Chapter 73 - S.P.E.W

Moody finished roll call and pulled out the class roster, calling names. One normal eye tracked the list. His magical eye swept across every student who answered.

When Moody called Praeris's name, her first reaction was to drop her head, face tight with tension, as if afraid he'd recognize her. Her second reaction was to answer.

Side effect of mastering Occlumency. These past few days, not a single person had been able to look directly into her eyes. She'd even considered wearing plain-glass spectacles just to hide the movement of her gaze.

"Alright!" Moody said once roll call was done. "I've already taught the Gryffindor class, so I won't bother asking about your progress. Now. I'm going to teach you how to defend against curses."

His gaze dragged over the Slytherin students, and then he let out a strange laugh. "I know — probably redundant. I'd wager most of you have already witnessed illegal Dark Arts curses. At your parents' sides. Right, Malfoy!"

Draco startled at the sudden call and instinctively looked toward Praeris.

"Ho ho ho. Someone's scared out of his wits, running to a female classmate for cover. Miss Prince, why not turn around and take a look?"

Praeris kept her head down and said nothing. She knew this was not the moment to cause trouble for Professor Snape.

"Right then. Back to the point." Moody's voice dropped into something that resembled a reasonable tone. "Regrettably, although most of the wizards sitting in this room may well become Auror targets after leaving Hogwarts, I'm still obligated to give you a fair education. We'll assume you'll be on the receiving end of Dark Arts rather than using it on others. Miss Bulstrode, any objections?"

Millicent withdrew her resentful look and said flatly, "No, Professor."

"Ha. Bulstrode. Bulstrode. Of course I remember!" Moody's magical eye fixed on her, unblinking. "Dolores Bulstrode, right? Memorable woman. Gave us Aurors quite a headache. Yes, what a pity — she should have gone in earlier, reunited with her husband!"

Everyone understood the implication. He regretted not throwing Mrs. Bulstrode into prison, and regretted even more that she was still alive and well.

In fact, it had come down to a hair's breadth. But the one ultimately put on trial was Mr. Bulstrode. Unlike the strong-willed Sirius Black, Mr. Bulstrode had chosen to end his life long before Millicent started school, unable to endure the Dementors any longer.

Call him a coward, yet he dared take the blame for Mrs. Bulstrode. Call him brave, yet he had no courage left to keep living.

Millicent stopped being angry.

She thought Moody wasn't wrong.

She would always remember the letter her father left behind: "Lola, I'm sorry, I can't endure it. Can't endure living in a nightmare without you."

A man most accustomed to giving love was killed by his own love, while the woman he loved was still fanatically chasing the things that would drag her into the abyss.

This thought didn't mean Millicent believed her father was any good. She hated her father the same way she hated her mother.

If she had been a bystander, she might have admired Mr. Bulstrode's devotion. But she wasn't a bystander. She was the daughter Dolores had tormented for years. How ironic. His love was so great, so absolute, yet so miserly he couldn't spare even a fraction of it for his own daughter.

Loving parents in this world tend to look the same. Irresponsible parents find entirely new ways to be rotten.

"Now then — let's test your knowledge of the Dark Arts. Which curses receive the highest level of punishment under wizarding law?"

Silence.

"No one?" Moody's expression went frighteningly dark. "That's unexpected. Nott. Theodore Nott. Tell me."

Theodore had known Draco and Crabbe before they ever set foot in Hogwarts, because old Nott was one of You-Know-Who's earliest followers. Nott was reclusive by nature, but he and Draco got along surprisingly well, perhaps because of the shared pure-blood heritage, or perhaps because Nott was considerably smarter than Crabbe.

Nott kept his usual look of having nothing much to say. "The Imperius Curse. The Cruciatus Curse. The Killing Curse," he said, listless.

"Ah, yes. Your father must have taught you quite a bit in that area. Useful knowledge, for selling your life to You-Know-Who just like he did. Oh, I nearly forgot. He was controlled by the Imperius Curse, wasn't he?"

Moody picked up a glass jar from the lectern. Inside, two large black spiders scrabbled against the glass. He reached in, grabbed one, and leveled his wand at it. "Imperio!"

The spider moved in jerky, unnatural ways, performing for the class like a circus animal.

The Slytherins laughed.

Moody's voice cracked like a whip. "Funny, is it? What if it weren't a spider under my wand, but one of you? Still funny?" He let the pause sit. "Ah, look at me. Forgot again. Of course you'd find it funny. Because you think you'd never be the spider. You'd be the one holding the wand. Right?"

The Slytherins went quiet almost instantly.

The class was excruciating.

Slytherin being looked down on wasn't new. But no professor had ever put it so openly on the table like this.

Moody tore down the paper-thin wall and declared every student in the room a Death Eater in waiting, regardless of whether their parents had any actual Death Eater ties.

Take Praeris's roommates: Pansy's family, the Parkinsons, were neutral. Daphne's family, the Greengrasses, only cared about profit. Only Millicent's mother, Mrs. Bulstrode, was a genuine Death Eater.

Moody didn't care about any of that. He taunted the Slytherins after every curse he taught, methodically, one after another. By the end of the hour, the Slytherins had a very clear sense of what Gryffindor felt like sitting through Professor Snape's class.

Though comparing Moody to Professor Snape was genuinely unfair to Professor Snape. Moody was crueler. Professor Snape usually kept his reprimands to the matter at hand and rarely dragged families into it.

When the bell finally rang, the Slytherins surged out of the classroom like a great school of black carp.*

Every face was grim. Not one person said a word against Moody.

Praeris had expected that.

What was there even to say? Curse him for his prejudice?

That would be the same as publicly cutting ties with You-Know-Who. With some of their classmates having parents who were fanatical Death Eaters, that was suicide, and it wouldn't only destroy them. It would bring the wreckage down on their families too.

Praeris quietly reached out and pulled Millicent into a hug. Millicent was considerably more solid than she was.

"I'm here," Praeris said.

Millicent turned and hugged her back, wrapping around her in an embrace that was less little-bird-seeking-shelter and more great roc spreading its wings. "I'm fine."

Draco stood behind the two of them. He looked at them for a long moment, then let out a cold, disdainful laugh.

Praeris heard it. She just didn't have the time for him right now. She didn't need to think hard about what he'd say, probably something along the lines of "Frailty, thy name is woman —" or whatever variation came to him.

Let him mock. When Moody had him rattled during class, didn't he look to her first? Millicent had it right: silly Barnabas shouldn't go around laughing at the troll.

Praeris only had two hands. She couldn't comfort two people at once.

Back in the common room, Praeris settled in and started opening her letters.

Granger had sent one, but Praeris had been rushing to class that morning and hadn't gotten to it yet.

The envelope was fat. Praeris slit it open with a letter opener, and a green badge fell out onto her palm. It read: S.P.E.W.

In the letter, Granger wrote that she'd discovered the oppression house-elves suffered and had resolved to liberate them. The badge was for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. She was inviting Praeris to join.

Ha.

Praeris laughed. How could Granger be this adorable?

She picked up her quill and wrote back.

"Kitty, whatever else I might say, I admire your passion, so I've decided to offer a five-Galleon donation. This is purely my own personal support for you, however, so please do not send me a bag of badges in return."

"Before you throw yourself into these," Praeris let a pause sit on the page, "interesting little activities, your friend spoon has some sincere advice. What benefits do you think your rights campaign can offer those in power? Or, to put it another way: what harm comes to them if they do nothing?"

"I know some things aren't done for personal gain. But I think you understand that passion alone doesn't move people. You can't expect everyone to pay for your enthusiasm the way I'm willing to."

"If you want broader support, you need to draw them a map that shows a worthwhile return, or give them a reason they simply cannot ignore. You understand that, don't you?, Your sincere friend, spoon."

Granger had a strong chance of becoming a formidable wizard politician, perhaps even one who left a mark on history. The moment Praeris realized Granger could reach toward these questions at fourteen, she'd known it.

Praeris herself had once accepted the situation of house-elves without question, because her own life in the convent had followed the same logic: take shelter, give labor, expect nothing in return.

Helga Hufflepuff brought house-elves into Hogwarts's kitchens and gave them a safe environment, one where they would not be abused or degraded.

But those protections were bound by the era they came from. Hogwarts kept them safe, yet could not transcend its time and grant them rights proportionate to what they gave. That gap was exactly what Granger was trying to close.

Some protections begin as sturdy fortresses. In time, they become cages, and the people inside them stop trying to leave.

That didn't make the protections unnecessary. House-elves at Hogwarts had a safe environment. The ones outside did not.

If house-elves left Hogwarts to pursue freedom, they might not just struggle to find paid work. They might sink straight into the same abuse that house-elves elsewhere already endured.

The question Granger had to reckon with was this: what benefit does improving house-elf conditions offer the wealthy and powerful, enough to make them surrender these useful, unpaid servants? Or alternatively, what kind of pressure could she create to make those people protect their own larger interests by compromising, at least a little?

Praeris folded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. This was Granger's political fight. It had to be Granger who carried it through. Praeris's job was to point at the door, not walk through it for her.

When Hermione received the letter, her expression shifted into something like sudden clarity. She started pacing, muttering under her breath: "That's it. That's exactly it. My thinking was too narrow. But how do I actually make it work?"

"Someone sent you five Galleons?"

Ron stared at the five gold Galleons that had tumbled out of Hermione's envelope. She hadn't even glanced at them. She was entirely absorbed in the letter, walking in circles, talking to herself.

Hermione looked up when she registered what Ron had said, and nodded. "Yes. Ron, you're the society's treasurer, put those away. It's a donation from a member I've recruited."

"You're dragging me into embezzlement!" Ron said, staring at the coins. "Who in the world throws away five Galleons like that? I've never had this many Galleons in my life."

Harry was grinning. "It's that person, isn't it? The one who helped us find the Chamber of Secrets."

Ron's expression shifted. "You're still in contact? I'm not saying anything bad about them. They did give us some useful hints. But the hiding, never showing their face,"

"There's no hiding!" Hermione cut him off. "I know exactly who they are. They're my friend. I'm sure of it."

Ron opened his mouth to say something else. Harry stopped listening, Hedwig was at the window. "It's Hedwig. That must be a letter from Sirius Black."

Harry crossed the room and yanked the window open. Hedwig swept in, wings beating, and landed directly on his Divination homework.

"What does Sirius say?" Hermione asked, already leaning forward.

Harry unfolded the letter.

"Harry —

I'm in London now, heading to Scotland shortly.

There have been some noteworthy rumors lately. The one about your scar is the most recent and the most worth paying attention to.

I consulted a friend who's a recognized authority on curses, though I'm not pleased to admit it, and I also went to see Dumbledore specifically about this.

We have some thoughts about your scar, but nothing definitive yet. If it hurts again, go directly to Dumbledore's door.

Where did you get that Occamy-feather dreamcatcher? It does have a faint effect. Its maker has genuine talent in mysticism, alchemy, and the study of magical creatures. Hang it at the head of your bed.

I'll be in Scotland soon.

Give my best to Hermione and Ron.

Stay sharp, Harry.

Sirius"

Harry looked up. "He's coming to the school to find me. But isn't he hunting down Peter Pettigrew? I haven't done anything wrong, and now he has to drop everything because of me."

"What are you talking about, Harry?" Hermione said. "Of course something's wrong. Your scar is hurting. Believe me, in Sirius Black's eyes, nothing matters more than you. Not even his hatred for Peter Pettigrew."

Harry pressed the letter to his chest.

He felt a little guilty for pulling Sirius away from what he needed to do. And underneath that, quiet and uninvited, something warm: the simple fact of being cared about that much by someone.

*Black carp: dark-bodied, with blue-green fins.

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