It had started out as such a pleasant day. Well, as pleasant as a day could be with Umbridge still in charge. The sun had shone brightly on the grounds; Peeves, while floating outside the boys' dormitory, had seen Seamus using a Manly Moustache Masque from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes ("Late Bloomer? Let us take care of it! Enjoy a rugged appearance and attract female attention! Only two Sickles!"), and now followed him everywhere, endlessly singing, "There was a young man called Seamus Finnegan/Who grew whiskers on his chinnegan/The wind came out and blew them in again/Poor old Seamus Finnegan/Begin again" to everyone's amusement, Seamus excepted.
And now it was dinnertime, and Umbridge was announcing that before the day was out, she would be whipping a student. The day had definitely taken a turn for the worse.
Looking back on the incident, the trio would later agree that it had started during Potions – specifically, that business with the Scold's Scald potion.
"Typical medieval prejudice," Hermione had called it, and for once, everyone had to agree. The potion was a nasty, painful little brew that was harmless to males, but would cause scalding blisters to erupt all over the tongue and inner mouth of a female 'guilty' of being a 'scold' whenever she tried to give orders or nag, as Snape seemed to delight in explaining, his eyes lingering on Neville, who had gone deathly white. "The effects are described in An Antiquarie of Potiones as being 'effective every time the scold gives utterance in a tone or manner unsuited to her faire and gentle nature; thereupon the mouth shews effects similar to a draft of boiling water, causing the scold to cease forthwith her nagging, and weep in exceeding pain'," Snape read aloud. "It's ideal for teaching you dunderheads the importance of accuracy, as it requires perfect timing. Begin."
" 'Faire and gentle nature' my foot!" Hermione muttered angrily. As they slaved over their cauldrons, chopping and dicing, Ron and Harry listened with about half an ear as Hermione ranted on about how in the thirteenth century, a 'scold' was a catch-all term for a woman who showed any type of assertiveness whatsoever towards her menfolk – responding in anger, or indeed in any tone except sweetness and light; presuming to know better than they did; giving instructions; and of course, nagging and scolding. The theory behind it was that once a woman had suffered the effects, she would experience what in modern times was known as aversion therapy. "You can imagine," Hermione muttered sotto voce to Harry and Ron, toiling over their cauldrons of murky brown liquid, "how you'd feel about standing up for yourself if you got burns in your mouth every time you tried." She stirred her own brilliantly red potion savagely.
"But when it wears off-" Harry started.
Hermione huffed in exasperation, but surprisingly, Ron beat her to it. "It doesn't wear off, Harry."
Harry looked at them, alarmed. "What? Potions don't last for ever, do they?"
"Well, not for ever," Ron qualified, "but the old recipes aren't like modern potions. Lots of medieval potions' effects last for twenty or thirty years."
Hermione nodded assent. "And since life spans in the Middle Ages weren't that long anyway, that's probably the origin of the notion that they never wear off. Anyway, to be afflicted with a torture potion for thirty years is…" Most uncharacteristically, she seemed at a loss for words.
"I'm surprised he's even allowed to teach medieval potions; anything that lasts that long is borderline Dark Magic," Ron said harshly. His potion seemed to have gelled – had he added too much salamander tongue, he thought? - and he was straining to drag his stirring spoon through the viscous substance. A drop of sweat from his brow fell into his cauldron, and the potion turned an even darker brown. "Not that we've got anything to worry about with this one – might be good for a mud pack, but not much else, I don't think…"
Harry felt laughter bubble up inside him, and hid his grin. He wiped the sweat off his own brow, but even without that precaution, his potion, while marginally runnier than Ron's, was nowhere near the colour it ought to be. He glanced around the class; this was an exceptionally fiddly potion, and nobody except Hermione seemed to have produced the required result, which was roughly the colour and texture of tomato soup.
"Time," called Snape, and there was a resigned dousing of flames, incanting of Cooling Charms, and dropping of ladles, sticks and knives across the room. Harry interestedly noted that no-one, not even the Slytherins, seemed too upset that the potions hadn't turned out right this time. Some of the more assertive girls, like Millicent Bulstrode, seemed positively relieved. He felt a nameless unease, but couldn't pin it down.
"Hmm. Unacceptable," Snape said at the nearest cauldron, and then he was off, striding across the room, making disparaging comments. He passed over the Slytherins without being too scathing, but his withering "You're supposed to silence your wife, not poison her, Longbottom" opened the floodgates to an avalanche of Gryffindor-abuse. Ron's potion elicited an "If I had wanted a cauldronful of mud, Weasley, I would have called for a house-elf. Not that there's much difference," and Harry's an "It's a sorry state of affairs when the so-called hope for the Wizarding world is this useless."
Harry felt the hot rage boil up inside him, but thought, Hermione's potion will be one in the eye for him, just as Snape drew level with her cauldron. He made a noncommittal noise in his throat as he ladled the potion thoughtfully, pouring it into the cauldron and ladling it out again, as though testing its consistency. Finally he mrumured, "This may be a passable effort."
Hermione beamed. "Thank you, Professor."
His eyes turned on her, and any approval was gone. "Did I give you permission to speak?"
"N-no, Professor-"
"You talk entirely too much."
"I was just-"
"Enough!" Snape's eyes had never left her face. "I was saying," he whispered, "that this might be a passable Scold's Scald." He paused for effect, and the classroom had gone deathly quiet. "There is, however, only one way to find out." Snape straightened up and looked around the classroom. "Any volunteers?"
You could have heard a pin drop.
Harry heard the rasp of Ron's sudden, shaky breath just before Snape turned back to Hermione and said, "Well, as there is no other volunteer, and since it is your potion, Miss Granger…"
It clicked in his head, the reason for Ron's gasp, and time seemed to stop for a moment—
Hermione's mouth fell open—
Snape's ladle was descending into the potion—
his eyes had the look of a challenge, daring her to contradict him—
Hermione had the look in her eyes of a bird transfixed by a snake—
thirty years—
—and he was stunned, frozen, part of him hoping that Snape wasn't mad enough to want to sentence Hermione to that. His thoughts blurred into a jumble, he-had-to-be-bluffing-Umbridge-might-be-headmistress-but-she-surely-wouldn't-allow-it-Dumbledore-wouldn't-allow-it-HE-wouldn't-allow-it-in-another-second-he-would-hit-Snape-and—
"Whoops!" Ron slipped theatrically on the floor and went crashing into Hermione's cauldron, his palms solidly impacting its side. It went flying off the table, dousing Malfoy and Crabbe in scarlet potion before it crashed to the floor.
"I'll get you for that, Weasel!" Malfoy shouted, trying to wipe himself off, pointing his wand at Ron. Ron, still on the floor, rolled under his desk and muttered, "Evanesco," making the last of the dangerous liquid disappear. Malfoy bent to get a better aim, but Ron fired off a quick "Expelliarmus" and pocketed Malfoy's wand.
"Give that here, blood-traitor or I swear I'll…" Malfoy hissed, livid with rage and humiliation.
"You'll what? Squeak? Not such a cocky little pureblood ferret now, are you?"
Malfoy growled and launched himself bodily at Ron, burrowing his hand into Ron's pocket to get at his wand.
"Oi!" Ron yelled. The contents of his pocket came tumbling out and Harry was rather stunned at its seemingly bottomless capacity: a bag of Cockroach Creams, another of Every Flavour Beans, a squashed sweet wrapper, a broken quill, one of Ginny's hair things, a vial of something from Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, a bottle of ink, any number of quill shavings, Ron's wand, Malfoy's wand, a lucky blue scarab, the discarded lace from his fourth year robes… Doesn't he throw anything away?
"Ooh, what's this then?" Malfoy's sharp eyes catalogued Ron's things and his hand grabbed for the hair thing. "Never would have thought it of you, Weasley. Do you wear it for Potter when he buggers you or…" But Ron, with his longer reach, had already grabbed the fallen cauldron and plonked it upside-down onto Draco's head before the Slytherin could react. "Gahh!"
"Would have thought you'd be more into that kind of thing, Malfoy, with your hair and all," Ron gathered up his things with dignity as the remainder of the Scold's Scald slipped down Malfoy's sopping robes, while the spluttering noises coming from inside the cauldron as he tried to extricate himself would have been quite enough to convince a casual observer that the cauldron was still boiling. "Here, you can have it." As Malfoy lifted the cauldron off his head, now sopping with red, gooey potion, Ron wrapped the hair thing around his wand and pointed it at Malfoy. "Pilivestus!" The lacy elastic immediately lifted Malfoy's hair onto his head in what would have been a rather fetching ponytail if it hadn't bee so thoroughly sopping with potion. The Gryffindors roared with laughter, and a few of the Slytherins looked rather amused, though they wiped the smile off their faces at Draco's glare.
"That-is-quite-enough," Snape's voice cut through the fracas like a steel blade. "I will not have brawling in my classroom! Ten points from Gryffindor!"
Ron rose in a fury. "But he started it!"
"Five more points from Gryffindor for arguing with a teacher then," Snape turned on Ron, "and five more for your clumsiness, Mr. Weasley. Mr. Malfoy, go and make yourself presentable. Dismissed." He turned to Hermione with an unreadable expression. "Unfortunately, you will be getting a zero for your effort, Miss Granger, as it has been regrettably lost."
For once in her life, Hermione didn't argue.
The students poured out into the corridor. "That disgusting, slimy git!" Ron fumed. "That bastard! I can't believe what he was trying to do!"
"I'm sure he didn't mean to actually go through with it," Hermione said faintly. She was almost swaying as she walked.
Harry put out a hand to steady her as Ron burst out, "What would it have taken to convince you? Wait till he poured the potion down your throat? Just because he's a teacher doesn't mean you should defend…"
"Oh, drop it, you two," Harry said firmly. He was shaken himself. Trying to lift his own spirits as well as theirs, he went on, "Good on you, though, the way you got Malfoy with that cauldron..."
Ron grinned. "Building his skills, inne? Amazing bouncing ferret, amazing perambulating cauldron…"
"And that hex with his hair! Where did you learn that?"
"'S not a hex, it's a household spell. Watched Mum do Ginny's hair for years, didn't I?" Ron turned to the still-shocked Hermione, trying to draw her out. "You know what it is, right?"
The subject of Ron's conversation stood before him in the hallway. "Watch out, Weasley," Malfoy hissed. "I'm going to get you for that." He had removed the hair scrunchie and cleaned off the potion, and his expression was murderous.
"What, going to call in the Cauldron Corps?"
"Be dead useful repelling a hex, that – a cauldron helmet."
"Keep your hair on."
"Yeah, don't try any hair-brained schemes…" Harry and Ron had to lean against each other, they were laughing so hard.
Malfoy seemed to be turning scarlet. "You'll pay for humiliating me to defend that Mudblood," he said through tight lips. "That potion would have shut her up permanently, and a good thing too."
"I'll clock you one again with that bloody cauldron if you don't shut up-"
"Ron, it's not worth it-" Hermione began, and both boys turned to her, concerned at how shaken her voice still sounded.
"Trying to score points with your little girlfriend, Muggle-lover?"
"Shut it, Malfoy," Harry snapped, patience wearing thin. He whipped out his wand.
"Oh, I will," Malfoy smirked. "There's more than one way to skin a cat – you'd know that saying, it being a Muggle proverb and all, wouldn't you, Weasley?" And, with another very unnerving confident smirk, he had sauntered off.
"He's bluffing," Hermione had said in a shaky voice. "Come on, we don't want to be late for Charms." They had headed off to their next class, and they had all thought that was the end of the matter.
If only it had been.