FicWad

Author's Notes: Sorry, I know it's been forever since I've last updated this. The thing is, I'm lazy, and the posting system on this site is REALLY annoying. Hopefully, I can get caught up to what's already on Fanfiction really soon.

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Chapter 5: Bonds

Professor McGonagall was not amused at the sight of three first-years (and one of them a boy) standing over the sleeping body of a full-grown mountain troll in the ruins of a girls' lavatory. Hearing that the three aforementioned first-years were the reason said troll was sleeping was not amusing either . . . although Daphne secretly thought the look on the elderly witch's face when she heard so was.

"What—How . . . Explain yourselves!" She demanded.

"We-e-e-ell . . ." Harry started, before Daphne interrupted him.

"Harry and I heard that Hermione was in the girls' loo, and we were worried that she wouldn't have known about the Troll. So, we ran over to check on her, but the Troll had already arrived and was attacking her. Harry and I tried to distract it, but it was Hermione's quick thinking that brought the Troll down: she levitated its club above its head and then dropped it," Daphne finished. A perfect, succinct summary of events, Harry would really have to leave politics to her if this was how he dealt with a crisis.

Little did she know that Harry was thinking along the same lines. Note to self: always let Daphne do the talking. Little did Harry know how much he was going to both love and regret that decision for the rest of his life.

Hermione, however, had more immediate concerns. When she heard Daphne praise her, she muttered "It was Harry's idea; he was the one who said I should drop the club." Harry blushed and shuffled his feet at this.

"And how," McGonagall asked "did you know a girl from another House was in this lavatory?"

Daphne's poise faltered. "Ah, well," she shuffled her feet now. "Some of the people at our table were making fun of her because she'd been in here all day . . ."

Professor McGonagall's stern gaze instantly softened and switched to Hermione. "Is this true, Miss Granger?" When Hermione nodded, the elderly witch continued. "Are you sick, my dear?" She waded her way around the wreckage and put her hand on the girl's forehead.

Professor Flitwick shook his tiny head. "She seemed perfectly fine in my class this morning." His high-pitched voice laced with concern was almost heartbreaking.

"She hasn't been sick," a cool voice interrupted. All heads turned as Professor Snape limped—Why is he limping? Harry thought—from behind the other professors and fixed his cool eyes on Hermione. "Red eyes are not a symptom of disease. They come from another malady . . ." When no one responded, he clarified. "Miss Granger has been crying."

McGonagall's eyebrows rose, and she turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, what happened?"

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she thought she was going to start crying again, but, somehow, she found the words to speak. "It was after Charms . . . I tried to help Ron with his levitation . . . but he wouldn't listen . . . Then . . . after class . . . I heard him talking to Seamus . . . and he said . . ."

"She's a nightmare! Honestly, it's no wonder she hasn't got any friends."

The scene replayed itself in her mind in perfectly horrid clarity, and then it repeated. Her voice failed her, and Hermione discovered she still had some tears left. She buried her face in her hands, fully aware of how pathetic she looked to the assembled teachers and the two people who meant more to her than anyone else in the whole bloody school. Then she felt a pair of strong arms wrap around her sides and hold her close. Suddenly, she didn't mind crying anymore; instinctively, she turned into the embrace and wrapped her arms around Harry. Somehow or other, she knew it was him.
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"Fifteen points," Daphne grumbled. "We felled a bloody Troll, and all we get is fifteen points?"

"Ten," Harry reminded her. "Hermione's in Gryffindor, remember." After Hermione had calmed down, Professor Dumbledore suggested that the students return to their dormitories while the professors removed the slumbering Troll. Snape had quickly volunteered to escort them. Since he'd sprained his ankle running down the stairs, he would be too distracted to help the others move the Beast. No one had commented on the amount of walking he would have to do with that "sprained ankle" to get the children back to the Gryffindor Tower and the Slytherin Dungeons—arguably the two furthest places in the castle.

Harry, however, was not fooled. "Okay, Severus, what happened?" he asked, turning to the Potions' master, who was leaning against the wall. They had already deposited Hermione (which was the only reason Daphne had waited until now to vent her displeasure) and were taking a rest on their way back to the Slytherin dormitories; it was a lot to put on an injured leg.

"Define 'what,' Harry," the man replied.

Harry rolled his eyes; as his mother would say "That man is the original grammar Nazi." It was phrase Harry didn't entirely understand, but he gathered that it had something to do with Snape's obsession with word order and spelling. Why his mother occasionally raised her right arm and shouted "Heil, English!" was totally beyond him.

"Why didn't you go after the Troll with other teachers, and why are you limping?"

Snape grimaced. "Observant as always, I see." He quickly looked down the corridors for wandering ghosts. Thankfully, there were no portraits in this hallway. "I went to check on . . ." he grimaced again, "Fluffy."

"What?" Harry cried.

"Keep your voice, down" Snape hissed.

Daphne's eyebrows soared up. "Why . . . What were you doing?"

Unlike most of the students, Harry and Daphne knew what was so dangerous about the forbidden corridor on the third floor. Snape had asked them to stay after class on the first day and explained that the third floor corridor was off-limits because there was a giant, three-headed dog chained up behind the door. Of course, he'd been mute when asked what the heck the school was doing hiding a giant three-headed dog behind a locked door!

Snape sighed. "I only told you about that creature so you two wouldn't try and break into the corridor to find out what the secret was." The two children glared at him. "Oh, give it a rest; you were probably already planning it." Now, they blushed; he was right. "The basic idea is this: Fluffy," again, Snape grimaced at the name (only Hagrid would give a nightmare like that such a name), "stands on top of a trapdoor. Beneath that trapdoor are five more protections far more dangerous than a mere giant mutt."

Harry frowned. "Why?" he asked.

Daphne, was also frowning, but her eyes weren't focused on Snape like Harry's were. "'Protections,' what are they protecting?" Her frown morphed into a wide smile, and her eyes went wide and bright as a House-Elf's. "Is it a treasure? Something magical and wonderful?"

Snape sighed. "You could call it a treasure. It's magical, yes, but 'wonderful,' well, that question is open to debate."

Daphne frowned, but Harry looked thoughtful. "Why, Severus, what is it?"

Snape sighed a looked around again. "A philosopher's stone."

Both children gasped. They'd been told of the Philosopher's Stone; Snape could get rather talkative when the children became interested in Potions, and Alchemy was technically a branch of potion-making. The Philosopher's Stone (also known as the Sage's Stone, the Celestial Stone, the Ultimate Amplifier, the Red Elixir, and the Grand Arcanum) was the Master Work of Alchemy. Supposedly, it was capable of permanently transmuting any metal into pure gold and producing the Elixir of Life which could grant a person eternal youth and perfect health. No one could say for sure, however, because . . .

"I thought you said it was impossible to make a Philosopher's Stone," Harry said, frowning at Snape.

"No," Snape replied. "You asked why people didn't make them all the time, and I said they couldn't. Even if giving everyone in the world the ability to make infinite gold was a good idea—and it isn't—it's so difficult to create the Stone that almost no one's ever done it."

"But someone has," Daphne interrupted. She was looking up at Snape, her eyes gleaming.

"Yes, one person has, Nicholas Flamel, an old friend of the Headmaster's, and perhaps the most gifted alchemist in history."

"So, that's why you went to see Fluffy," Harry said. "You thought the Troll was going after the Stone."

"No, Harry," Snap replied. "A Troll could never get to the Stone if it could even understand what the Stone is. Remember, Trolls are imbecilic creatures; there's no way this one got in on its own. Someone let it in."

Harry and Daphne were silent a moment. Then, Daphne swallowed and asked ". . . To get to the Stone?"

Snape shrugged. "Maybe. I didn't see anyone when I went to check on Fluffy. . . It might have just been a prank the Weasley Twins thought would be funny."

"But, Trolls are dangerous," Harry interrupted. "The Twins . . . Hermione always complains about how distracting they are, but they never do anything nasty.

"Not intentionally," Snape remarked. "But their judgment's no more perfect than anyone else's. To them—or any student, I imagine—it would have seemed perfectly harmless: letting the Troll in during the Feast, when everyone was in the Great Hall. It would scare everyone, perhaps destroy a few suits of armor or cause trouble in the Library, but no one would get hurt." Snape shook his head. "Lily told me a quote by a Muggle poet about how even 'the best-laid schemes' are capable of turning sour." He fixed his gaze upon the young pair, who looked up at him solemnly. "Always remember, no matter how clever you are, you can never predict everything that will happen in a given scenario; unexpected events will happen, especially if your predictions involve people."

The two nodded, and Snape sighed. "All right, enough talk; let's get you two off to bed." The three again set off toward the Slytherin Dormitories. They hadn't gone far when Snape spoke again. "Oh, and promise me you will not go looking for the Stone," he said, eyeing Daphne, who looked away, but promised. Harry breathed a sigh of relief.
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Hermione, meanwhile, was laying in her bed, thinking over the events of the day. In one day, she had been emotionally crushed, nearly killed, and then battled a Troll with her best friends and emerged not only alive but victorious. A small part of her was grateful that neither the teachers nor her best friends had mocked her for her show of weakness earlier, but, mostly, her mind was replaying certain events like the toy slide show she used to play with.

Ron's cruel declaration after class.

The Troll swinging its club at her.

The sight of Harry and Daphne coming to her rescue.

Harry, holding her in his arms—twice.

She turned over in the darkness. Most of the other Gryffindors were continuing their party in the commonroom (the teachers not seeing the point in herding them all back to the Great Hall at this point), but she didn't have the energy for it. She was alone, as usual.

"Hermione?"

The bushy-haired witch spun back and sat up in her bed. "Lumos!" she said, with a little more intensity than usual. There, revealed in the soft light of her wand, was her roommate, Parvati Patil.

The Indian girl was blinking in the sudden light. "Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you."

Hermione lowered her wand. "What are you doing here?"

"Well," the girl responded, her eyes now accustomed to Hermione's wand-light. "I noticed you come in with Professor Snape even though it looked like you were trying to avoid being seen. I thought you just came up here to freshen up and were going to join us later, but, I didn't see you in the commonroom later, so I came up here to check." She frowned. "Hermione, what's going on? Lavender and I didn't see you at dinner—I haven't seen you all day since Charms—and then the Troll came and . . . What were you doing out there?"

Hermione flushed. "I was in the loo."

"Since Charms?" Parvati asked, an eyebrow raised. Hermione nodded, and the Indian girl's other eyebrow went up as her mouth dropped. "You were? Why?"

Hermione shook her head; Parvati was nice, but she wasn't close enough for Hermione to admit what a child she'd been. Besides, she'd relived that moment enough times today.

Her roommate let out a hmph. "Fine, but at least tell me what happened?"

Hermione didn't want to live through the moment again, but she looked at Parvati's face, so soft and pleading, that, somehow, she found herself talking about how she had come out of the stall and seen the Troll's thorny legs.

She was slow, at first, stopping to steady herself or to remember what exactly happened. She spoke quietly, little more than a mumble. But, as it went on—although she didn't notice it—her voice became stronger. She began spilling out not only the details of Harry and Daphne's rescue, but what she had felt, the worry and the joy and the wonderful sense of . . . something that she couldn't identify but felt warm and painful and ever so right inside her.

Parvati listened without comment. Or rather, she never vocalized her comments; her eyebrows flew back up, and her jaw dropped when Hermione retold the Troll's attack. Her eyes went wide when the bush- haired witch described Harry and Daphne's entrance, she gasped when Harry leapt onto the Beast's back, and, when Hermione admitted how hugging Harry made her feel inside, the other witch gave a soft smile as her eyes relaxed into a half closed state.

When Hermione was done, Parvati remained silent for a time. Then, still smiling, she spoke, "I'm sorry to make you relive that, Hermione, but thank you for telling me."

Hermione smiled a tiny bit in return. "You're welcome, Parvati. Thank you for listening."

The other girl nodded. The two said nothing for a moment, before Parvati's smile changed. It shrank into a smirk, and her eyes examined Hermione with mischief. "So? You and Harry, huh?"

Hermione stared at Parvati for almost a minute before her mind deciphered what Parvati was asking. "Wha—Parvati, we're eleven!" she cried, her face becoming redder than it had been all night.

The other witch's grin widened. "So? You're not denying it."

Hermione glared at her before she realized something, and—though she would never admit it to the gossip-loving girl across from her—the thought of it made something inside of her shatter into a thousand tiny, fragile pieces which lacerated her insides as they fell. Her head dropped. "It doesn't matter," she whispered. She was no longer frowning, and her face was no longer hot; it was dead cold. "He's already engaged to Daphne."

"Oh," Parvati replied. "The betrothal contract, right . . ." She was silent for about three seconds. Then, "Oh, well, that doesn't matter too much."

Hermione's head shot up. "Yes, it does," she said, her voice tight. "They told me on the train that there's no way they can get out of it. Besides," Hermione fought back tears; she'd had enough crying for one day, "Harry told me that he couldn't imagine marrying anyone other than Daphne."

"Yes, you mentioned that at the Welcoming Feast," Parvati said gently. Ron had sat down at the table and began proclaiming to all who would listen that Harry Potter had gone Dark. This had provoked Hermione to counter his arguments with a list of good Slytherins, including Merlin. Ron, of course, had refused to listen and spent the rest of the Feast stuffing his face. Parvati, however, was curious as to how she'd heard of those good Slytherins. The Muggleborn girl had reluctantly admitted that she'd ridden with Harry and Daphne on the train which launched a long inquiry into what Harry Potter was really like.

Hermione, however, was not in the mood to reminisce. "Then why-"

"Hermione," Parvati interrupted. "You have to understand, being a Muggleborn, there's a lot of our world that you don't know, things that many people are . . . not very eager to mention in the history books."

Hermione looked at her roommate warily. "Such as?"

Parvati shifted. "Well, Harry saved your life, you know. If you were a Muggle, I'm sure it would mean a lot, but it doesn't carry quite the same weight it does because you're a witch. Hermione," she bit her lip. "When one wizard saves another's life, it creates a bond between them. It's not a legal thing; right now, your own magic is recognizes that you owe Harry your life. At any time in the rest of your lives, he can demand you repay that dept."

Hermione paled. "'Repaid', how? What can I do? What are the rules?"

"There aren't many rules in your case I'm afraid," Parvati remarked. She eyed Hermione carefully. "Harry saved you without being asked or offered a reward, correct?" When the other girl nodded, she continued. "In fact, he jumped right on the Troll's back, put himself in mortal danger to save you, right?"

"But I stopped the Troll from hitting him with its club," Hermione interrupted. "Doesn't that make us even? And what about Daphne; do I owe her, too?"

Parvati shook her head. "Padma's always been better at this stuff than me, but, from what I understand, stopping the Troll from hitting Harry doesn't cancel the Debt, because Harry was only in danger because he was protecting you, Life Debts don't work when you either directly or indirectly put the person you're saving in danger. It doesn't help that you didn't risk your own life to save his."

Hermione gasped. She had endangered Harry's life because she nearly got killed. It had been bad enough to watch him nearly get crushed by the beast trying to protect her, but to hear it like that . . .

"As for Daphne," Parvati went on, "you owe her a Debt, too, but not so great. She's more limited in what she can ask of you because she didn't actually jump on the Troll's back." The Indian witch looked Hermione in the eye, and enunciated every word slowly and carefully. "I'll say it again: Harry put himself in immediate danger to protect you; he can demand pretty much anything of you, and you would have to do it."

"But . . ." Hermione struggled, "isn't there something I could do to make up for it?"

Parvati shook her head. "Hermione, you're not listening. What do you think you can do that can be equal to nearly dying to save your life?"

Hermione thought about it. "So . . . what you're saying is, I'm Harry's slave for life?"

Parvati shrugged. "Unless he ever ordered you to somehow endanger your own life to save his. That and being his slave are about the only ways you can ever fully repay him."

"That's . . . That's just wrong," Hermione breathed.

"Not really," Parvati said. When the bushy-haired witch looked at her like she had just suggested that murdering kittens was fun pastime, she explained. "Think about it. The only reason you owe Harry this Debt is because he was totally selfless. Why would a person like that ever abuse his power over you? You can't acquire a Life Debt over someone at all if you endanger her just to save her life and collect the Debt. If you even ask for a reward beforehand, or if the person in question offers you one, the Debt is much less. The reason Harry has total power over you, Hermione, isn't because of some random chance. Harry earned it by being genuinely noble, because he really, truly cared about you."

Hermione didn't know how to respond to that. While the idea of being a slave still totally terrified and disgusted her, Parvati had a point. If what Harry had just done hadn't proved that he was utterly incapable of hurting or allowing someone else to be hurt, what would?

Still, there was one thing that bothered her. "Parvati, I'm grateful to you for informing me of this, but I don't understand what it has to do with Harry and his betrothal to Daphne."

Parvati's smirk returned. "Well," she said, "traditionally, if a pretty, young witch owed a strong Life Debt to a brave and heroic wizard, he would invoke it to take her as his concubine."

". . . WHAT?" Hermione cried.

Parvati cringed. "Keep it down," she whispered.

"'Keep it down?' You just suggested . . . that Harry . . ." Hermione couldn't find the words to adequately express her indignation.

"Actually," Parvati said, her smirk now frightening Hermione more than a little, "I was thinking maybe you'd offer it to him. You wouldn't be the first."

Hermione stared at her. "You mean women would actually offer to become sex slaves?"

Parvati nodded. "My mother used to tell me and Parvati stories about this sort of thing when we were little. She said it was to 'prepare us for whatever might happen in our lives.' In India, young people don't get to choose whom they marry; their parents do. Additionally, the caste system is very restricting. Even in modern England, however, social status can have a powerful effect on a person's future. Look at it from this perspective: you're a young Indian witch from a minor caste—which, being Muggleborn you technically are." Hermione tried to interrupt, but Parvati held up her hand. "Let me finish. You have little prestige or status in society, a modest life style, and you know your parents will probably arrange for you to be married to a man you've never met before.

"Then, a young wizard saves your life. Maybe he's your friend, or maybe he's a complete stranger. You already know, however, that he's brave and selfless, and—in this case, at least—from a higher caste than you. Honestly, who would you rather spend your life with: the man your parents chose for you who may actually be cruel or at the very least uncaring or the man who proved that he would risk his own life before allowing you to be harmed? Which one, Hermione?"

Hermione dipped her head forward. ". . . I'd pick Harry," she said.

Parvati nodded. "So would I, Hermione, every time."


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Author's Notes: Aaaaaand, BREAK! I honestly intended to end this chapter with a confrontation between Hermione and Daphne about the concubine thing, but this chapter was stretching on too long as it was, so I ended it here. Sometimes, you just have to say "enough is enough," cliche', but true.
Quick Notes! The alternate names for the Philosopher's Stone come from Fullmetal Alchemist (well, I think I might have made "Ultimate Amplifier" up, but I'm not sure, so I put it in anyway), and the phrase "Master Work" comes from Paulo Coelho's novel, The Alchemist. The poem Snape quotes is, of course, Robert Burns' To a Mouse:*]
[*"But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!"
Or, in English:
"But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!"