Hazel Montgomery (hazelwitch) wrote in whizlogs, @ 2012-09-28 19:30:00 |
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She had made certain to hang back, as the other students made their hurried exit from Greenhouse Five that afternoon. Professor Sprout, looking very frazzled indeed, with dirt on both cheeks and her hat flopping dangerously close to the Venomous Tentacula, only offered her a cheerful smile and a pat on the arm. “Not to worry, Hazel, dear,” said the Herbology professor. “I’m sure your Defense Against the Dark Arts marks will be as high as they ever were. You’re a good, hard worker, I know you are, there’s nothing they can change about the curriculum that can change that, my dear.” Her cheeks were round and rosy, but there was a decidedly distracted look behind her eyes, as she pressed her hat down hard over her flyaway hair and lead Hazel out of the greenhouse. The afternoon was sunny, a bit chilly when the air stirred up, but fair. As they walked along the slope toward the castle, Hazel brushed a bit of half-hardened dirt from her hands and cleared her throat. “Yes, Professor,” she started, hesitantly, “but it isn’t just my grades I’m concerned for.” “Of course, dear,” Sprout smiled. “Just as I said, you are doing fine. Excellent O.W.L.s last year, a model student, you’ve nothing at all to be concerned for. Remember when you complained to me about Professor Snape’s teaching methods, dear? And just look how much progress you’ve been making in Potions! You worry too much, dear, that’s all this is.” “Yes, but,” Hazel opened her mouth to argue, but was interrupted by Professor Sprout’s seemingly sudden decision to turn abruptly in the opposite direction. “Oh!” she exclaimed, turning to trundle back down the little incline. “I’ve forgotten my gloves, dear. Go on, I’ll see you later.” “Aye,” Hazel muttered, more to herself than to Sprout, who had by now reached the bottom of the hill and was well out of earshot. “Thanks for listening, Professor.” And she had lingered after practice that evening. As the other students were milling about the choir room, gathering up their bags and belongings, chattering about the usual set of weekend plans and humming the catchy refrain of “The Three Toad Hop,” Hazel approached Professor Flitwick. He was breathing heavily, having recently dismounted from the stool behind his lectern, and he seemed to be distracted by something buried in a stack of parchment on the floor. “Professor?” Hazel started. “Professor, I wonder if I might have a word?” “What’s that?” said the tiny choir director without looking up from the many papers he was now trying, with little success, to stuff into his satchel. “Oh, Miss Montgomery, yes, yes, of course. What did you--now where did I put the sheet music for ‘Waltz of the Warts in D minor’?” “I, um, I wondered if I might discuss some concerns I have about my other classes?” Hazel tried. “I would be happy to make an appointment for another time, if you’re busy now.” “Eh?” Flitwick did not look up, but instead seemed to be reading the musical notes on one of the pieces of parchment with a tap of his finger across each bar. “Of course, Miss Montgomery. My door is always open! You should have tried out for the solo, you know,” he added, suddenly looking up to meet Hazel’s eyes with a kind smile. “It would sound so much nicer in an alto. And you really do have such a sweet voice. Hazel...yes...we ought to do ‘Behind the Hazel Tree’ next time...” He began humming agreeably to himself, as Hazel followed him toward the door. It was getting late. Hazel thought, reasonably, she would be better off going down to the dormitories and starting the weekend off right with a bit of good, solid rest. But, as she paced the corridors, nodding absentmindedly to several students on their way to or from the library or their common rooms or sneaking around to do what all Hazel knew not, nor cared to know, she found herself in a reverie. It hadn’t been fair, had it? To keep them all hostage in the middle of the night because a few students played an innocent prank. Not that Hazel agreed with childish pranking, but it was, she had to admit, a rather harmless prank. It hadn’t been reasonable, had it? Giving Harry Potter detention for raising questions. Not that Hazel approved of Harry Potter all of the time, but if the stories she had heard were true, Potter had not done anything Hazel wasn’t tempted to do herself in what was now apparently Defensive Theory class. It just hadn’t been right to tie that boy’s tongue in a knot, or to give the whole school multiple detentions, or to cheerfully humiliate students in front of the entire Great Hall. It wasn’t right, and it didn’t sit well with Hazel at all. Finding herself once more in front of the door to Professor McGonagall’s office, Hazel stopped her pacing and rapped four decisive times into the wood. There was a moment’s pause, then the tall, very severe witch with stern eyes and pinched lips appeared in the doorway. “What can I do for you, Miss Montgomery?” she said. “Hello, Professor,” Hazel squared her shoulders. She had hoped to keep this matter simple by confessing her worries to her own Head of House, but Professor Sprout had been busy. Had she managed to reach Professor Flitwick, who was a favorite of Hazel’s, due to the choir, she might have at least felt a sense of relief at having gotten it off her chest. But standing, as she now did, in front of the commanding figure of Professor McGonagall, Hazel knew there was no one else in the school, save for Dumbledore himself, who might actually be able to do something about it. “I wondered if I might have a word?” “You may,” said McGonagall tersely, admitting Hazel into her office and shutting the door behind them. “What seems to be the problem?” Right to the point of things, then. “It’s Umbridge, Professor,” Hazel said in her most matter-of-fact, exceptionally reasonable tone. “She has become notorious for doling out unearned detentions, treating students like idiots at best, and last week, in class, she tied a student’s tongue in a knot for speaking out of turn, than utterly humiliated him in front of everyone. And, more importantly, Professor,” she pushed on, when McGonagall, though listening politely, gave no indication of responding verbally just yet, “we aren’t learning anything. I know I must sound critical, but her curriculum doesn’t include us raising a wand all year, as far as I can tell. And I know it isn’t right to gossip about professors, but this isn’t right!” Professor McGonagall sat motionless behind her desk for what seemed to Hazel like an eternity, watching her with sharp eyes and pursed lips, tapping one finger on the back of her other hand at intervals. Somewhere a clock ticked feverishly. Hazel opened her mouth to go on, but McGonagall stopped her with a wave of her hand. “Have a biscuit, Montgomery.” Hazel took one from the little tartan tin atop one of the many piles of papers that littered Professor McGonagall’s desk, but she didn’t eat it. “Professor, I--” McGonagall raised her hand again. “Miss Montgomery,” she sighed, “the best counsel I can offer you on the matter is to avoid trouble. Yes,” she went on when Hazel had opened her mouth to protest that she always made a point of avoiding trouble, “I realize you are a good student, Montgomery. All the more reason to keep your head down...and your opinions to yourself.” McGonagall raised a thin eyebrow. “There is not much you can do to stop anyone else from misbehaving, but I should expect you to have the good sense to stay clear of it yourself. Believe me when I say this, Miss Montgomery, because you would do yourself a great disservice by falling on the wrong side of Dolores Umbridge’s good graces.” The eyebrow went up a little higher. “Yes, Professor,” Hazel said softly, brushing a few crumbs from the biscuit in her hand. “Thank you.” McGonagall sighed again and seemed to eye Hazel with a kind of muted sadness. “Don’t worry yourself about it,” she said, after another pause, in short, clipped tones, as she lead Hazel slowly back across the office. Hazel stood a moment in the open doorway, looking at McGonagall with sharp, discerning eyes of her own and a pair of tightly pinched lips to match. For a long time, neither of them seem to so much as breathe; they stood there in the doorway, each staring meaningfully at the other, one the formidable tower, the other a tightly twisted root. “Goodnight, Miss Montgomery,” said Professor McGonagall with finality. “And do keep in mind what I’ve said.” Hazel turned to go, but as her professor reached forward shut the door between them, McGonagall added, “And, for goodness sake, Montgomery, eat that biscuit, will you!” |