Canary Yellow

Phoenix Song, Chapter Thirteen : Canary Yellow

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute. Where dialogue from the original Harry Potter books is quoted by me, the relevant text is marked with an asterisk.

I'd like to thank my betas, LAxo, who can point out weak plot points in the dark, and WriterMerrin, who can spot a comma splice at 40 paces. Without them, this story would be far less coherent.

"It wasn't a very slick attack, really, when you stop and think about it,"* remarked Ron, encouraging a first year to give up his comfy chair with a gentle smack on the back of the head. "The curse didn't even make it into the castle. Not what you'd call foolproof."*

It wasn't likely to make it into the castle, either...Filch's Secrecy Sensor would have seen to that, thought Hermione. "You're right,"* she said out loud to Ron, kicking him insistently in the knee until, with a grimace, he surrendered the chair to its original occupant. "It wasn't very well thought-out at all."*

Since Ron was now left without a seat, he plonked down onto the arm of Hermione's chair. The closeness of his body left her with a curiously pleasant, tingly sensation. Definitely not how proximity to Harry makes me feel. If she moved her leg just a fraction...there...it pressed ever so slightly into Ron's thigh. The warmth of it was extraordinary.

Harry was still carrying on about Malfoy, and Hermione glanced upward at Ron. He caught her look and rolled his eyes companionably. Hermione smiled back. The warmth generated by the touch of Ron's leg spread to her face, and she looked away quickly...guiltily, hoping he wouldn't notice her blush. Professor Snape's lesson on Legilimency had left her with an uneasy conscience toward her red-headed friend.

"Are you ever aware of knowing what someone is thinking?" Professor Snape had asked.

"Boys." Hermione shot him a disapproving look.

By the end of the lesson, it was clear that Hermione's insights into the thinking of others relied less on women's intuition and more on low-level Legilimency. Thus she knew that, in his own confused way, Ron liked her. And she knew herself well enough to acknowledge that she certainly wasn't opposed to the idea. But knowing what he felt without him having told her was a bit like cheating. Like she'd spied on something personal. She pressed her thigh a little more firmly against his and looked up at him under her eyelashes. He was leaning forward, urging Harry to play a game of chess. His sleeves were rolled up, and the vein of his forearm stood out against the muscle below. At the pressure on his leg, he glanced back at her and winked. Hermione smiled to herself and pulled out her Ancient Runes homework. Hermione Granger was not one to wait around for some foolish boy to make his move. She was perfectly capable of taking events into her own hands, and Slughorn's upcoming Christmas party offered the perfect opportunity.

During her first lesson in Legilimency, Hermione had found herself in the awkward situation of having to enter Professor Snape's mind. The experience had overwhelmed her with a combination of terror, nervousness and intense curiosity. She needn't have worried, really, for Snape was in control the entire time. He allowed her to see nothing but a stream of memories set in the Potions classroom...most consisted of Hermione herself, at various ages, coaching Neville through an innumerable number of potions disasters.

In subsequent lessons Jocelyn Smith was present, and the two witches practiced their Occlumency and Legilimency skills in tandem. The initial anger with which Hermione had responded to the young girl had faded with the realisation of Jocelyn's medical condition and personal history, and the first conversation they'd had was sufficient to provide the basis of a very friendly relationship. Hermione had found it an enormous and surprisingly pleasurable relief to talk with someone who liked Professor Snape almost as much as she did.

At first, Snape insisted that the lessons work in one direction only, with Hermione attempting to enter Jocelyn's mind over and over again. Many of the memories she encountered in the process were grindingly depressing...overheard arguments between Jocelyn's mother and a stream of foul-mouthed and often violent men, beatings, miserable dinners and lonely intervals in a dirty flat...but as Hermione got better at navigating her way through someone else's thoughts, and as Jocelyn got better at tucking some thoughts away, she had also witnessed much of the younger girl's joy in her newfound magical talents and the friends she had made at Hogwarts. When Snape finally ordered them to switch roles, Hermione realised, with an ill-concealed flush of pleasure, that he deemed her Occlumency skills adequate to keep all mention of the Order and Harry's fight against Voldemort from the probing intelligence of her young friend.

That same evening, as Jocelyn and Hermione left Snape's office, the younger girl shifted her satchel from one shoulder to the other and asked an unexpected question.

"Are you as good at Transfiguration as everyone says?"

Hermione hesitated, surprised. After a long second, she switched her focus from the heavy stones of the corridor wall to Jocelyn's pale blue eyes. Hermione shrugged. "I'm pretty good," she acknowledged, "though I don't know how good or bad people might say I am."

"Supposedly, you're the best student the school has ever seen."

"That's patently untrue," Hermione responded automatically. The conversation was making her uncomfortable. It can't be true, she thought a little wistfully. The Marauders had all managed to turn themselves into Animagi by my age, even Pettigrew. Professor McGonagall said that she wouldn't dream of letting me even try until next year. Hermione turned as if to walk away.

"Wait!" Jocelyn's small hand closed around her elbow. The younger girl took a deep breath. "I wondered whether you might help me with my Transfiguration revision. Unlike my other classes, I never really seemed to catch up after the weeks at the start of term when I couldn't do magic."

Hermione's wounded pride was instantaneously mended. "Of course! That makes perfect sense, you know, because unlike the other first-year classes, Transfiguration skills are cumulative. We'll have to start from the very beginning!"

Jocelyn looked relieved. "Thanks, Hermione. I appreciate it."

"It would be my pleasure! How about after classes tomorrow? I'll ask Professor McGonagall if we can use her room."

"Perfect, thanks!" Jocelyn grinned and gave Hermione's elbow a quick squeeze before turning in the direction of the Slytherin common room and scampering away.

Could my schedule get any more crowded? wondered Hermione bemusedly, smiling to herself as she turned the other way and headed upstairs in order to swing by the library on her way back to Gryffindor Tower.

The more time Hermione spent with Vector's arithmancy calculations, the more convinced she was of her role in the coming events: her job was to keep Harry alive. This year, that task seemed to be fairly straightforward, but next year, the equations promised, things would be much more difficult. Hermione sighed and ran her hands through her hair, wrenching her finger through a knot of curls that was threatening to take up permanent residence. Vector looked up from her work with a sympathetic expression. The professor was writing furiously with one hand and clicking a set of worry beads back and forth with the other in a constant and slightly irregular rhythm, that truth be told, was irritating Hermione.

"Trouble in Arithmantic paradise?" she asked.

"No," sighed Hermione. "I just wish the equations were more specific about what I have to do."

Vector graced her with a wry smile. "It might help to leave the equations that deal with your future for a while and concentrate on something else. Why not recalculate some of the probability distributions for earlier events? Even a small improvement in accuracy there could affect the indeterminacy that's bothering you in the later formulae."

It was good advice. Hermione had begun to obsess a little over the details of the subset that described her interaction with Harry and Ron. The quaternions, in particular, had occupied her for several weeks, and she'd spent hours watching the graphical representations spin themselves through four-dimensional space. She found something deeply reassuring in the tight coils of their three selves, particularly during the last few days, when Ron had been unaccountably cross with her. With another sigh...this time directed at her absent and irritating friend rather than the equations...she banished the graph that hung in front of her face and rolled up the parchment she'd been writing on. Rifling through her bag, she unearthed her notes on the earlier calculations and spread them out in front of her. Hmm.

"Professor?" Vector looked up at once, her encouraging gaze punctuated by the clicks of her worry beads. "Have you added Katie Bell's accident to the set of current events?"

Vector's body stilled entirely, and the pendulum of the beads gave one belated click. "No. Do you think it could be part of the pattern? I admit it seemed fairly random to me."

"It can't hurt to put it in, right? We'll see soon enough if it's significant or not."

"Right. There are a lot of unknowns...the why, the who, the target . . . Do it. You're right. It might prove crucial."

Hermione felt the flush of intellectual excitement and turned to her task with a new energy. She pulled her abacus towards her and turned over a clean set of parchment.

"I wonder," muttered Vector before turning back to her own calculations, "I wonder why Albus didn't already make that suggestion?"

Hermione stormed down to the Quidditch pitch, her insides in turmoil. How dare Harry? Felix Felicis! He should have saved that potion to help him against Voldemort, but oh no! He wastes it on a Quidditch match. He MUST know that's illegal. As if MY STUPIDITY in Confunding McLaggen was an EXCUSE! The thought of her own brush with illegality twisted the tight, guilty knot in her stomach a turn further. What kind of influence am I? Hermione wanted to weep, swallowing hard in a futile attempt to rid her mouth of the metallic taste of guilt and impotent rage. And Dumbledore...her mind replayed Dumbledore's commentary on her own indiscretion: "Do you want to be expelled? . . . Good. Because we can't afford to expel you. Statistically, it would be a disaster . . ."...Dumbledore wouldn't do anything, even if he knew.

Reaching the stands, Hermione found a seat and took refuge behind her morning's mail. She had no desire to make small talk with Neville this morning. Unfurling her most recent letter from Viktor, she stared at it unseeingly. How could Harry be such an idiot? How could I be such an idiot? Neville nudged her when the players emerged from the dressing room, and she folded her still-unread letter distractedly and returned it to her pocket. She fisted her hands tightly in her scarf and pulled it down fiercely as an unaccustomed scowl pulled her mouth down in an analogous line. The unwelcome pressure against the back of her neck eased her stress marginally.

"You all right, Hermione?" asked Neville solicitously.

"Fine," she growled.

He raised his eyebrows dubiously, but returned his attention to the unfolding game.

Ron saved everything. He flew brilliantly, long arms and capable hands safely shepherding the Quaffle away from the goal hoops at every opportunity. His body moved with a lean grace and explosive power that, in other circumstances, would have moved Hermione to a deep appreciation. Today, it left her feeling sick.

Hermione didn't even notice when Harry caught the snitch because she couldn't drag her eyes from Ron. Only when the onlookers around her leapt to their feet in celebration and her line of sight was broken, did she look away. As Ginny collided with the commentator's podium, Hermione came to an unpleasant decision. Harry and Ron wouldn't be happy with her, but she had to confront them about this. Cheating is cheating, even...or especially...when it's Gryffindors trying to beat Slytherins. She tried to squelch all consideration of what this might do to the already tenuous rapport between Ron and her.

"I'll see you later, Neville," she muttered as she began to squeeze her way past the other spectators, fighting her way against the flow of people and down towards the change rooms. When she got there, only Ron and Harry were left.

Gathering her Gryffindor courage with a deep breath, she laid her metaphorical cards on the table, "I want a word with you, Harry. You shouldn't have done it. You heard Slughorn, it's illegal."*

"What are you going to do?"* interjected Ron aggressively. "Turn us in?"*

"What are you two talking about?"* Harry sounded as if the whole thing was a huge joke. Is he really so unconcerned about breaking the rules?

"You know perfectly well what we're talking about!"* Hermione felt her voice slide upwards and silently cursed her lack of self-control. "You spiked Ron's juice with lucky potion at breakfast! Felix Felicis!"*

"No, I didn't."*

Cheating was bad enough, but to lie to her about it, too? Hermione clenched her hands hard, the nails biting into her palms. "Yes you did, Harry, and that's why everything went right, there were Slytherin players missing and Ron saved everything!"*

"I didn't put it in!"* Harry pulled the tiny bottle of golden potion from his pocket, the seal still noticeably intact. "I wanted Ron to think I'd done it, so I faked it when I knew you were looking."* He turned towards Ron and gave him a friendly slap on the upper arm. "You saved everything because you felt lucky. You did it all yourself."*

Hermione stared at Harry, her eyes wide in shock. You bastard, she thought, letting go of her anger only minimally.

Ron looked astounded, his mouth hung open for several seconds before he could say anything. "There really wasn't anything in my pumpkin juice? But the weather's good . . . and Vaisey couldn't play. . . . I honestly haven't been given lucky potion?"*

Harry grinned and patted the pocket into which he'd slipped the phial of potion. Hermione saw the exact moment that fury replaced the surprise on Ron's face. He spun towards her and imitated her voice in a cruel falsetto, "You added Felix Felicis to Ron's juice this morning, that's why he saved everything! See! I can save goals without help, Hermione!"*

You bastard, she thought again, incriminating her other best friend along with the first. The conversation was a train wreck she was unable to prevent. "I never said you couldn't...Ron,"*...he was already leaving, but she called after his retreating figure in desperation..."You thought you'd been given it too!"*

Alone with Harry, Hermione rubbed the heel of her hand roughly across her eyes.

"Er,"* Harry hesitated, his earlier confidence derailed in the face of Ron's reaction. "Shall . . . shall we go up to the party, then?"*

"You go!"* Hermione gave her knitted hat a sharp tug and pulled it lower over her ears. "I'm sick of Ron at the moment, I don't know what I'm supposed to have done."* She shot Harry a quick smile that she hoped came across as mature and forbearing, though she feared she just looked miserable, and hurried out onto the grounds. A walk around the lake suddenly seemed like a very good idea.

Under the beech tree, she sat down and forced herself to read Viktor's letter with the attention it deserved. As asked, he'd provided further information about his advanced Transfiguration research, and the details proved remarkably soothing. He'd also reiterated an invitation for her to visit him once again in Bulgaria. She blushed at the thought: she knew exactly where things would lead if she took him up on the offer. Well, she remarked crossly to herself, maybe I should. At least some people can appreciate my charms. Folding the letter decisively, she decided that her equilibrium was now such that a return to the common room was within the realms of the manageable. Besides, it was getting chilly.

The sight in the common room, however, would have fazed Hermione even under the best of circumstances. Ron was draped over Lavender in a grotesque parody of teenage enthusiasm. Hermione turned on her heel, getting a hand to the Fat Lady's portrait before it had closed behind her, and pushed her way back out into the corridor. She had to get away.

The first couple of doors were locked, and on the third try she muttered, "Alohomora," before slipping inside with a dry sob of relief. Walking towards the front of the empty classroom, she went over several of Snape's mental exercises inside her head. I am calm, she repeated. I am calm. She sat up on the teacher's desk, stroking the surface of the table with one hand. I am calm. She drew out her wand and thought about Viktor's letter. The experiments he is doing with animal Transfigurations really are interesting. She conjured a canary out of thin air and sent it circling above her head. I am calm. She conjured a second canary. Viktor is a very intelligent, internationally famous Quidditch player. He also lives in Bulgaria, added a more cynical internal voice, but she squashed it ruthlessly. I am calm. She conjured a third canary and set it circling with its brethren. Her parents were unlikely to send her off to Bulgaria a second time, but hey, she could always invite him to visit her instead. She determined to do so that very evening. I am calm. A fourth canary popped into existence and joined the fluttering circle above. I certainly don't care about the love life of one Ronald Weasley, a mediocre Quidditch player who couldn't Transfigure his way out of a paper bag. A fifth canary made its appearance at the same moment that Harry opened the door and slipped into the room.

"Oh, hello, Harry, I was just practicing."* Hermione concentrated on keeping her voice even and the canaries circling smoothly. I am calm.

"Yeah . . . they're...er...really good . . ."*

Nice one, Harry. Lovely and coherent. Hermione was slightly mollified that her friend had come to find her. But they might as well face up to the reason they were both here.

"Ron seems to be enjoying the celebrations,"* she stated. Hermione wished she had the vocal control of Professor Snape. Smooth and sarcastic was the sound ideal she was aiming for, not the high-pitched squeak that stress inevitably triggered.

"Er . . . does he?"*

Harry always was a terrible liar. "Don't pretend you didn't see him. He wasn't exactly hiding it, was...?"* Hermione broke off as the door was flung open yet again. At the sight of Ron, her heart leapt, only to plummet again as he dragged Lavender through the doorway, laughing a little hysterically. Bitch. The voice in Hermione's head was oddly dispassionate.

"Oh,"* said Ron, catching sight of the room's occupants and stopping in his tracks.

"Oops!"* Lavender giggled, backing out with one hand pressed to her mouth.

As the awkward silence stretched interminably onwards, Hermione repeated her mantra over and over: I am calm, I am calm. Ron didn't even look at her.

"Hi, Harry! Wondered where you'd got to!"*

Bastard. Hello, Ron? I don't suppose you could spare a thought to wonder where I'd got to?! Moving as carefully and deliberately as she could, Hermione slid off the desk and walked towards the door, her halo of canaries trailing in her wake. I am calm.

As she passed Ron, she gave him a saccharine smile. "You shouldn't leave Lavender waiting outside,"* she commented, mentally commending herself on the level tone of her voice. "She'll wonder where you've gone."* The look of relief that crossed Ron's face at her comment was almost comical, and her smile slipped from falsely sweet to smug. At the last moment, she spun towards him, wand in hand. "Oppugno!"* she shouted, unleashing the canaries in a golden stream of avian fury. She slammed the door behind her, abruptly cutting off his shrieks of discomfort.

In the relative safety of the hallway, Hermione broke into a run. Undoubtedly Lavender had returned to Gryffindor tower, and Hermione had no desire to cross her path again in either the common room or the dormitory. She headed, therefore, for Professor Vector's office...the only place none of her friends would follow and where she could be guaranteed entrance, no matter the time. The corridors were deserted, to Hermione's relief, for her tears were flowing freely. Though they blurred her vision, the path was so familiar that she could navigate almost by instinct. Only a couple of turns from her destination, however, she raced around a bend and cannoned into someone. She would have fallen, had strong hands not caught at her elbows, and she rocked on her feet for a second, her face pressed into the thick black wool of a set of teaching robes. Her heart thudded in her throat. A set of teaching robes that smelled distinctly familiar...an odd mixture of herbs and smoke that had followed Snape from the potions lab to the DADA classroom. A small sob escaped her, and she twisted away, determined to run once more, but the hands on her elbows held her back. Her humiliation, she realised, was now complete.

"Miss Granger, when I instructed you to take up running, I did not intend for you to train in the corridors."

Hermione took a shuddering breath without looking up. "I'm sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

Snape held her away from his body without releasing his grip. She felt the intensity of his gaze and stared determinedly at one of the buttons on his robe. It was embossed with a slightly raised serpentine "S." Breathing through her nose as deeply as she could, she struggled to regain some self-control. For extra measure, she raised her Occlumentic shields, though she hadn't made eye contact.

When Snape did let go of her arms, she swayed slightly on her feet, astounded by the keen sense of loss that swept over her. To her surprise, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her. She grasped at it gratefully, wiping her eyes and turning away to blow her nose thoroughly. She folded it afterwards and extended it towards him, looking him in the face for the first time. He was eyeing the proffered handkerchief with a look of singular disgust. She glanced back down at the soggy folds that were gripped between her fingers and the tear-swollen planes of her face twisted into a wry smile.

"I can clean it for you," she offered, hurriedly.

Snape flared his nostrils as if the very idea offended him. "Keep it," he replied, infusing his voice with disdain. "Tell me," he continued before she could thank him, "did you have a destination in mind, or were you running for the sheer joy of movement?"

"I was headed for Professor Vector's office."

"By rights I should send you back to your dormitory."

Hermione blanched visibly. "Please, sir, don't." Her voice was tinged suddenly with a hint of her previous tears.

Snape raised one eyebrow. "Alternately, you could serve detention with me."

"That," responded Hermione with conviction, "would be infinitely preferable."

Snape raised a second eyebrow to join the first and abruptly switched tack. "What would you have done on discovering that Professor Vector is not in her office?"

"She added me to the wards, sir. I can go in anytime."

Hermione didn't dare to breathe. Would he send her back to Gryffindor Tower? Would he let her go to Vector's office? He stood considering the options for a long moment, one finger rubbing against his lower lip.

"Come along, Miss Granger," he ordered, turning on his heel. She followed him quickly, relieved beyond measure that he was leading her onwards rather than back towards the common room. Outside Vector's door he paused. "Don't let me catch you in the halls after curfew, Miss Granger, or it will be detention."

Hermione knocked gently on the door to be certain it was empty, then opened it with a tap of her wand. She looked over her shoulder as she stepped through. "Thank you, Professor," she said. Snape made no reply, merely encouraging her to step through the doorway with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

Once the door was shut, Hermione lit up the room with a wave of her wand. Professor Snape was unbelievably nice, she noted, placing his handkerchief on her worktable and smoothing it out with her left hand. I almost would have enjoyed a detention. She took a deep breath and stretched, her arms extended above her head, her back arching. Since she was here, she might as well get some work done. Resolutely, she pushed the calculations that involved her, Ron and Harry to one side, and pulled forward her new equations dealing with Katie Bell's accident. By the time she headed back to her bed, the excursion could have counted as "up early" rather than "out after curfew," but she was still relieved to meet no-one but The Grey Lady, who drifted past rather absentmindedly. She slipped into the dorm before anyone else was awake and shut her curtains very carefully around the bed. Thank God it was a Sunday morning, and she could safely sleep much of the day away.