Chapter 20 — Hermione in the Dust; Classmates Turn Cold
Madam Hooch saw the shambles and knew at once it was a Gryffindor–Slytherin brawl. Ten-plus years on the job—she'd seen plenty. But why it started, who started it—that must be sorted.
Slytherins wailed first. "Professor, Gryffindor provoked us!"
"They used brooms as clubs—unwizardly!"
"They attacked Malfoy first—then came for us!"
"Professor, save Malfoy! He looks like he's dying!"
Gryffindors raged at the lies and all talked at once—Malfoy had provoked them first.
Dozens of tongues at once, spit flying; Madam Hooch's temples throbbed; her skull buzzed. She wanted to pop off her crown and leap out.
"Quiet!" She boomed a Sonorus. "Now—where is Mr. Malfoy?"
Bodies parted. On the ground lay something three parts man, seven parts ghoul.
Madam Hooch stepped close and cried out.
Lips swollen like sausages; bumps like a toad's; hair sprouting on the backs of his hands like a mountain sprite; belly round and tight like ten months pregnant. Face beyond recognition—only the pale hair gave him away.
"Who did this?"
Harry stepped forward; before he could speak, Hooch cut in. "Do not tell me this is your work alone, Mr. Potter. I'm not that foolish."
Harry cupped his hands. "Not mine, professor—and not my Gryffindor brothers and sisters either."
"Then who?" Hooch said. "Mr. Malfoy himself?"
Harry grinned. "Ask these fine Slytherin lads."
Slytherins refused to admit it, crying innocence; Gryffindors cursed their shamelessness.
Another Sonorus for silence.
"Your wand, Mr. Potter," Hooch said gravely. "Mr. Malfoy has at least dozens of hexes on him. That's worse than a brawl."
Harry was open—no lies. He handed over his wand. Hooch cast a priori incantatem, reviewing recent spells. Her eyes widened—Harry hadn't cast at all today? So he'd told the truth?
She whirled. "Miss Parkinson—your wand."
Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin who looked like a pug, stammered, "P-professor, shouldn't you check the Gryffindors first?"
"I will. After we learn who hexed Mr. Malfoy."
One by one she checked Slytherin wands. By the end she was fuming.
"Mr. Potter told the truth.
"Fights happen. But hexing the back of the boy who's shielding you?"
"Slytherin: minus twenty!"
Gryffindors cheered—halfway—then Hooch said, "Gryffindor: minus twenty—for brawling."
Slytherins sniggered—too soon.
"Slytherin again: brawling, minus twenty more."
Gryffindors cheered louder.
In sum:
Madam Hooch lopped the points away;
Serpents lost a forty's sway.
Lions too shed twenty drops;
The hourglass rose—twenty props.
After class Ron and the rest swept Harry to dinner, cheering all the way.
Upperclass Gryffindors asked; Ron told the tale of the day's flying class, winning roars from the room. He acted it out—Harry with a broom beating ten-plus Slytherins to flight—drawing gasps from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff too.
"Our lion-king," Fred intoned, glass high. "To you, great savior."
Harry clinked. "If you don't clip the whelps' wings, how will they learn my mettle?
"Shame I'm not stronger—give me a few more years and I'd take a hundred Slytherins alone."
George's eyes gleamed. "If you want to bulk up, I can help."
Harry bowed. "Brother George has such means? Teach me."
"Oh, mighty lion—let me keep a secret."
"Bah! I hate riddles!"
Gryffindors joked and laughed. Only Hermione wore a frown. "We lost twenty points. Slytherin still leads."
Festive cups paused—wrong words again. First-years ignored her; older years smirked and shook their heads.
No one listened. Hermione's heart pinched; she shrank into silence.
A fifth-year redhead came over. "Don't be upset, Hermione. They're just high-spirited."
Where there are fire-clouds, there's a Weasley. This was Percy, Ron's third brother—a fifth-year prefect. He saw Hermione's studious streak, like his, and offered a hint:
"Sometimes points aren't most important."
Hermione frowned. "If points don't matter, how do we win the House Cup?"
Percy shook his head. Too little wisdom; too stuck on scores.
After noon they went to Herbology. Hermione still fretted over the deductions. She shot up her hand again and again, snagging every answer, earning Gryffindor seven or eight points back—happy in her heart.
But when she looked to her housemates, no one applauded. They peered at their odd plants as if blind and deaf. Hermione's heart ached.
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