t completely die. We know that now. So anything’s possible.”
“I don’t think it was him,” Ron unexpectedly interjected. “That Travers bloke was killed with Muggle weapons. You-Know-Who would never stoop to something like that.”
“So the rumors and the articles in the papers weren’t lying?” Hermione pressed.
“No. Dad tries not to talk about it, and he’s barely been home all week. But Percy said Dad’s pay was bumped up overnight, and they assigned four recent graduates to his department for training. If someone’s decided to curse Muggle weapons to kill wizards, then his department suddenly becomes really important, doesn’t it? That’s probably why the Ministry passed that decree and confiscated enchanted Muggle items at the station. Not that it’ll do much good now, but they have to look like they’re doing something.”
“And the rest?” Hermione pulled out a different issue of the newspaper from her suitcase. It was from the 27th, featuring a moving photo of charred ruins in Muggle London, surrounded by Aurors keeping watch and casting spells to disperse Muggles. The headline read: Francis Travers — Modern Hero or Tragic Victim?
“Rita Skeeter’s sunk her claws into this case. I don’t know who she bribed or how she got access, but she’s written in detail, citing some ‘anonymous Auror,’ about the use of Muggle weapons and the fact that the place Travers Apparated from was, excuse my language, a Muggle drug den. The last spell recorded on his wand was Incendio, and the site itself was burned to the ground with dark magic—some variant of Fiendfyre.”
“I haven’t heard about that,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Dad didn’t mention anything like that to us. And seriously, what would a pure-blood be doing in a Muggle drug den?”
“That’s not my term; it’s Skeeter’s,” Hermione clarified. “As for why he was there… The Ministry wants people to believe he was a hero who went there to fight a dark wizard and protect Muggles. For some reason, he didn’t warn the Aurors or any experienced wizards. He just went alone, defeated the evil, but couldn’t save himself.”
“You don’t believe it?” Harry asked, noticing her skeptical expression.
“Not entirely,” Hermione admitted, shaking her head. “There’s no evidence he actually defeated anyone. But the Ministry needs to calm people down—to say there’s no dark wizard threatening them because an unknown hero already dealt with him, someone who renounced his father’s ways and chose to protect Muggles, even at the cost of his own life. Personally, I think it’s the opposite. Travers was working there, and a dark wizard attacked him. Who knows what they were fighting over.”
“A pure-blood? A Death Eater’s son? Working with Muggles?” Ron sounded incredulous.
“It’s just my theory. Think about it, though. He was almost twenty, graduated from Hogwarts a couple of years ago, and hadn’t worked anywhere in the wizarding world. With his background, he wouldn’t have been able to get a job here anyway. Sure, Malfoy got off scot-free, but Travers Sr. is in Azkaban for life, no parole—You-Know-Who’s closest lieutenant. Meanwhile, his son has to make a living somehow. Not all pure-blood families…” She trailed off, realizing where she was heading. Ron and Harry had already decided to avoid this sensitive topic, and she didn’t want to stir it up again. “Well, you get the idea. With the head of the family in prison for eleven years, Travers had nothing to lose. Muggles would pay a wizard willing to work with them handsomely, I’m sure, even a former Hogwarts student. And Travers passed his NEWTs.”
“If you’re right, I can only imagine the scandal this caused among the pure-bloods,” Ron said, grinning. “Malfoy probably had a fit. The heir of an ancient family working for ‘those worthless Muggles’? Hermione, no offense. Compared to that, all their talk about our so-called ‘betrayal’ is a joke.”
“But it’s just my theory. We don’t know what really happened. If I’m right, though, You-Know-Who would definitely have killed him as soon as he found out.”
“With Muggle weapons?”
“Maybe just to make a point—in his own twisted style.”
“I doubt he even has a sense of humor,” Harry muttered darkly, likely recalling the end of their first year. “And the real question is, what do we do now? If there could be two dark wizards loose in Britain, or even more? Dumbledore told me Voldemort wants me dead, but he wouldn’t say why. Just this vague ‘you’ll understand when you’re older.’ What if this affects all dark wizards? If one of them wants me dead, what if the others do too? What if they start competing over it?”
“What do we do?” Hermione repeated. “The answer is obvious. Study.”
“Oh, of course! Why did I even ask?”
“Can’t you be serious, for once?”
“I. Am. Completely. Serious,” she said, standing up and staring down at their disgruntled faces. “For us, knowledge is power, far more than for anyone else. For instance…” She pulled a quill from her robe pocket, placed it on the compartment table, then drew her wand. Closing her eyes to concentrate, she waved it in a half-circle, then pointed it at the quill. A moment later, she picked up a slim rapier that now lay where the quill had been.
“Well, who said the pen is mightier than the sword?” she asked with a sly smile.
“Uh…”
“Um…”
“Oh, that was rhetorical. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, but that’s not the point,” she said, setting the rapier in a corner and hoping no one would walk in for at least a few minutes. By her calculations, the transfiguration wouldn’t last much longer. “My point is that, unlike regular schools, the knowledge we gain here really can keep us safe. If you didn’t realize that after first year, you should have. Knowledge can protect you from curses, creatures—even bullets. And we have an amazing opportunity this year—Gilderoy Lockhart himself teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts. A renowned slayer of monsters, with experience from all over the world. If, after this,” she gestured at the newspapers, “you two don’t take this seriously and waste the chance, I’ll be very disappointed in you both.”
“You know, teaching isn’t doing you any favors. You’re starting to treat us like complete idiots…”
“What did you just say, Ronald?” Hermione’s hand twitched toward her wand for emphasis, but she restrained herself.
“I said I’ll attend Lockhart’s classes,” Ron repeated. “No point in spending so much on his books otherwise, right? But if he ends up teaching us rubbish like Quirrell did, we’re going to have a talk about it.”
“Oh, I can’t wait for that conversation. Harry?”
“I get it. Study hard, or we’re doomed. Magic’s the problem, and magic’s the solution.”
“Less fatalism, please. I’m not asking you to master the mechanics of conceptual influence and recite it back to me. All I want is for you to take lessons seriously, especially the ones that might save your life.”
“You know, Hermione, right now you sound more like Snape than McGonagall.”
“For all his faults, especially toward our house, Professor Snape is an incredibly skilled wizard, particularly for his age. I could almost take that as a compliment.”
“How old is he, anyway?” Harry asked, curious.
“I’m not sure. Maybe fifty-five?” Ron guessed with a shrug.
“Thirty-two, Ronald. And if you don’t want me repeating that in front of him, you’d better stay awake in Potions.”
“I can already tell this is going to be a rough year…”
