A light, almost silent crack of house-elf Apparition immediately drew the young wizards' eyes toward the source of the sound. There stood Dobby, dressed up like a mad Halloween clown. A worn, festive-looking pointed hat sat on his head, absurd trouser off-cuts served as bottoms, a crooked, multicoloured waistcoat covered in stars and unicorns — mended in at least five places — and mismatched socks of wildly different lengths, one of which looked more like a stocking, running up his thin house-elf leg practically to his neck. All in all, quite the ensemble. Combined with his strikingly mad, happy expression — though calling it a "face" felt like a stretch even in one's own head — it spoke of total fanatical devotion to Potter and a moderate degree of unhinged madness, whatever exactly that degree might be characterised by.
"Did Harry Potter Sir call for Dobby?" the elf asked, clasping his little hands together and looking at Harry as though Harry had already showered him with every treasure in the world, and the elf's shower ran with ambrosia instead of water.
"Hey... Dobby," Harry hesitated for a barely noticeable moment before answering, but recovered quickly — he was used to the odd elf's sense of style by now. "Listen, mate, do you know if any of the Hogwarts house-elves carried Hector Granger and Daphne Greengrass to the hospital wing?"
"Harry Potter Sir!" the elf cried, folding his arms even more tightly across his chest — his usual reaction whenever Harry called him a friend. "Dobby knows."
The elf nodded, glanced around, and leaned in slightly, as if about to reveal a secret.
"Dobby sometimes keeps an eye on Harry Potter Sir," the elf explained, looking guilty. "And..."
"I hope not like in second year..." Harry rubbed his right forearm.
"No, no!" Dobby shook his head at once, his long ears flapping against his face. "Not like that at all! Dobby was only ever meant to tell Headmaster Nose if there was danger. Or carry him straight to the Cruel Healer-Lady..."
"All right, Dobby," Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up with his fingers. "But what does that have to do with Hector?"
"Hector Granger Sir is a mighty-powerful wizard! Headmaster 'Tired Nose' said if Hector Granger Sir ever got into trouble, got hurt, couldn't move, and... and... lost consciousness, then! If that happens — carry him straight to the Cruel..."
"Could you not use nicknames for other people?" Hermione cut off the elf's flood of words, looking at him reproachfully, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.
"Dobby is very sorry, kindest Hermione," the elf grabbed the tips of his own long ears and pressed them against himself as though he meant to hang himself by them. "Dobby will punish himself properly, by giving away all his earned Galleons to the other elves..."
Harry and Hermione exchanged bewildered looks, and while Hermione ultimately just shook her head wearily, Harry smirked and ruffled his hair. Not that it made much difference — it couldn't really get any worse.
"And since when," the boy said slowly, "has losing money been a punishment for house-elves? They're not Malfoys..."
"So then he'll punish the other elves too. The ones who actually want freedom, about as much as a Niffler wants coal."
"Right, we get it — Dobby carried Hector and Greengrass here," Hermione nodded.
Harry took the hint and let the elf go, leaning against the windowsill.
"Should we do something?"
"I don't think there's anything we can do to help him," Hermione shook her head. "The important thing is not to draw attention."
"As always. All we ever do is avoid drawing attention."
"So then..." Hermione said thoughtfully, perching on the windowsill the way Harry had, "Hector and Greengrass were near the anomaly when it appeared."
"How do you figure that?"
"It's obvious from context," the girl waved a hand. "If you don't get it, work it out yourself. I'm not your nanny."
"All right, all right, no need to snap," Harry raised his hands placatingly. "But... maybe they're the ones responsible for the anomaly appearing?"
"Anything's possible. Hector's brilliant mind could've led them anywhere. But if someone's responsible for their condition, I'll... I'll!—"
"You won't do anything," Harry shook his head. "I already told you, Hector's absurdly powerful. Absurdly."
"And he's got artefacts for every occasion," Hermione added quietly.
"There you go. You already know all this. Let's go ask instead, while visiting hours are still open, whether he or that Greengrass girl need anything."
Harry and Hermione walked up to the doors of the Hospital Wing, knocked, and went inside. Though it had already gone dark outside, curfew hadn't fallen yet — visiting patients wasn't forbidden. There were exceptions, of course, but not this time — there was no one in the Hospital Wing besides Hector and Daphne.
"Ah, Miss Granger, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey spotted them at once and greeted them curtly. "Rather late, aren't you. Have you finally grown tired of wearing down the threshold outside?"
"Erm..." Hermione actually faltered over her answer. "In a manner of speaking."
She looked toward the nearest bed, its curtain not fully drawn — she could just make out Hector's shoulders and head. In hospital pyjamas, all as it should be. Except for the hair at his temples and down to the nape of his neck, which had gone grey — a narrow streak, about three fingers wide — at once terrible, but somehow stylish too. And such a thorough grey, properly white, not the faint, translucent sort that comes with old age.
Daphne's bed curtain, by contrast, was drawn all the way shut, though Hermione already knew that had nothing to do with the Slytherin girl's condition — it was simply customary to screen girls off completely.
"How's Hector?" Hermione took a step forward toward Madam Pomfrey.
"Stable. I expect he'll be awake and feeling perfectly well by morning. As for you, I'd recommend heading back to your common room — curfew's in about ten minutes."
A small pang of resentment toward herself struck Hermione, and the reason was simple — she'd spent far too much time standing at the window instead of coming in and properly questioning Madam Pomfrey about her brother's condition. Again. Then again, Madam Pomfrey could well have sent Hermione packing, and been entirely within her rights to do so, if she was honest with herself.
So Hermione and Harry had no choice but to leave the Hospital Wing, casting one last glance back at the unconscious Hector.
"What are you thinking of doing?"
"I don't know, Harry."
They walked briskly through the dark stone corridors of Hogwarts, heading toward the main tower, and from there to the Gryffindor common room.
"I think," Hermione continued her train of thought, "we should wait until morning and question Hector himself. And try to find out more about this anomaly. I'm sure that's the reason they're in this state."
"But there's no danger to his life, or even his health," Harry added. "So basically, think of it as them sleeping off an exam marathon — I honestly can't remember the last time I saw either of them without a book or without practising something."
They walked fairly quietly, though not exactly hiding — Professor Hunt's lessons had paid off for anyone who'd been keen to pick up the skills and knowledge, even through her rather harsh teaching methods. Around one of the turns in the dark corridors, barely a few dozen steps from the Main Tower, the pair heard some noise and commotion, and immediately hurried toward the source.
"...have you lost your bloody minds?!" Malfoy's voice reached them, quiet but sharp with emotion. "Ganging up on the little ones?"
"Mind your own business, Malfoy," came Nott's furious voice.
Hermione and Harry had nearly reached the turn when a series of distinctive whistles and the thud of spells striking shields rang out, followed almost at once by a pain-filled groan, then a second, then a third.
Rushing into the corridor, wands at the ready, Hermione and Harry were met with an unexpected sight.
Malfoy, in all his glory, in Slytherin robes, standing in a relaxed pose that somewhat mirrored Hector's, was shielding two second-years — a girl and a boy, one from Gryffindor, the other from Hufflepuff. By the neighbouring wall lay the somewhat broken, groaning bodies of several Slytherins. Their brokenness consisted of unnaturally bent arms and legs, trickles of blood from their noses, and, notably, only Nott remained conscious.
Neither of them had noticed Hermione and Harry's arrival, but the girl was clearly about to remedy that, her prefect's badge all but demanding she intervene — right up until Harry, standing a step ahead of her, stopped her with a simple outstretched arm.
"Let's just listen," he said in the quietest possible whisper.
Malfoy turned to the younger students.
"You two all right?"
"Y-yes, sir..." the Gryffindor boy answered.
Malfoy really did look the part of a "sir" rather than just another student — the black turtleneck and suit he'd taken a liking to lately, though poorly visible beneath his open school robes, lent him a certain air of authority.
"Then off to your common rooms, quick about it."
After his words, Malfoy turned his gaze back to the somewhat broken Nott, while the youngsters hurried away from the scene.
"Theo, my dim-witted 'not-quite-a-friend-anymore.' What did He task you with? Staying out of the spotlight! Not causing this sort of nonsense!" Malfoy's words came out quiet, but as he advanced slowly and steadily on the crawling Nott, they rang out loud as a thunderclap, for all that they were as soft as a serpent's hiss. "And what are you doing instead? Rounding up gangs for a spot of oppression? Attacking children? Bullying students? And 'His' orders not fulfilled one bit?"
The pain from his broken limbs was finally catching up to Nott, his face twisting in agony, spasms wracking him as tears started running against his will.
"You know," Malfoy crouched in front of Nott, twirling his wand idly, "when Granger wakes up — and he will wake up — and finds out your gang of brainless sheep attacked not just children, but Hufflepuffs of all things... Well, I don't need to tell you — you're a dead man. And so's your whole family. Oh, wait, I forgot! Hector's already buried you economically and cut you off at the knees politically!"
Malfoy smirked wickedly, not even bothering to help his former housemate.
"But don't worry. In honour of our shattered, but once-old friendship, I'll compose you a fine epitaph. What do you reckon — should I sing the praises of all your sins and your family's? Let me remind you, you lot have racked up quite a few 'accomplishments' — enough to make any Death Eater green with envy."
With that, their one-sided conversation came to an end, and Malfoy strode boldly away.
"Let's find another corridor," Harry whispered, leading Hermione toward one of the secret passages.
"But they need help!" she whispered back, just as quietly, but thoroughly indignant.
"They'll manage. Nobody's ever died of broken bones at Hogwarts."
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