HIM AGAIN: Chapter 12: Moving On - Neo-Dark
Aroused at an unholy hour, Minerva descended the flights of stairs with haphazard precision, walking-stick tapping on the ground with every harried step. Loud voices, among them Filius’s high-pitched squeak, floated up to her from the Entrance Hall. As she approached the last flight of stairs the sources of the noise came into view: a group of Aurors, two speaking urgently to the Deputy Headmaster and the others prowling around, wands out and faces grim. The sight snapped the Headmistress to attention, and made the walking-stick tap faster.
Filius and the Aurors turned around as she descended towards them - one even pointed his wand at her. She shot a glare at the Auror in question and swept towards Filius.
“Really!” squeaked the miniature wizard indignantly. “I don’t see the need to be cautious against the Headmistress!”
“Higgins, put your wand down,” barked a familiar voice. Kingsley Shacklebolt shook his head despairingly and nodded an apology.
“What is going on?” she demanded, deciding preliminaries could wait. “Why have the Aurors been summoned?”
“I’m afraid we weren’t summoned; we were forced to come,” Shacklebolt said wearily. “We have reason to believe that an ex-Death Eater is on his way to Hogwarts to rendezvous with another-”
“Another? You mean to suggest that another ex-Death Eater is lurking somewhere near the school?”
“That’s what we’ve been led to believe. As you can see, we’re on full alert. Once the Chief Auror gets here-”
Minerva glanced at the prowling mass of Aurors. “Why so many? Surely two individuals can be dealt with with less than the whole of the Auror Department?”
“Forgive me, Professor McGonagall, but there’s also reason to believe that there could be more than two dark wizards involved.”
“Some sort of gathering?” she asked, with growing alarm. The thought of sitting and writing letters in her office whilst outside a gathering of darkness occurred-!
“Let’s not exaggerate the situation,” another Auror, a blonde-haired woman, said in a reedy voice. “There are probably just two, but there’s a risk of more.”
Other voices broke in and there was a collective surge of hands to wands as Tonks appeared in the Front Entrance, her own at the ready. Filius squeaked in surprise and leapt backwards, treading on an Auror’s foot - the owner of which swore and dropped his pocket Sneakoscope with a splintering crash. Minerva felt herself becoming irritated by the whole affair.
“-The problem is, he’s such a focus for Neo-Dark propaganda-”
“-Amycus’s choice of direction is certainly worrying - and the fact that he’s made it known-”
“-More than enough motivation, Brian Potter-”
“-Neo-Dark? Bloody fools, getting Dark Mark tattoos for fun-”
“-Ministry will panic if it’s more than just him; wouldn’t look good for Hawkins-”
BANG!
The cacophony was silenced; Harry Potter stood beside the large double front doors, having just slammed one shut. Minerva watched the transformation of the remembered boy and quiet young man into Chief Auror with fascination; Harry was stepping forwards, his face drawn but his look intense, giving commands and soaking in proffered information like a sponge. There was a distinct air of authority about him: the scar on his head a badge of honour and his posture tensed and powerful like a great cat’s. The Headmistress had occasionally wondered why he continued to work as an Auror; wasn’t Harry thoroughly fed up of battling dark wizards? Hadn’t the war been enough? She questioned it no longer; it was plain to her now that he lived for it, allowed his soul to come to the surface through his job.
“Professor McGonagall,” he said, nodding politely at her, expression severe. There was fire burning in those emerald eyes, a fire both hungry and fierce.
“What is going on?” squeaked Filius confusedly as the Aurors moved towards the front doors. “Who is Amycus meeting?”
“Someone who might be a focus for all the remaining dark elements, Professor,” the Chief Auror answered, marching across the Entrance Hall.
“Who?” Minerva asked.
Harry looked at her levelly. The fire roared higher, demanded sacrifice.
“Severus Snape.”
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
HA 12b: Friend
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 12: Generosity - Friend
“Brian!”
Albus opened his eyes to see Eric’s concerned face inches from his own. Blinking, he pushed his head back into the pillows. Eric blushed and withdrew, allowing him to reach for his spectacles and push them up his nose. Brian’s bedroom, decked cunningly in Chudley Cannons posters, sprang back into focus.
“Sorry to shout in your ear like that,” said Eric sheepishly, seated back on the camp-bed Harry had conjured for him the night before. “You were having another nightmare.”
Albus sighed and smiled at him reassuringly, sitting up. Now that he looked around properly, he could see fading stars through the gap between the bedroom curtains. Dawn’s symphony of birds had seemingly just started and Eric was blinking sleep from his eyes.
“I didn’t wake you up?”
“Well - not really. I woke up on my own and looked up to see you tossing and turning like mad.”
“Oh. Thank you for waking me up, then.”
“S’alright.”
Eric smiled encouragingly at him. Albus suppressed another sigh. It was April, yet the atmosphere between the boys remained awkward, punctuated by reassuring nods and tentative enquiries. Unsure as to how to act, he had made Brian shy and retiring, saying little, willing to let others do the talking. It had seemed the wisest course of action, as more than once he had said something that seemed out of place or out of generation. Several times Albus had fallen back into his whimsical, decorative way of speaking - something which Harry and Ginny had treated as normal and just a part of Brian, but seemed less acceptable in the company of other eleven-year-olds.
Most of his year - at least, those who had spoken to him - regarded him as a bit odd. He suspected that they themselves couldn’t explain it; there was, as he’d heard someone remark, “just something kind of weird about him.” Only Eric talked to him regularly, having apparently gotten the impression that Brian was merely extremely coy, and determined to bridge the gap between himself and his mysterious uncle. Mark Scott and Daniel Glover both liked Eric Weasley, and so they were forced to tolerate Brian. Mark continued to think him too pompous to speak, whilst Daniel had fallen into the habit of ignoring him. Even Cal Smith had taken a few steps from outside of his shell and was showing more social intelligence than Brian.
From an entirely practical point of view, Albus felt that it was for the best. The more people kept Brian at arms-length then the less they could discover, and it placed his acting abilities under less strain. Yet the emotional aspects of it all were more complicated. Harry’s sensitive proximity to his son had soon meant that he’d picked up what had been left out of the weekly letters home.
Dear Brian,
You certainly sound as though you’re enjoying yourself! Glad to hear that you don’t find your teachers too awful - though Professor Read does sound very irritating. I agree that Slughorn does come across as very materialistic, but I can assure you that he’s relatively harmless, compared to Hagrid at least.
How is Hagrid? Do you visit him at all? You should; I used to visit him a lot in my school-days and I’m sure he’d like a chat with you.
Who do you talk to? You haven’t mentioned your friends or the rest of Gryffindor yet. Feel free to invite people over for Christmas.
Harry
Dear Brian,
I think you’ll just have to bluff your way through the History essay. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything from Binns’s classes at all; I usually went to sleep. I’m surprised he’s still there - but I suppose they’re stuck with him forever since he’s a ghost.
Yes, I did manage to catch Crabbe. We cornered him in a small village in Kent, running a racket in stolen goods. I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account in my next letter, it was very exciting. His son had been covering for him all these years. I can’t say how much this means - only three Death Eaters left in the world. I’m sorry, I’m rambling about the war again, aren’t I? Thank you for humouring me and pretending to find it interesting.
You know, you were perfectly welcome to invite your friends over for Christmas. Come to think of it, you haven’t told me about them, yet.
Must dash!
Harry
Dear Brian,
Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor? I hope you’re carrying the Gryffindor pride high, Brian. I have to say that I’m not surprised at all to hear about Eric Weasley - the Weasleys and their brooms are as one! Glad to know I pipped him to the post as the youngest in a century, however!
Do you talk to Eric? You still haven’t said a word about your friends. I assume Eric is one because you devoted a paragraph to him in your last letter. I hope you’ve made some good mates.
Harry
So the letters had continued, each one becoming more pronounced in worry. Harry and Ginny would undoubtedly become alarmed if they saw neither hide nor hair of someone who could be called ‘Brian’s friend.’ He had resignedly written back about Eric and then endured the inevitable: You’re welcome to invite him over. Still uncomfortable with the level of acting that was required for the one-on-one interaction that would occur if Eric came over, he had dodged the insistent invitations - until Eric had asked himself.
“One day, can I meet your dad, Brian? He sounds really cool.”
Albus strongly suspected that Eric had been force-fed tales of Harry by Bill and Fleur. The image was all too easy to call to mind:
“’E dived into the water and saved ‘er, when she was not even ‘is ‘ostage, Eric. ‘E is wonderful. Il est incroyable et un defeater de mal. Un héros!”
At first he had been inclined to create some excuse - but the test couldn’t be avoided forever. If Eric could stay with him for a few days, the last half of the Easter holiday, without picking up on anything strange at all, then his pseudo-identity could be viewed as secure. If a canny young person the same age as Brian suspected nothing, then it was unlikely anyone else would.
“Was it the same dream?”
Albus firmly returned himself to the present. The nightmares involving Snape occurred every now and then - enough to attract the attention of Eric and alert him as to their regularity. The former Headmaster assumed that the nearness of the Astronomy Tower and the location of the betrayal had triggered the dreams, but an innocent explanation was needed to satisfy the other boy. Thus the Dark Elephant had been concocted.
The idea had been totally random, improvised on the spot, but it was easier to pretend that it was the same basic nightmare then create a new one every time. Eric’s lips twitched whenever it was mentioned and Albus himself derived some amusement from the concept - dream-Brian was involved in a lengthy fight against the Dark Elephant, who would pursue him through various fantastical landscapes plagued by banana-peel, malfunctioning broomsticks and a talking owl. Further embellishments were added each time.
“Yes,” he said - and launched into an explanation of how the Dark Elephant had chased him into Professor Read’s office, thrown the teacher out the window and crushed several of Hagrid’s giant cabbages to pulp.
“Sounds terrifying,” laughed Eric - who then gulped and looked apologetic. “I mean-”
“Don’t worry. I find it hilarious too, once I’ve woken up. It’s only whilst I’m dreaming it that I’m frightened.”
“Oh. Okay then.” The other boy brightened. “I was too tired to mention it last night - but I take it you’re a Chudley Cannons fan?”
The orange posters screamed at them from every surface. “Yes.”
“Our Uncle-”
“-Is the best player in the universe.”
Eric grinned and flushed, as if Ron was his personal property. “I've heard he’s thinking of retiring soon. He says the Bludgers are getting to him.”
“Yes, they tend to do that.”
“Is it time for breakfast yet?” Eric’s tummy gave a loud rumble. “Sorry!”
“No, I’m hungry too. Let’s see whether my parents are up.”
Albus got up and tip-toed out onto the landing, eyes on the doorway next to Brian’s room. Eric hovered outside as he poked his head in, smiling wryly at how he had once done the same as a genuine preadolescent. In the dimness, he could make out the huddled form of Ginny - but the other side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Harry wasn’t there.
Frowning, he withdrew his head and shook it. “Mum’s there, asleep - but Dad’s gone.”
His friend raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “He must have been called out.”
“Probably - though it must be quite an emergency if he’s needed this early.”
“Doesn’t that happen often then?”
“Only once before. I know they were looking for Amycus…”
Eric’s expression turned to one of impressed puzzlement. The boy leaned forward on his toes, obviously eager for news of dramatic chases and fights. “Who’s he?”
“He was a Death Eater during the war,” Albus said, wincing at the memories that arose. That particular dark wizard had been present up on the Astronomy Tower at the time of Snape’s betrayal. Pushing down that depressing thought, he continued talking as they headed downstairs to fix breakfast. “Apparently he ran away during the final battle. They’ve been searching for him ever since - and I know that they got some sort of lead a few days ago.”
“Does your dad tell you everything that happens with the Aurors?” Eric asked as Albus prepared cereal.
“No,” he replied, making his voice sound frustrated and impatient. “He only tells me things after it’s all over, and he won’t even tell me how he defeated Voldemort. He says I’m too young.”
The frustration at that last point did not have to be faked. To be the leader of the forces of light, to found the Order, to coordinate the resistence and search for the Horcruxes - and then to be denied knowledge of the fall of his enemy - was agonising. Harry had talked seriously of Horcruxes, determined to impress on Brian their evil and corruption, but then had shut his mouth firmly and refused to open it any further on the subject, saying that he did not want Brian “upset about things he didn’t understand.” For the first time, ‘Brian’ had drawn close to arguing with his father - only to be softened by Harry’s emotions.
“One day I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Harry had whispered, his back to him. “I don’t know how, but I swear I shall. I’ll leave nothing out - if need be, I’ll write it down and you’ll find out that way. You’re an intelligent boy, Brian, but you’re far too young. I don’t want you upset by things that happened a long time ago.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he’d replied softly, desperately. He didn’t want to know the ‘everything’ Harry was talking about - not the feelings, not Harry’s personal painful struggles - information he had no right to, especially when technically living under a false identity. Information that could only pain him. “I justed wanted to know… the basics.”
“One day I’ll tell you. Not now. All I’ll say now is that the one thing the war taught the world was that trying to become immortal is wrong. Nobody lives forever. Once someone dies, they’re gone.”
Except me, he’d thought.
“That sucks,” Eric said. Albus shook himself, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and focus on the present. “But at least he tells you some of what happens.”
“I guess so.”
CRACK! CRACK!
Eric dropped his bowl, sending milk and frosted flakes spraying over the floor. A man and a woman had Apparated straight into the kitchen and appeared mere feet away. The woman Albus recognised at once to be Tonks, her hair bubblegum-pink but her eyes set in dark circles of weariness. The man was a stranger but looked around the kitchen as though it was familiar territory.
“Oh my goodness! Sorry!” Tonks exclaimed, seeing the boys. She aimed a small smile at Albus. “Wotcher, Brian! Up early, aren’t you? Sorry to Apparate straight in like this but time’s running short! Could you go and wake your father up for us?”
“He’s out. I looked in and he wasn’t there.”
The other man, evidently also an Auror, cursed. “Damn! He must have been tipped off about the decoy!”
“Don, you get to the Ministry. Hopefully he’s found out it was just a distraction by now and has gone back to base. I’ll get back to Hogwarts-”
“Hogwarts! Has a student been harmed?” Albus heard himself demand authoritatively. He found himself stepping forwards, out of Brian’s character and into his own.
Tonks and the man known as Don blinked at him. The Matamorphmagus scratched her nose and nodded at the man. With a crack he was gone and the remaining Auror turned back to the two boys.
“Can’t say much, Brian. Let’s just say we’ve received evidence that someone’s on their way to Hogwarts, probably with nothing good in mind. You may as well tell your mum that Harry won’t be back for some time - this is big. Get all the juicy bits from your dad later, okay?”
CRACK!
Albus was left staring at empty air. Both curiosity and worry peaked, he sat down in the nearest chair, cereal forgotten. It seemed strange that the whole Auror Department should be driven into action by a single individual, and it made him uneasy. How he longed for his old powers and body, so that he could go and get to the bottom of things himself! It was the first time any sort of emergency had occurred since the war - and now, here he was, forced to be a passive element.
“Blimey...” said Eric, shocked.
“Brian!”
Albus opened his eyes to see Eric’s concerned face inches from his own. Blinking, he pushed his head back into the pillows. Eric blushed and withdrew, allowing him to reach for his spectacles and push them up his nose. Brian’s bedroom, decked cunningly in Chudley Cannons posters, sprang back into focus.
“Sorry to shout in your ear like that,” said Eric sheepishly, seated back on the camp-bed Harry had conjured for him the night before. “You were having another nightmare.”
Albus sighed and smiled at him reassuringly, sitting up. Now that he looked around properly, he could see fading stars through the gap between the bedroom curtains. Dawn’s symphony of birds had seemingly just started and Eric was blinking sleep from his eyes.
“I didn’t wake you up?”
“Well - not really. I woke up on my own and looked up to see you tossing and turning like mad.”
“Oh. Thank you for waking me up, then.”
“S’alright.”
Eric smiled encouragingly at him. Albus suppressed another sigh. It was April, yet the atmosphere between the boys remained awkward, punctuated by reassuring nods and tentative enquiries. Unsure as to how to act, he had made Brian shy and retiring, saying little, willing to let others do the talking. It had seemed the wisest course of action, as more than once he had said something that seemed out of place or out of generation. Several times Albus had fallen back into his whimsical, decorative way of speaking - something which Harry and Ginny had treated as normal and just a part of Brian, but seemed less acceptable in the company of other eleven-year-olds.
Most of his year - at least, those who had spoken to him - regarded him as a bit odd. He suspected that they themselves couldn’t explain it; there was, as he’d heard someone remark, “just something kind of weird about him.” Only Eric talked to him regularly, having apparently gotten the impression that Brian was merely extremely coy, and determined to bridge the gap between himself and his mysterious uncle. Mark Scott and Daniel Glover both liked Eric Weasley, and so they were forced to tolerate Brian. Mark continued to think him too pompous to speak, whilst Daniel had fallen into the habit of ignoring him. Even Cal Smith had taken a few steps from outside of his shell and was showing more social intelligence than Brian.
From an entirely practical point of view, Albus felt that it was for the best. The more people kept Brian at arms-length then the less they could discover, and it placed his acting abilities under less strain. Yet the emotional aspects of it all were more complicated. Harry’s sensitive proximity to his son had soon meant that he’d picked up what had been left out of the weekly letters home.
Dear Brian,
You certainly sound as though you’re enjoying yourself! Glad to hear that you don’t find your teachers too awful - though Professor Read does sound very irritating. I agree that Slughorn does come across as very materialistic, but I can assure you that he’s relatively harmless, compared to Hagrid at least.
How is Hagrid? Do you visit him at all? You should; I used to visit him a lot in my school-days and I’m sure he’d like a chat with you.
Who do you talk to? You haven’t mentioned your friends or the rest of Gryffindor yet. Feel free to invite people over for Christmas.
Harry
Dear Brian,
I think you’ll just have to bluff your way through the History essay. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything from Binns’s classes at all; I usually went to sleep. I’m surprised he’s still there - but I suppose they’re stuck with him forever since he’s a ghost.
Yes, I did manage to catch Crabbe. We cornered him in a small village in Kent, running a racket in stolen goods. I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account in my next letter, it was very exciting. His son had been covering for him all these years. I can’t say how much this means - only three Death Eaters left in the world. I’m sorry, I’m rambling about the war again, aren’t I? Thank you for humouring me and pretending to find it interesting.
You know, you were perfectly welcome to invite your friends over for Christmas. Come to think of it, you haven’t told me about them, yet.
Must dash!
Harry
Dear Brian,
Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor? I hope you’re carrying the Gryffindor pride high, Brian. I have to say that I’m not surprised at all to hear about Eric Weasley - the Weasleys and their brooms are as one! Glad to know I pipped him to the post as the youngest in a century, however!
Do you talk to Eric? You still haven’t said a word about your friends. I assume Eric is one because you devoted a paragraph to him in your last letter. I hope you’ve made some good mates.
Harry
So the letters had continued, each one becoming more pronounced in worry. Harry and Ginny would undoubtedly become alarmed if they saw neither hide nor hair of someone who could be called ‘Brian’s friend.’ He had resignedly written back about Eric and then endured the inevitable: You’re welcome to invite him over. Still uncomfortable with the level of acting that was required for the one-on-one interaction that would occur if Eric came over, he had dodged the insistent invitations - until Eric had asked himself.
“One day, can I meet your dad, Brian? He sounds really cool.”
Albus strongly suspected that Eric had been force-fed tales of Harry by Bill and Fleur. The image was all too easy to call to mind:
“’E dived into the water and saved ‘er, when she was not even ‘is ‘ostage, Eric. ‘E is wonderful. Il est incroyable et un defeater de mal. Un héros!”
At first he had been inclined to create some excuse - but the test couldn’t be avoided forever. If Eric could stay with him for a few days, the last half of the Easter holiday, without picking up on anything strange at all, then his pseudo-identity could be viewed as secure. If a canny young person the same age as Brian suspected nothing, then it was unlikely anyone else would.
“Was it the same dream?”
Albus firmly returned himself to the present. The nightmares involving Snape occurred every now and then - enough to attract the attention of Eric and alert him as to their regularity. The former Headmaster assumed that the nearness of the Astronomy Tower and the location of the betrayal had triggered the dreams, but an innocent explanation was needed to satisfy the other boy. Thus the Dark Elephant had been concocted.
The idea had been totally random, improvised on the spot, but it was easier to pretend that it was the same basic nightmare then create a new one every time. Eric’s lips twitched whenever it was mentioned and Albus himself derived some amusement from the concept - dream-Brian was involved in a lengthy fight against the Dark Elephant, who would pursue him through various fantastical landscapes plagued by banana-peel, malfunctioning broomsticks and a talking owl. Further embellishments were added each time.
“Yes,” he said - and launched into an explanation of how the Dark Elephant had chased him into Professor Read’s office, thrown the teacher out the window and crushed several of Hagrid’s giant cabbages to pulp.
“Sounds terrifying,” laughed Eric - who then gulped and looked apologetic. “I mean-”
“Don’t worry. I find it hilarious too, once I’ve woken up. It’s only whilst I’m dreaming it that I’m frightened.”
“Oh. Okay then.” The other boy brightened. “I was too tired to mention it last night - but I take it you’re a Chudley Cannons fan?”
The orange posters screamed at them from every surface. “Yes.”
“Our Uncle-”
“-Is the best player in the universe.”
Eric grinned and flushed, as if Ron was his personal property. “I've heard he’s thinking of retiring soon. He says the Bludgers are getting to him.”
“Yes, they tend to do that.”
“Is it time for breakfast yet?” Eric’s tummy gave a loud rumble. “Sorry!”
“No, I’m hungry too. Let’s see whether my parents are up.”
Albus got up and tip-toed out onto the landing, eyes on the doorway next to Brian’s room. Eric hovered outside as he poked his head in, smiling wryly at how he had once done the same as a genuine preadolescent. In the dimness, he could make out the huddled form of Ginny - but the other side of the bed was conspicuously empty. Harry wasn’t there.
Frowning, he withdrew his head and shook it. “Mum’s there, asleep - but Dad’s gone.”
His friend raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “He must have been called out.”
“Probably - though it must be quite an emergency if he’s needed this early.”
“Doesn’t that happen often then?”
“Only once before. I know they were looking for Amycus…”
Eric’s expression turned to one of impressed puzzlement. The boy leaned forward on his toes, obviously eager for news of dramatic chases and fights. “Who’s he?”
“He was a Death Eater during the war,” Albus said, wincing at the memories that arose. That particular dark wizard had been present up on the Astronomy Tower at the time of Snape’s betrayal. Pushing down that depressing thought, he continued talking as they headed downstairs to fix breakfast. “Apparently he ran away during the final battle. They’ve been searching for him ever since - and I know that they got some sort of lead a few days ago.”
“Does your dad tell you everything that happens with the Aurors?” Eric asked as Albus prepared cereal.
“No,” he replied, making his voice sound frustrated and impatient. “He only tells me things after it’s all over, and he won’t even tell me how he defeated Voldemort. He says I’m too young.”
The frustration at that last point did not have to be faked. To be the leader of the forces of light, to found the Order, to coordinate the resistence and search for the Horcruxes - and then to be denied knowledge of the fall of his enemy - was agonising. Harry had talked seriously of Horcruxes, determined to impress on Brian their evil and corruption, but then had shut his mouth firmly and refused to open it any further on the subject, saying that he did not want Brian “upset about things he didn’t understand.” For the first time, ‘Brian’ had drawn close to arguing with his father - only to be softened by Harry’s emotions.
“One day I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Harry had whispered, his back to him. “I don’t know how, but I swear I shall. I’ll leave nothing out - if need be, I’ll write it down and you’ll find out that way. You’re an intelligent boy, Brian, but you’re far too young. I don’t want you upset by things that happened a long time ago.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he’d replied softly, desperately. He didn’t want to know the ‘everything’ Harry was talking about - not the feelings, not Harry’s personal painful struggles - information he had no right to, especially when technically living under a false identity. Information that could only pain him. “I justed wanted to know… the basics.”
“One day I’ll tell you. Not now. All I’ll say now is that the one thing the war taught the world was that trying to become immortal is wrong. Nobody lives forever. Once someone dies, they’re gone.”
Except me, he’d thought.
“That sucks,” Eric said. Albus shook himself, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and focus on the present. “But at least he tells you some of what happens.”
“I guess so.”
CRACK! CRACK!
Eric dropped his bowl, sending milk and frosted flakes spraying over the floor. A man and a woman had Apparated straight into the kitchen and appeared mere feet away. The woman Albus recognised at once to be Tonks, her hair bubblegum-pink but her eyes set in dark circles of weariness. The man was a stranger but looked around the kitchen as though it was familiar territory.
“Oh my goodness! Sorry!” Tonks exclaimed, seeing the boys. She aimed a small smile at Albus. “Wotcher, Brian! Up early, aren’t you? Sorry to Apparate straight in like this but time’s running short! Could you go and wake your father up for us?”
“He’s out. I looked in and he wasn’t there.”
The other man, evidently also an Auror, cursed. “Damn! He must have been tipped off about the decoy!”
“Don, you get to the Ministry. Hopefully he’s found out it was just a distraction by now and has gone back to base. I’ll get back to Hogwarts-”
“Hogwarts! Has a student been harmed?” Albus heard himself demand authoritatively. He found himself stepping forwards, out of Brian’s character and into his own.
Tonks and the man known as Don blinked at him. The Matamorphmagus scratched her nose and nodded at the man. With a crack he was gone and the remaining Auror turned back to the two boys.
“Can’t say much, Brian. Let’s just say we’ve received evidence that someone’s on their way to Hogwarts, probably with nothing good in mind. You may as well tell your mum that Harry won’t be back for some time - this is big. Get all the juicy bits from your dad later, okay?”
CRACK!
Albus was left staring at empty air. Both curiosity and worry peaked, he sat down in the nearest chair, cereal forgotten. It seemed strange that the whole Auror Department should be driven into action by a single individual, and it made him uneasy. How he longed for his old powers and body, so that he could go and get to the bottom of things himself! It was the first time any sort of emergency had occurred since the war - and now, here he was, forced to be a passive element.
“Blimey...” said Eric, shocked.
HA 12a: Proclamation
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 12: Generosity - Proclamation
The Easter holidays arrived, alternately marked with rain and sun. The holiday week saw a mood of tranquillity and snatched relaxation descend upon the castle; many students had gone home for the chocolate-dominated festivities, and the OWL and NEWT students seemed to disappear almost from existence, retreating to the Common Rooms to cram in sessions of belated revision. The faculty took a collective deep breath in preparation for the exams - harried-looking teachers could be seen flopped in the staff room, clutching cups of tea to themselves with the determination of people who knew that the peace wouldn’t last long. The corridors became empty, the Great Hall’s size emphasised by its lack of incumbents. The Hogwarts Headmistress was disturbed less and less for business, instead Rolanda and Poppy forced Minerva down from her office and outside.
“Come out and enjoy the sunshine,” Poppy said repeatedly.
Yet the sunshine was fitful, soon surrendering to the rain clouds. More than once, picknicking faculty members were forced to beat a hasty retreat, rushing to cover over food and fold up blankets. Minerva was, however, not unhappy to sit in the staff room or in the office. Periods of loneliness never lasted long as either friend would soon appear in the doorway and drag her down “for some company.”
Thursday afternoon of the Easter week saw her in the office writing a long letter to Eleanor Reeves. Really, she thought fondly, such a waste of parchment was hardly justified: the letter was about both nothing and everything - yet Eleanor would lap it up and send an equally long reply back, again about nothing and everything. The joy of distant, reciprocated correspondence had absorbed her for a few hours before there was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” she called, expecting either Rolanda or Poppy - or even Filius, who seemed to delight in pottering around the office nattering about all the jokes he’d ever heard. The door opened, and there was a marked silence.
Rolanda’s entries were manifest with cheery greetings, Poppy always made some summary statement regarding her health, a topic that seemed endlessly fascinating to the Healer, and Filius squeaked whenever he passed through the doorway. The person who had just entered, however, merely hovered and said nothing. Curious and surprised, Minerva looked up from the letter.
Aberforth Dumbledore stood in the doorway, scowl in place, clutching a parcel to his chest. The scraggy grey beard was as tangled as ever, the hair as unkempt, the robes patched and worn, the bristling eyebrows lowered. Minerva stared at him.
“Aberforth,” she said blankly. The old wizard hadn’t visited since before the school-year had started - and, given that encounter, she hadn’t expected him to do so again.
“Professor McGonagall,” he muttered, frowning and sitting down in the seat opposite with the attitude of waiting at a dentist’s. The smell of goats drifted across the desk.
Minerva waited, trying to disguise her astonishment with a prim, expectant expression. She wanted to ask for the reason for his visit, but her last attempt stood out painfully in her mind. The most likely reason was out of pity, or perceived duty - hadn’t he said something to that effect last time? Yet there was no point in offending him by asking, so she simply watched him from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting.
“You are well?” he growled at last, voice deep and throaty.
“Very well, thank you.”
“Good, good.”
“I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy around this time of year.”
“Busy enough, busy enough.”
“Hagrid sometimes goes there. His favourite is the Redcurrant Rum.”
“Yes, men of his type tend to like that.”
She resisted the urge to sigh. This conversation was turning out to be a repeat of the last. She opened her mouth to made a pointless, polite enquiry into his own health when Aberforth suddenly thrust the parcel at her, as though trying to hand over something both dangerous and undesirable.
“This is for you.”
When she failed to take it, he dumped it on the desk and sat back, glaring at her. Shocked, she fingered a corner of the brown paper. A present? From Aberforth?
“What-”
“It’s for you,” the old man said, almost defiantly. His face was hard, unreadable. “It’s nothing important.”
“Nothing important?” she repeated.
“No. Just some old junk.”
“Some old junk?”
“Don’t parrot me, woman!” The blue eyes blazed with sudden anger, the lines in his face deepened.
“Aberforth…” Minerva said disbelievingly. “There’s no… obligation for you to-”
“There isn’t, is there?” Each word was weighted, suggesting obligation in every syllable. The glower increased in intensity.
The Headmistress stared at the parcel. Nothing important… some old junk… obligation. A confused anger shot through her chest.
“I don’t need charity,” she whispered.
The old man’s frame stiffened. “You aren’t a beggar, are you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Then it’s not charity! Don’t you expect it, either!” he snarled.
“I expect nothing of you!” she snapped. “Your visits are completely incomprehensible. You informed me last time that you ‘detested this blasted place’ and now you decide to make a gift of some of your ‘old junk!’ I think I would much rather opt out of your generosity, Mr Dumbledore.”
She expected him to stand and storm out; instead he remained seated and silent. The scruffy bearded jaw tightened and face became cliff-like, the eyes chasms.
“I do detest this blasted place,” he said harshly.
“Then you may leave.”
“I do not detest you.”
A cloud passed over the sun outside. The office darkened and then lightened; the first drops of rain began to beat against the window panes. A raven gave a sharp cry and then fell silent. Inside the tower, several of the portraits opened their eyes; the fake snores ceased. A barely perceptible shiver passed around the painted former head teachers, as though a ghost had glided through the wall. The tone of the last speaker’s voice hung in the air: significant, heavy, cracked with unexpected emotion.
Minerva looked away and down at the parcel, ears ringing. Impossible, chanted her brain. Impossible, impossible, he can’t have meant it in that way-
She sensed him stand up, the chair scraped back. Her hands went forward without any conscious intervention and seized the brown paper, ripping it apart. The rustling dominated the room, the castle, the whole world. The footsteps towards the door stopped.
An embossed book sat on the desk, a rich deep purple in colour and edged with gold. The front bore no title, but had instead the gold-traced design of the outline of a phoenix, breathing expense. Dazedly, she flipped the book open - and froze.
Albus grinned up at her, Fawkes on his shoulder, his joy limited only in the constraints of a photo. Another photo underneath showed the former Headmaster at his inauguration ceremony, shaking hands with a nameless official whose presence was entirely eclipsed the man standing next to him. Blue eyes twinkled, spectacles gleamed. His innate cheerfulness and innocent genius seemed to emanate upwards from the page and hit her in the face.
She turned more pages, stunned. He winked and smiled from every side. Certain images stood out at her - that of Albus standing next to her in a picture of the Hogwarts staff, looking as though it had been cut from the overseas prospectus, that of Albus dancing with her at the Yule Ball of 1994, beard and hair shining from the lighted candles hovering overhead, that of Albus sitting at the centre of the newly-founded Order of the Phoenix… Each photo had writing beneath it - clumsy, poorly-formed writing, as though the writer was not used to applying a pen to anything, the words misspelt and simplistic. ‘Albus with proffesors.’ ‘Albus at Yool Ball.’ ‘Albus fownds Order.’ ‘Albus with Fawkes.’ The entries were dated and appeared to be in chronological order - but backwards, starting with the most recent photos and most likely ending with the oldest.
Minerva felt the blood leave her face. She looked up at Aberforth, shaken. The album was expensive, the photos carefully arranged and ordered, the labels hand-written… The gift was staggering.
Aberforth was looking narrowly at her, with a somewhat bitter expression. He took a step backwards when she looked up, as if to leave, and aimed his eyes elsewhere.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you. You did not pay for this… you did not do this… all by yourself?”
He grunted. “Found a load of old photos. Scrounged around a bit… thought you might like it.”
“I do. More than I can say.”
“Really?” The blue eyes locked with hers.
“Yes. This is the best gift I have ever received… and the most sensitive… the most-” Minerva cut herself off, speechless. What did it mean?
The immovable face twitched.
“Well, I’ll be going then.”
“Thank you,” she whispered again.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered huskily, sounding angry once more, waving a hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s not worth a damn thing.”
The door opened and shut: Aberforth was gone. Minerva stared at the front of the photo album, feeling the phoenix design being seared into her brain. A small printed label near one corner modestly informed her that the design was ‘specially customised by Lancing Special Deeds Ltd.’ Why, she thought dazedly. Why go to all the trouble? What did it mean?
I do not detest you.
She buried her face in her hands. It was too early to examine her emotions, too early to understand what had happened. The portraits broke out in a cacophony behind her.
“What a thoroughly undignified fellow,” Phineas Nigellus commented.
“By Merlin! How exciting!” Dippet laughed.
“I do declare the man holds our Headmistress in some esteem,” said Derwent delicately.
“’Some esteem?’” repeated Everard, grinning. “Well, he said he did not hate her-”
Dippet gave a roguish wink, an action that looked entirely foreign to the frail old wizard. “A knight in shining armour!”
“I would hardly call him that,” sniffed Phineas. “The man looks like a doormat. I wouldn’t have let him in-”
“Isn’t it a bit ironic, though?” Everard said vaguely. “Him proclaiming his feelings with a photo album crammed full of his brother?”
“That’s enough!” Minerva heard herself say. “There is no need to leap to conclusions.”
She got up and walked over to the window, watching the rain smear the dirt off the glass. Aberforth’s gift sat on the desk behind her like a murder weapon, screaming suggestions. Proclaiming his feelings? No! He was happy with his goats - and all he had said was that he did not detest her-
The Headmistress took the album with her to the private chambers, to remain transfixed by the first two pages until exhaustion forced her to bed. Meanwhile, the portraits whispered, argued and ‘leapt to conclusions,’ with half of the paintings deciding that the old wizard was bound to “sweep the Headmistress off her feet, a rose in his hand and a serenade on his lips” and the other half declaring him to be an “asexual madman, as incapable of feeling as Phineas.”
“Charming,” the former Headmaster muttered.
The Easter holidays arrived, alternately marked with rain and sun. The holiday week saw a mood of tranquillity and snatched relaxation descend upon the castle; many students had gone home for the chocolate-dominated festivities, and the OWL and NEWT students seemed to disappear almost from existence, retreating to the Common Rooms to cram in sessions of belated revision. The faculty took a collective deep breath in preparation for the exams - harried-looking teachers could be seen flopped in the staff room, clutching cups of tea to themselves with the determination of people who knew that the peace wouldn’t last long. The corridors became empty, the Great Hall’s size emphasised by its lack of incumbents. The Hogwarts Headmistress was disturbed less and less for business, instead Rolanda and Poppy forced Minerva down from her office and outside.
“Come out and enjoy the sunshine,” Poppy said repeatedly.
Yet the sunshine was fitful, soon surrendering to the rain clouds. More than once, picknicking faculty members were forced to beat a hasty retreat, rushing to cover over food and fold up blankets. Minerva was, however, not unhappy to sit in the staff room or in the office. Periods of loneliness never lasted long as either friend would soon appear in the doorway and drag her down “for some company.”
Thursday afternoon of the Easter week saw her in the office writing a long letter to Eleanor Reeves. Really, she thought fondly, such a waste of parchment was hardly justified: the letter was about both nothing and everything - yet Eleanor would lap it up and send an equally long reply back, again about nothing and everything. The joy of distant, reciprocated correspondence had absorbed her for a few hours before there was a knock on the door.
“Enter,” she called, expecting either Rolanda or Poppy - or even Filius, who seemed to delight in pottering around the office nattering about all the jokes he’d ever heard. The door opened, and there was a marked silence.
Rolanda’s entries were manifest with cheery greetings, Poppy always made some summary statement regarding her health, a topic that seemed endlessly fascinating to the Healer, and Filius squeaked whenever he passed through the doorway. The person who had just entered, however, merely hovered and said nothing. Curious and surprised, Minerva looked up from the letter.
Aberforth Dumbledore stood in the doorway, scowl in place, clutching a parcel to his chest. The scraggy grey beard was as tangled as ever, the hair as unkempt, the robes patched and worn, the bristling eyebrows lowered. Minerva stared at him.
“Aberforth,” she said blankly. The old wizard hadn’t visited since before the school-year had started - and, given that encounter, she hadn’t expected him to do so again.
“Professor McGonagall,” he muttered, frowning and sitting down in the seat opposite with the attitude of waiting at a dentist’s. The smell of goats drifted across the desk.
Minerva waited, trying to disguise her astonishment with a prim, expectant expression. She wanted to ask for the reason for his visit, but her last attempt stood out painfully in her mind. The most likely reason was out of pity, or perceived duty - hadn’t he said something to that effect last time? Yet there was no point in offending him by asking, so she simply watched him from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles, waiting.
“You are well?” he growled at last, voice deep and throaty.
“Very well, thank you.”
“Good, good.”
“I suppose the Hog’s Head is very busy around this time of year.”
“Busy enough, busy enough.”
“Hagrid sometimes goes there. His favourite is the Redcurrant Rum.”
“Yes, men of his type tend to like that.”
She resisted the urge to sigh. This conversation was turning out to be a repeat of the last. She opened her mouth to made a pointless, polite enquiry into his own health when Aberforth suddenly thrust the parcel at her, as though trying to hand over something both dangerous and undesirable.
“This is for you.”
When she failed to take it, he dumped it on the desk and sat back, glaring at her. Shocked, she fingered a corner of the brown paper. A present? From Aberforth?
“What-”
“It’s for you,” the old man said, almost defiantly. His face was hard, unreadable. “It’s nothing important.”
“Nothing important?” she repeated.
“No. Just some old junk.”
“Some old junk?”
“Don’t parrot me, woman!” The blue eyes blazed with sudden anger, the lines in his face deepened.
“Aberforth…” Minerva said disbelievingly. “There’s no… obligation for you to-”
“There isn’t, is there?” Each word was weighted, suggesting obligation in every syllable. The glower increased in intensity.
The Headmistress stared at the parcel. Nothing important… some old junk… obligation. A confused anger shot through her chest.
“I don’t need charity,” she whispered.
The old man’s frame stiffened. “You aren’t a beggar, are you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Then it’s not charity! Don’t you expect it, either!” he snarled.
“I expect nothing of you!” she snapped. “Your visits are completely incomprehensible. You informed me last time that you ‘detested this blasted place’ and now you decide to make a gift of some of your ‘old junk!’ I think I would much rather opt out of your generosity, Mr Dumbledore.”
She expected him to stand and storm out; instead he remained seated and silent. The scruffy bearded jaw tightened and face became cliff-like, the eyes chasms.
“I do detest this blasted place,” he said harshly.
“Then you may leave.”
“I do not detest you.”
A cloud passed over the sun outside. The office darkened and then lightened; the first drops of rain began to beat against the window panes. A raven gave a sharp cry and then fell silent. Inside the tower, several of the portraits opened their eyes; the fake snores ceased. A barely perceptible shiver passed around the painted former head teachers, as though a ghost had glided through the wall. The tone of the last speaker’s voice hung in the air: significant, heavy, cracked with unexpected emotion.
Minerva looked away and down at the parcel, ears ringing. Impossible, chanted her brain. Impossible, impossible, he can’t have meant it in that way-
She sensed him stand up, the chair scraped back. Her hands went forward without any conscious intervention and seized the brown paper, ripping it apart. The rustling dominated the room, the castle, the whole world. The footsteps towards the door stopped.
An embossed book sat on the desk, a rich deep purple in colour and edged with gold. The front bore no title, but had instead the gold-traced design of the outline of a phoenix, breathing expense. Dazedly, she flipped the book open - and froze.
Albus grinned up at her, Fawkes on his shoulder, his joy limited only in the constraints of a photo. Another photo underneath showed the former Headmaster at his inauguration ceremony, shaking hands with a nameless official whose presence was entirely eclipsed the man standing next to him. Blue eyes twinkled, spectacles gleamed. His innate cheerfulness and innocent genius seemed to emanate upwards from the page and hit her in the face.
She turned more pages, stunned. He winked and smiled from every side. Certain images stood out at her - that of Albus standing next to her in a picture of the Hogwarts staff, looking as though it had been cut from the overseas prospectus, that of Albus dancing with her at the Yule Ball of 1994, beard and hair shining from the lighted candles hovering overhead, that of Albus sitting at the centre of the newly-founded Order of the Phoenix… Each photo had writing beneath it - clumsy, poorly-formed writing, as though the writer was not used to applying a pen to anything, the words misspelt and simplistic. ‘Albus with proffesors.’ ‘Albus at Yool Ball.’ ‘Albus fownds Order.’ ‘Albus with Fawkes.’ The entries were dated and appeared to be in chronological order - but backwards, starting with the most recent photos and most likely ending with the oldest.
Minerva felt the blood leave her face. She looked up at Aberforth, shaken. The album was expensive, the photos carefully arranged and ordered, the labels hand-written… The gift was staggering.
Aberforth was looking narrowly at her, with a somewhat bitter expression. He took a step backwards when she looked up, as if to leave, and aimed his eyes elsewhere.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Thank you. You did not pay for this… you did not do this… all by yourself?”
He grunted. “Found a load of old photos. Scrounged around a bit… thought you might like it.”
“I do. More than I can say.”
“Really?” The blue eyes locked with hers.
“Yes. This is the best gift I have ever received… and the most sensitive… the most-” Minerva cut herself off, speechless. What did it mean?
The immovable face twitched.
“Well, I’ll be going then.”
“Thank you,” she whispered again.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered huskily, sounding angry once more, waving a hand as though swatting a fly. “It’s not worth a damn thing.”
The door opened and shut: Aberforth was gone. Minerva stared at the front of the photo album, feeling the phoenix design being seared into her brain. A small printed label near one corner modestly informed her that the design was ‘specially customised by Lancing Special Deeds Ltd.’ Why, she thought dazedly. Why go to all the trouble? What did it mean?
I do not detest you.
She buried her face in her hands. It was too early to examine her emotions, too early to understand what had happened. The portraits broke out in a cacophony behind her.
“What a thoroughly undignified fellow,” Phineas Nigellus commented.
“By Merlin! How exciting!” Dippet laughed.
“I do declare the man holds our Headmistress in some esteem,” said Derwent delicately.
“’Some esteem?’” repeated Everard, grinning. “Well, he said he did not hate her-”
Dippet gave a roguish wink, an action that looked entirely foreign to the frail old wizard. “A knight in shining armour!”
“I would hardly call him that,” sniffed Phineas. “The man looks like a doormat. I wouldn’t have let him in-”
“Isn’t it a bit ironic, though?” Everard said vaguely. “Him proclaiming his feelings with a photo album crammed full of his brother?”
“That’s enough!” Minerva heard herself say. “There is no need to leap to conclusions.”
She got up and walked over to the window, watching the rain smear the dirt off the glass. Aberforth’s gift sat on the desk behind her like a murder weapon, screaming suggestions. Proclaiming his feelings? No! He was happy with his goats - and all he had said was that he did not detest her-
The Headmistress took the album with her to the private chambers, to remain transfixed by the first two pages until exhaustion forced her to bed. Meanwhile, the portraits whispered, argued and ‘leapt to conclusions,’ with half of the paintings deciding that the old wizard was bound to “sweep the Headmistress off her feet, a rose in his hand and a serenade on his lips” and the other half declaring him to be an “asexual madman, as incapable of feeling as Phineas.”
“Charming,” the former Headmaster muttered.
HA 11e: Contentment
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Contentment
Months passed. Autumn turned to Winter, after which came Spring, which breathed warmth throughout the grounds, tempting flowers out of the earth and finally healing a certain prize Tantacula to even Pomona‘s satisfaction. Eric Weasley, new Gryffindor Chaser, triumphed spectacularly against the surprised Ravenclaws, and Abigail Lupin began dating Benjamin Stubbs, to the surprise of everyone around. The school-year settled into its usual grind, and there were no further disturbances in the staff room.
Brian Potter was soon noted to be a very average student, his talents ranging from mediocre to acceptable - despite his initial promise and to the great consternation of Professor Read, who was taunted about the ‘academic peak’ for at least seven weeks afterwards. He sank into banality, to be remembered rarely and spoken of never again. His subsequent Transiguration essays (eyed suspiciously and coldly by his teacher) were adequate but not worth mention.
The routine of faculty life was only altered slightly, in that the Headmistress would inexplicably request bird-feed from Hagrid and that a careful observer would have seen the nightly visits of a phoenix to the head teacher’s tower. Yet Sybil Trelawney continued to request the ejection of Firenze monthly and the relationship between Potions Master and Herbology Professor remained rather cool and distant but warmed as the Tentacula‘s ‘condition’ improved.
Such a general mood of content made the Headmistress, armed with her new comfort, feel rather at odds with the Sorting Hat - the tip of which regularly twitched, as though the mind inside was infuriated.
Months passed. Autumn turned to Winter, after which came Spring, which breathed warmth throughout the grounds, tempting flowers out of the earth and finally healing a certain prize Tantacula to even Pomona‘s satisfaction. Eric Weasley, new Gryffindor Chaser, triumphed spectacularly against the surprised Ravenclaws, and Abigail Lupin began dating Benjamin Stubbs, to the surprise of everyone around. The school-year settled into its usual grind, and there were no further disturbances in the staff room.
Brian Potter was soon noted to be a very average student, his talents ranging from mediocre to acceptable - despite his initial promise and to the great consternation of Professor Read, who was taunted about the ‘academic peak’ for at least seven weeks afterwards. He sank into banality, to be remembered rarely and spoken of never again. His subsequent Transiguration essays (eyed suspiciously and coldly by his teacher) were adequate but not worth mention.
The routine of faculty life was only altered slightly, in that the Headmistress would inexplicably request bird-feed from Hagrid and that a careful observer would have seen the nightly visits of a phoenix to the head teacher’s tower. Yet Sybil Trelawney continued to request the ejection of Firenze monthly and the relationship between Potions Master and Herbology Professor remained rather cool and distant but warmed as the Tentacula‘s ‘condition’ improved.
Such a general mood of content made the Headmistress, armed with her new comfort, feel rather at odds with the Sorting Hat - the tip of which regularly twitched, as though the mind inside was infuriated.
HA 11d: Warning
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Warning
Breakfast the next day was interrupted on several counts. First Eric was called away to have a private talk with Madam Hooch; a conversation that resulted in the boy’s face becoming as red as his hair in triumph, and a proud verbal parade of his talents for the benefit of the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, courtesy of Daniel Glover. Then came the ferocious argument between Benjamin Stubbs and Abigail Lupin: a row that transfixed the whole of Gryffindor table as well as some of the nearby Hufflepuffs, ending only when Professor Hagrid intervened (“If yeh don’t sit down right now and stop disruptin’ breakfast then I’ll have yer hauled up before Professor McGonagall. Is that clear?”). Lastly, and most spectacularly, was the arrival of the post - with two envelopes addressed to ‘Brian Potter,’ one normal and harmless and the other red and smoking.
“Oh dear,” said Eric, and covered his ears as Albus resignedly slit open the Howler.
“BRIAN POTTER!”
Half of the Great Hall was silenced at once; heads turned and talking stopped. Albus ignored the stares and gazed at the burning envelope, waiting for the storm to pass. Ginny’s voice seemed to increase in volume with every word, to the point where it was painful.
“HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON AN ESSAY! WE RECEIVED A LETTER FROM THE HEADMISTRESS LAST NIGHT AND YOUR FATHER WAS APPALLED! WE BROUGHT YOU UP TO BE HONEST AND HARD-WORKING! HOW DARE YOU…”
Albus cringed and twisted his face in distress, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head. The impression of someone severely scolded and bitterly repentant was so convincing as to cause Eric to pat him comfortingly on the back and for Abigail to forget her argument and talk bracingly of ‘Howlers being a hard way to learn, but one day he would be grateful, etcetera.’ Once the Howler had fallen silent and crumbled to ashes, he reached for the second letter whilst biting his lip with apparent nerves.
Dear Brian,
Your mother is sending a Howler with this letter. Since you were probably forced to open that first, my anger and disappointment is no surprise to you.
Four days into the term, Brian. I expected better of you.
Dad
“Well at least he’s short and to-the-point,” said Eric, reading over his shoulder.
Albus folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Had Brian been a genuine boy, he thought, considering his close relationship with Harry, those few lines would have been devastating. He hunched his shoulders higher and bowed his head and spent the rest of the meal staring into space, effecting very weak smiles at Eric’s attempts to cheer him up.
As the rest of the school left the hall for the first of morning lessons, Albus hung back, nodding at Eric to go. The Bloody Baron’s request had not left his mind from the moment it had entered it. The Slytherin ghost had not even been a vague acquaintance from his school-days, and as Nearly Headless Nick had failed to put a name to his face, he felt the risk of discovery was low. On the other hand, what other reason did the ghost have for contacting him? An idea had occurred whilst reading Harry’s gruff letter: perhaps Harry had once had some sort of involvement with the Bloody Baron - probably a negative one given his Gryffindor status - and the ghost wanted to meet the son because of the father? Whatever it was, he was about to find out.
He walked slowly to one of the entrances with the last few stragglers. Soon enough, the Bloody Baron appeared from the crowd, silver robes shining with ghostly blood. Albus looked at the ghost with a frightened expression, knowing full well that most First-Years would be intimidated by the unpleasant sight of the Baron.
“Come with me,” the Bloody Baron groaned.
As Headmaster, Albus had known relatively little of the Baron - simply that Peeves would sometimes do his bidding, and that the ghost was one of few words and an unfriendly disposition. He followed Brian’s new acquaintance down the corridors curiously, but was unsurprised as the path turned downwards into the dungeons, into an empty classroom. The talk was obviously to be private.
“P-Please,” he stammered once they’d halted. “What d-do you want with me? I’m in Gryffindor-”
“I know,” came the awful hollow voice of the Baron, and the dead blank eyes bored into him. “I know who you are.”
Albus blinked - and then realised that the ghost was probably simply referring to his House. “What d-do you w-want-?”
“I know who you are. You don’t need to pretend, Headmaster.”
“H-Headmaster?”
“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”
He sat down on the nearest chair, more surprised than alarmed. “How did you know?”
“I recognised you,” the ghost moaned. “I remember you.”
“But I never knew you whilst I was at school,” Albus protested, running a hand through his auburn hair worriedly. The Baron’s knowledge seemed entirely inexplicable. Had his carelessness with the essay somehow filtered down to the ghosts? Had the Baron assembled the jigsaw when he had access to only a few paltry pieces?
“No. But I remember you. You were the Gryffindor who ruined Slytherin’s chances. I hated you, for the sake of my House. I heard other rumours also, about you. Things you did.”
Albus frowned. He found himself wishing fervently that his past self had been considerably less memorable than he was proving. Patiently, he waited for the next inevitable questions of why and how, only to find his endurance unpaid. The Baron’s blank eyes were wholly incurious; the thought of an animated statue came into his head, uncomplaining, uncaring.
“I request that you do not inform anyone of my identity,” he said at last.
“I am Bound to the castle and the head teacher. If Professor McGonagall should ask, then I am Bound to tell.”
“Yes, yes, of course - but you will not directly inform anyone in the school otherwise?”
“No, Headmaster.”
“Not even members of your House?”
“No, Headmaster.”
“Thank you.” He got up to leave, but the ghost spoke again.
“Headmaster, your secret is not safe. The old portraits may recognise you. Some of them talk about you, saying you look like someone from long ago.”
Albus nodded; the thought had occurred to him. Luckily the solution was relatively easy: a spell that would cloud the memories of most of the portraits in the castle - a mild variant of Obliviation. Performing it that very afternoon seemed a good idea, especially considering what the Baron had said.
“Thank you, Baron. I will deal with that problem today.”
Hefting his school-bag, Albus left the classroom, revelling in the unexpected acquiescence of the Slytherin ghost. The mechanical voice called out after him.
“Headmaster, be careful. There have never been two head teachers of Hogwarts in castle at the same time before.”
Breakfast the next day was interrupted on several counts. First Eric was called away to have a private talk with Madam Hooch; a conversation that resulted in the boy’s face becoming as red as his hair in triumph, and a proud verbal parade of his talents for the benefit of the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, courtesy of Daniel Glover. Then came the ferocious argument between Benjamin Stubbs and Abigail Lupin: a row that transfixed the whole of Gryffindor table as well as some of the nearby Hufflepuffs, ending only when Professor Hagrid intervened (“If yeh don’t sit down right now and stop disruptin’ breakfast then I’ll have yer hauled up before Professor McGonagall. Is that clear?”). Lastly, and most spectacularly, was the arrival of the post - with two envelopes addressed to ‘Brian Potter,’ one normal and harmless and the other red and smoking.
“Oh dear,” said Eric, and covered his ears as Albus resignedly slit open the Howler.
“BRIAN POTTER!”
Half of the Great Hall was silenced at once; heads turned and talking stopped. Albus ignored the stares and gazed at the burning envelope, waiting for the storm to pass. Ginny’s voice seemed to increase in volume with every word, to the point where it was painful.
“HOW DARE YOU CHEAT ON AN ESSAY! WE RECEIVED A LETTER FROM THE HEADMISTRESS LAST NIGHT AND YOUR FATHER WAS APPALLED! WE BROUGHT YOU UP TO BE HONEST AND HARD-WORKING! HOW DARE YOU…”
Albus cringed and twisted his face in distress, hunching his shoulders and shaking his head. The impression of someone severely scolded and bitterly repentant was so convincing as to cause Eric to pat him comfortingly on the back and for Abigail to forget her argument and talk bracingly of ‘Howlers being a hard way to learn, but one day he would be grateful, etcetera.’ Once the Howler had fallen silent and crumbled to ashes, he reached for the second letter whilst biting his lip with apparent nerves.
Dear Brian,
Your mother is sending a Howler with this letter. Since you were probably forced to open that first, my anger and disappointment is no surprise to you.
Four days into the term, Brian. I expected better of you.
Dad
“Well at least he’s short and to-the-point,” said Eric, reading over his shoulder.
Albus folded the letter and put it in his pocket. Had Brian been a genuine boy, he thought, considering his close relationship with Harry, those few lines would have been devastating. He hunched his shoulders higher and bowed his head and spent the rest of the meal staring into space, effecting very weak smiles at Eric’s attempts to cheer him up.
As the rest of the school left the hall for the first of morning lessons, Albus hung back, nodding at Eric to go. The Bloody Baron’s request had not left his mind from the moment it had entered it. The Slytherin ghost had not even been a vague acquaintance from his school-days, and as Nearly Headless Nick had failed to put a name to his face, he felt the risk of discovery was low. On the other hand, what other reason did the ghost have for contacting him? An idea had occurred whilst reading Harry’s gruff letter: perhaps Harry had once had some sort of involvement with the Bloody Baron - probably a negative one given his Gryffindor status - and the ghost wanted to meet the son because of the father? Whatever it was, he was about to find out.
He walked slowly to one of the entrances with the last few stragglers. Soon enough, the Bloody Baron appeared from the crowd, silver robes shining with ghostly blood. Albus looked at the ghost with a frightened expression, knowing full well that most First-Years would be intimidated by the unpleasant sight of the Baron.
“Come with me,” the Bloody Baron groaned.
As Headmaster, Albus had known relatively little of the Baron - simply that Peeves would sometimes do his bidding, and that the ghost was one of few words and an unfriendly disposition. He followed Brian’s new acquaintance down the corridors curiously, but was unsurprised as the path turned downwards into the dungeons, into an empty classroom. The talk was obviously to be private.
“P-Please,” he stammered once they’d halted. “What d-do you want with me? I’m in Gryffindor-”
“I know,” came the awful hollow voice of the Baron, and the dead blank eyes bored into him. “I know who you are.”
Albus blinked - and then realised that the ghost was probably simply referring to his House. “What d-do you w-want-?”
“I know who you are. You don’t need to pretend, Headmaster.”
“H-Headmaster?”
“Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”
He sat down on the nearest chair, more surprised than alarmed. “How did you know?”
“I recognised you,” the ghost moaned. “I remember you.”
“But I never knew you whilst I was at school,” Albus protested, running a hand through his auburn hair worriedly. The Baron’s knowledge seemed entirely inexplicable. Had his carelessness with the essay somehow filtered down to the ghosts? Had the Baron assembled the jigsaw when he had access to only a few paltry pieces?
“No. But I remember you. You were the Gryffindor who ruined Slytherin’s chances. I hated you, for the sake of my House. I heard other rumours also, about you. Things you did.”
Albus frowned. He found himself wishing fervently that his past self had been considerably less memorable than he was proving. Patiently, he waited for the next inevitable questions of why and how, only to find his endurance unpaid. The Baron’s blank eyes were wholly incurious; the thought of an animated statue came into his head, uncomplaining, uncaring.
“I request that you do not inform anyone of my identity,” he said at last.
“I am Bound to the castle and the head teacher. If Professor McGonagall should ask, then I am Bound to tell.”
“Yes, yes, of course - but you will not directly inform anyone in the school otherwise?”
“No, Headmaster.”
“Not even members of your House?”
“No, Headmaster.”
“Thank you.” He got up to leave, but the ghost spoke again.
“Headmaster, your secret is not safe. The old portraits may recognise you. Some of them talk about you, saying you look like someone from long ago.”
Albus nodded; the thought had occurred to him. Luckily the solution was relatively easy: a spell that would cloud the memories of most of the portraits in the castle - a mild variant of Obliviation. Performing it that very afternoon seemed a good idea, especially considering what the Baron had said.
“Thank you, Baron. I will deal with that problem today.”
Hefting his school-bag, Albus left the classroom, revelling in the unexpected acquiescence of the Slytherin ghost. The mechanical voice called out after him.
“Headmaster, be careful. There have never been two head teachers of Hogwarts in castle at the same time before.”
HA 11c: Fantasy
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Fantasy
Minerva McGonagall walked up to the Owlery, sealed letter in hand. Stepping delicately over the floor stained white by centuries of bird-droppings, she headed for the nearest school-owl, an elegant tawny. It really was a shame, she thought as she tied the letter to the bird’s leg. Harry and Ginny would certainly be less than happy.
Once the owl had flown off, she left the acrid stench of the tower for the battlements outside. September meant it was cold and windy; gusts teased at her silver hair, trying to entice it out of its bun. Dinner was drawing near but she had a strange compulsion to stand and watch the clouds for a bit, and think of nothing.
How long she stood there, she did not know, only that it was long enough for the chill to finally reach her bones and make her draw her cloak closer. Minerva turned to go back inside - and caught a glimpse of something red and gold.
The wind carried a melodic cry. Something was flying over past the Owlery, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest.
She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat. The red and gold feathers, the proud crest, the streaming tail - the thing flying towards the trees was a phoenix. She gulped and hobbled to the far end of the battlements, peering intently at the feathered form. Rolanda’s words came back into her head; was it His? Was it Fawkes?
The phoenix circled, turning back towards the castle. Minerva saw the crested head turn towards her, and the hundreds of feet that separated woman and bird were pierced by an intense look reminiscent of its owner. Suddenly, the idea of the phoenix being any other but Fawkes seemed preposterous. Convinced she was dreaming, the Headmistress let her walking stick fall and proffered an arm.
Albus and the phoenix were together in her mind, they always would be. Ever since she’d first walked into his office and seen both him and the bird look up at the same time - their heads both inclined quizzically to the side, the soft brown avian eyes seeming to imitate the sharp blue human ones - one could not exist without the other. In reality, it was impossible for the phoenix to be Fawkes because that would be too wonderful, too suggestive of an unattainable fantasy…
The phoenix was mere feet away now, obviously accepting the offer of her arm. Contrary to all reason, she could see that it was definitely Fawkes; there was something distinctive about the crest. The moment was so utterly surreal that she half expected to see Him appear round the side of the Owlery, humming a little tune.
Fawkes landed on her arm, and at the same time, footsteps could be heard echoing up the stairs in the tower. Minerva ignored them and crushed the bird against her chest, savouring the warmth of the feathers and deciding to enjoy the dream whilst she could.
“Fawkes,” she whispered. “What are you doing here, back again without your master?”
The phoenix squawked as though in protest, but rested its head against her shoulder. Minerva ran a finger down the proud neck and into the soft plumage.
“Minerva!” Rolanda’s voice said abruptly. “There you are! Listen, about what I said yesterday-”
“I know,” the Headmistress said, shocked, turning round. She knew it wasn’t a dream now; had it been a dream then the moment would have remained uninterrupted until Albus’s appearance. Stunned, she looked at the phoenix in her arms and then up at Rolanda, who was gaping at the scene.
“Oh,” said the flying instructor. “Ah. I see you’ve… so it is his then?”
Minerva nodded. “I’m not in the habit of embracing random birds,” she heard herself say vaguely.
Rolanda’s expression became tentative and awkward. “Are you all right?” she asked, peering at her carefully. “I mean, I know - well I don’t really - but it must be hard-”
“I’m perfectly well, Rolanda.” There was no sense in worrying her friend unnecessarily, after all. “It has come as a bit of a surprise…” The phoenix stared up at her. “Why has it returned now? After so many years?”
The other woman shoved her hands into her pockets and bit her lip. There was a pause in which Minerva did nothing but stroke Fawkes, and then the flying instructor finally spoke.
“You still aren’t really over it, are you? Minerva, it’s been nearly eighteen years.”
“Indeed,” she replied softly.
She heard Rolanda swallow. “I’m sorry. I just - well, I’ve never had feelings that strong… If it happened to me, I think I’d just… I’m sorry.”
“No, no - you’re right. I should have put it behind me by now. Any normal person would have.”
“Well,” continued Rolanda hesitantly, “you knew the man for simply decades… so I suppose it wasn’t a normal situation, really.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“This sounds really callous, especially considering what happened - but I almost wish I’d known someone like that.”
“There’s still time to meet him.”
The other professor snorted. “I doubt it. Especially when all I talk about is brooms and Quidditch.”
“All I ever was to Albus was a Deputy. A person to delegate tasks to.”
“Don’t be silly,” scolded Rolanda. “You were friends. If he’d just thought of you as Deputy then he wouldn’t have bothered having tea with you or giving you presents for your birthday or - or anything!”
Minerva sighed and stared out across the grounds. Her eyes were drawn to the corner where she knew His tomb to be and she tore herself away. “It really is time for me to move on.”
Fawkes crooned in her ear. She shivered: for one wild second it had reminded her of Albus’s voice.
Minerva McGonagall walked up to the Owlery, sealed letter in hand. Stepping delicately over the floor stained white by centuries of bird-droppings, she headed for the nearest school-owl, an elegant tawny. It really was a shame, she thought as she tied the letter to the bird’s leg. Harry and Ginny would certainly be less than happy.
Once the owl had flown off, she left the acrid stench of the tower for the battlements outside. September meant it was cold and windy; gusts teased at her silver hair, trying to entice it out of its bun. Dinner was drawing near but she had a strange compulsion to stand and watch the clouds for a bit, and think of nothing.
How long she stood there, she did not know, only that it was long enough for the chill to finally reach her bones and make her draw her cloak closer. Minerva turned to go back inside - and caught a glimpse of something red and gold.
The wind carried a melodic cry. Something was flying over past the Owlery, soaring towards the Forbidden Forest.
She looked up, and the breath caught in her throat. The red and gold feathers, the proud crest, the streaming tail - the thing flying towards the trees was a phoenix. She gulped and hobbled to the far end of the battlements, peering intently at the feathered form. Rolanda’s words came back into her head; was it His? Was it Fawkes?
The phoenix circled, turning back towards the castle. Minerva saw the crested head turn towards her, and the hundreds of feet that separated woman and bird were pierced by an intense look reminiscent of its owner. Suddenly, the idea of the phoenix being any other but Fawkes seemed preposterous. Convinced she was dreaming, the Headmistress let her walking stick fall and proffered an arm.
Albus and the phoenix were together in her mind, they always would be. Ever since she’d first walked into his office and seen both him and the bird look up at the same time - their heads both inclined quizzically to the side, the soft brown avian eyes seeming to imitate the sharp blue human ones - one could not exist without the other. In reality, it was impossible for the phoenix to be Fawkes because that would be too wonderful, too suggestive of an unattainable fantasy…
The phoenix was mere feet away now, obviously accepting the offer of her arm. Contrary to all reason, she could see that it was definitely Fawkes; there was something distinctive about the crest. The moment was so utterly surreal that she half expected to see Him appear round the side of the Owlery, humming a little tune.
Fawkes landed on her arm, and at the same time, footsteps could be heard echoing up the stairs in the tower. Minerva ignored them and crushed the bird against her chest, savouring the warmth of the feathers and deciding to enjoy the dream whilst she could.
“Fawkes,” she whispered. “What are you doing here, back again without your master?”
The phoenix squawked as though in protest, but rested its head against her shoulder. Minerva ran a finger down the proud neck and into the soft plumage.
“Minerva!” Rolanda’s voice said abruptly. “There you are! Listen, about what I said yesterday-”
“I know,” the Headmistress said, shocked, turning round. She knew it wasn’t a dream now; had it been a dream then the moment would have remained uninterrupted until Albus’s appearance. Stunned, she looked at the phoenix in her arms and then up at Rolanda, who was gaping at the scene.
“Oh,” said the flying instructor. “Ah. I see you’ve… so it is his then?”
Minerva nodded. “I’m not in the habit of embracing random birds,” she heard herself say vaguely.
Rolanda’s expression became tentative and awkward. “Are you all right?” she asked, peering at her carefully. “I mean, I know - well I don’t really - but it must be hard-”
“I’m perfectly well, Rolanda.” There was no sense in worrying her friend unnecessarily, after all. “It has come as a bit of a surprise…” The phoenix stared up at her. “Why has it returned now? After so many years?”
The other woman shoved her hands into her pockets and bit her lip. There was a pause in which Minerva did nothing but stroke Fawkes, and then the flying instructor finally spoke.
“You still aren’t really over it, are you? Minerva, it’s been nearly eighteen years.”
“Indeed,” she replied softly.
She heard Rolanda swallow. “I’m sorry. I just - well, I’ve never had feelings that strong… If it happened to me, I think I’d just… I’m sorry.”
“No, no - you’re right. I should have put it behind me by now. Any normal person would have.”
“Well,” continued Rolanda hesitantly, “you knew the man for simply decades… so I suppose it wasn’t a normal situation, really.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“This sounds really callous, especially considering what happened - but I almost wish I’d known someone like that.”
“There’s still time to meet him.”
The other professor snorted. “I doubt it. Especially when all I talk about is brooms and Quidditch.”
“All I ever was to Albus was a Deputy. A person to delegate tasks to.”
“Don’t be silly,” scolded Rolanda. “You were friends. If he’d just thought of you as Deputy then he wouldn’t have bothered having tea with you or giving you presents for your birthday or - or anything!”
Minerva sighed and stared out across the grounds. Her eyes were drawn to the corner where she knew His tomb to be and she tore herself away. “It really is time for me to move on.”
Fawkes crooned in her ear. She shivered: for one wild second it had reminded her of Albus’s voice.
HA 11b: Deceit
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Deceit
Albus sagged against the stone wall outside the office and passed a hand over his eyes, trying to stop trembling. Every second in the office in front of Minerva had been like entering some sort of hellish underworld; first there had been the unpleasant jolt of discovering that he had absent-mindedly written the Transfiguration essay as if it was a theory paper for the Transfiguration Journal, then there had been the awful spectacle of Minerva’s anger - let alone the sheer pain of the her very presence! He had been torn between keeping the secret for the sake of the preserved happiness of others, blurting the truth out for his own happiness, and simply not wanting Minerva to think Brian was dishonest - the last resolution having failed miserably. There had been no easy excuse for the brilliance of the essay, no way of making Brian the apple of Minerva’s eye in defiance of what could only be seen as cheating. Now his old friend thought him an awful, deceitful pupil!
Albus had only ever been the subject of Minerva’s temper once or twice, and those few times had allowed him to be armed with some sort of defence. It was not her temper that had frightened him and had made Brian’s body shake so, but the misery of rejection and contempt from someone he cared about, someone whom the Sorting Hat felt he had to sort out his heart about. How he longed to just shout out the truth-!
The stones of the wall behind him dug coldly into his back. Harry’s reaction to a mere location had led to some sort of panic attack. Seventeen, nearly eighteen years had passed - how could his return be welcome, even to his old friends, when all his memory could arouse were thoughts of war and death? The widening gap of time between each Order reunion was testimony to the fact that people just wanted to move on. Harry and Ginny had deserved a real son, and deceit was necessary to maintain their joy in peace. Minerva also deserved peace; there was no unselfish reason to break it.
Anger made him thump a fist against the wall. Did he really value his happiness over Minerva’s? And how could he have been so stupid as to slip up so badly, to write a paper so far above First-Year level? Tricking Minerva required a greater attention to detail than with most people; he was quite certain the Headmistress had picked up on his badly suppressed urge to call her by her name. He had nearly ruined the lie of so many years just because of his blind enthusiasm for a subject and his inability to separate the past from the present. Look before you leap, old boy. One thing was certain: what he’d told Minerva was true; it really wouldn’t happen again.
“Brian? Mate, are you all right?”
Eric was walking towards him, staring at him worriedly.
“What happened? Did Professor Read shout at you or something? Why?”
Albus blinked and tried to calm himself down. “I got sent to the Headmistress’s office.”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”
“They think I cheated on the essay. It was horrible; she shouted at me for an eternity and gave me detention on Saturday.”
The other boy gave a sympathetic groan, and then looked at him narrowly. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Don’t worry, I believe you,” said Eric, holding up his hands as if Albus had just pointed his wand at him. He beamed. “I bet it’s because you’re the cleverest student ever to come here and they just can’t believe their eyes.”
“Eric, it’s only been four days,” Albus laughed, determined to destroy the mistaken image of Brian-the-Boffin. “It could be downhill from here.” It will be, he thought, still furious at himself.
“I don’t think so. Come on - Herbology’s been cancelled, apparently Sprout has to do something to one of her plants today because it got damaged somehow. Let’s go back to the Common Room.”
Albus nodded and followed Eric back through the corridors and tapestries, calming himself down on the way. His situation couldn’t be helped; one could only hope that the deception held and that Minerva did not detest Brian as much as it had seemed. There was no point in reducing his persona to a quivering wreck in the meantime.
The Fat Lady grudgingly swung aside after demanding why they weren’t in lessons and the warmth of the Common Room engulfed them. The boys made their inconspicuous way over to the side of the room, away from where a group of Sixth-Years sat alternately studying and chatting in one of their frees. Albus was about to flop down as a realistically exhausted eleven-year-old having just ‘had his first blood’ in the Headmistress’s office, when one of the older boys yelled at him.
“Oi!” called Benjamin Stubbs, a tall and burly sixteen-year-old, from his seat near the fire. The Hogwarts Headmaster would probably have termed him to be a ‘well-grown lad;’ to young Brian he was a tower. “You there!”
“Me?” squeaked Eric.
“No, you! Squirt with the mad orange hair!”
“Benjamin!” scolded Abigail from her seat next to him.
“Well he is. Nearly Headless Nick wants a word with you-”
“Yes, he does,” agreed the ghost as he suddenly floated through the opposite wall, causing a gathering of painted inebriated wizards to cry out in disgust. Nick glided towards Albus whilst Eric leant forward in curiosity.
“Is it true that you’re Nearly Headless because-” he began.
“Later, later,” said Nick testily, eyeing Albus up and down. “The Bloody Baron’s looking for you,” he announced, raising one delicate ghostly eyebrow. “I have absolutely no idea why; he wouldn’t say. I hope you haven’t been getting into trouble, young Mr Potter - though it does run in the family, I must say. But you don’t look like your father - by Merlin, I swear you look like someone else, though whom I cannot say.”
Albus stiffened. The Gryffindor ghost had been an acquaintance of his true teenage self during his first time at Hogwarts; evidently some distant memory had been triggered. He was about to make some claim to the effect that Ginny had told him that he was a throwback to one of the old Prewetts on Molly’s side - an idea Nick would be unable to contradict as Molly’s brothers had been the first in their family to go to Hogwarts, when the ghost started and looked at him still more strangely.
“I say! I think I remember now! You look like a boy I used to know over a hundred years back! A funny madcap who kept on wearing a silly Muggle hat just because it wasn’t allowed. Got on the wrong side of the then Headmaster, I seem to recall. Goodness, I wish I could remember what his name was - I believe he turned out to be someone important-”
“What a bizarre coincidence,” Albus interrupted. “It’s strange how things happen like that.”
“Yeah,” said Eric helpfully. “Once, someone told me that I was identical down to the last freckle to their great-uncle as a boy, which is very strange because I’m not related to them at all!”
“Well, anyway… The Bloody Baron. I wouldn’t get mixed up with him if I were you. He said something about wanting to catch you before your lessons tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Albus replied. “So long as he’s reasonable about whatever it is.”
Nearly Headless Nick and Erin both looked at him with odd expressions. “You’re very confident for your age,” the ghost commented at last. “Don’t become rash now!”
Albus sagged against the stone wall outside the office and passed a hand over his eyes, trying to stop trembling. Every second in the office in front of Minerva had been like entering some sort of hellish underworld; first there had been the unpleasant jolt of discovering that he had absent-mindedly written the Transfiguration essay as if it was a theory paper for the Transfiguration Journal, then there had been the awful spectacle of Minerva’s anger - let alone the sheer pain of the her very presence! He had been torn between keeping the secret for the sake of the preserved happiness of others, blurting the truth out for his own happiness, and simply not wanting Minerva to think Brian was dishonest - the last resolution having failed miserably. There had been no easy excuse for the brilliance of the essay, no way of making Brian the apple of Minerva’s eye in defiance of what could only be seen as cheating. Now his old friend thought him an awful, deceitful pupil!
Albus had only ever been the subject of Minerva’s temper once or twice, and those few times had allowed him to be armed with some sort of defence. It was not her temper that had frightened him and had made Brian’s body shake so, but the misery of rejection and contempt from someone he cared about, someone whom the Sorting Hat felt he had to sort out his heart about. How he longed to just shout out the truth-!
The stones of the wall behind him dug coldly into his back. Harry’s reaction to a mere location had led to some sort of panic attack. Seventeen, nearly eighteen years had passed - how could his return be welcome, even to his old friends, when all his memory could arouse were thoughts of war and death? The widening gap of time between each Order reunion was testimony to the fact that people just wanted to move on. Harry and Ginny had deserved a real son, and deceit was necessary to maintain their joy in peace. Minerva also deserved peace; there was no unselfish reason to break it.
Anger made him thump a fist against the wall. Did he really value his happiness over Minerva’s? And how could he have been so stupid as to slip up so badly, to write a paper so far above First-Year level? Tricking Minerva required a greater attention to detail than with most people; he was quite certain the Headmistress had picked up on his badly suppressed urge to call her by her name. He had nearly ruined the lie of so many years just because of his blind enthusiasm for a subject and his inability to separate the past from the present. Look before you leap, old boy. One thing was certain: what he’d told Minerva was true; it really wouldn’t happen again.
“Brian? Mate, are you all right?”
Eric was walking towards him, staring at him worriedly.
“What happened? Did Professor Read shout at you or something? Why?”
Albus blinked and tried to calm himself down. “I got sent to the Headmistress’s office.”
Eric’s eyes widened. “Why? What happened?”
“They think I cheated on the essay. It was horrible; she shouted at me for an eternity and gave me detention on Saturday.”
The other boy gave a sympathetic groan, and then looked at him narrowly. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Don’t worry, I believe you,” said Eric, holding up his hands as if Albus had just pointed his wand at him. He beamed. “I bet it’s because you’re the cleverest student ever to come here and they just can’t believe their eyes.”
“Eric, it’s only been four days,” Albus laughed, determined to destroy the mistaken image of Brian-the-Boffin. “It could be downhill from here.” It will be, he thought, still furious at himself.
“I don’t think so. Come on - Herbology’s been cancelled, apparently Sprout has to do something to one of her plants today because it got damaged somehow. Let’s go back to the Common Room.”
Albus nodded and followed Eric back through the corridors and tapestries, calming himself down on the way. His situation couldn’t be helped; one could only hope that the deception held and that Minerva did not detest Brian as much as it had seemed. There was no point in reducing his persona to a quivering wreck in the meantime.
The Fat Lady grudgingly swung aside after demanding why they weren’t in lessons and the warmth of the Common Room engulfed them. The boys made their inconspicuous way over to the side of the room, away from where a group of Sixth-Years sat alternately studying and chatting in one of their frees. Albus was about to flop down as a realistically exhausted eleven-year-old having just ‘had his first blood’ in the Headmistress’s office, when one of the older boys yelled at him.
“Oi!” called Benjamin Stubbs, a tall and burly sixteen-year-old, from his seat near the fire. The Hogwarts Headmaster would probably have termed him to be a ‘well-grown lad;’ to young Brian he was a tower. “You there!”
“Me?” squeaked Eric.
“No, you! Squirt with the mad orange hair!”
“Benjamin!” scolded Abigail from her seat next to him.
“Well he is. Nearly Headless Nick wants a word with you-”
“Yes, he does,” agreed the ghost as he suddenly floated through the opposite wall, causing a gathering of painted inebriated wizards to cry out in disgust. Nick glided towards Albus whilst Eric leant forward in curiosity.
“Is it true that you’re Nearly Headless because-” he began.
“Later, later,” said Nick testily, eyeing Albus up and down. “The Bloody Baron’s looking for you,” he announced, raising one delicate ghostly eyebrow. “I have absolutely no idea why; he wouldn’t say. I hope you haven’t been getting into trouble, young Mr Potter - though it does run in the family, I must say. But you don’t look like your father - by Merlin, I swear you look like someone else, though whom I cannot say.”
Albus stiffened. The Gryffindor ghost had been an acquaintance of his true teenage self during his first time at Hogwarts; evidently some distant memory had been triggered. He was about to make some claim to the effect that Ginny had told him that he was a throwback to one of the old Prewetts on Molly’s side - an idea Nick would be unable to contradict as Molly’s brothers had been the first in their family to go to Hogwarts, when the ghost started and looked at him still more strangely.
“I say! I think I remember now! You look like a boy I used to know over a hundred years back! A funny madcap who kept on wearing a silly Muggle hat just because it wasn’t allowed. Got on the wrong side of the then Headmaster, I seem to recall. Goodness, I wish I could remember what his name was - I believe he turned out to be someone important-”
“What a bizarre coincidence,” Albus interrupted. “It’s strange how things happen like that.”
“Yeah,” said Eric helpfully. “Once, someone told me that I was identical down to the last freckle to their great-uncle as a boy, which is very strange because I’m not related to them at all!”
“Well, anyway… The Bloody Baron. I wouldn’t get mixed up with him if I were you. He said something about wanting to catch you before your lessons tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Albus replied. “So long as he’s reasonable about whatever it is.”
Nearly Headless Nick and Erin both looked at him with odd expressions. “You’re very confident for your age,” the ghost commented at last. “Don’t become rash now!”
HA 11a: Prejudice
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 11: Moving On - Prejudice
Minerva looked up as Professor Read and the wayward student entered. Around her, the portraits mimed sleep, snoring convincingly - but ever ready to listen in and get a piece of the gossip. Doubtlessly after Brian Potter had left, either Dippet or Nigellus would insist on airing their opinions on the child.
She glanced at the essay, sat ready on her desk, and nodded at Professor Read to leave. There was no point in becoming any more irritated than was necessary. Nevertheless, cheating was a serious matter, and the purpose of the interview was impress upon Brian the need for honesty in the future. Once the door had closed she looked up at the boy himself, to see what impression being summoned to the Headmistress’s office was making on him.
The child’s face was deathly pale and his blue eyes were wide; he was standing as far away from the desk as possible, seemingly transfixed by the sight of her. Minerva was put in the mind of shocked and terrified mouse being hynotised by a snake. Surely she wasn’t all that frightening?
The urge to soften the blow came to her and she frowned at the impulse. There was no sense in being gentle now if it simply resulted in Brian’s expulsion if he cheated at his OWLs. The problem had to be nipped in the bud.
“Mr Potter, please sit down,” she said crisply, fixing him with a disapproving glare.
Brian gaped at her, and she found herself thinking how dissimilar to his parents he was - and yet, how familiar his eyes seemed. He walked across the room and sat himself in the chair slowly, and ripped his face away from Minerva’s, turning it to his lap.
“Mr Potter, are you aware of why you have been summoned here today?”
The boy shook his head, his half-moon spectacles almost falling off. Minerva blinked; the glasses were an odd choice for an eleven-year-old.
“I think you are.”
He looked up and gave her a searching look with his sapphire eyes. She waited but he was apparently unable to speak, so she continued.
“Brian Potter, I would like to impress on you-” She stopped, suddenly remembering exactly who the boy was named after. What would He have thought, she thought bitterly, if He had known that the boy named after Him would turn out to be deceitful? Anger sharpened her words. “I would like to impress on you the seriousness of cheating at Hogwarts. We do not tolerate such deceit here.”
The boy stared at her insolently; he was obviously still pretending ignorance. Minerva felt her nostrils flare in irritation, and she picked up the essay and waved it at him.
“I want you to tell me whom or what you copied - for there is little doubt, Mr Potter, that you have copied. Trying to pass other people’s work as your own qualifies as theft. I am deeply shocked and disappointed in this behaviour, and further attempts to cheat will result in me contacting your parents.”
The child’s face suddenly sagged in horror as he gazed at the essay. Minerva gazed at him coldly; he had been found out, the lie had been unearthed.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I - I-” the student gulped.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, M-Professor.”
The Headmistress blinked and narrowed her eyes. M-Professor? Had the boy just been impertinent enough to try and address her by her name? A fire roared into life in her chest.
“Mr Potter,” she found herself whispering. “I will not suffer this impudence.”
His silence infuriated her.
“Explain yourself.”
Brian’s mouth worked. Then-
“I apologise, Professor. It won’t happen again,” he said smoothly.
Minerva stood up. Students who did wrong and denied it when caught were bad enough, but students like the one before her - who at first pretended ignorance and then apologised so slickly, insincerely - were beyond the pale. The boy was nothing like his parents, she thought fiercely, nothing at all. This was a reborn Draco Malfoy at the peak of his insolence and disregard for authority - that the child she had once held in her arms should turn into this-! She placed her hands at opposite ends of the desk and leaned forward, so that the boy sank back in his chair.
“I’m afraid that more than cursory apologies are needed here! I will not tolerate such lack of respect, Mr Potter! Detention, on Saturday at five o’clock with Mr Filch! Now tell me what source you copied from!”
“I d-didn’t, P-Professor! I honestly s-swear I didn’t copy from a-anything!”
There was something wrong about the stutter, as if the voice’s owner didn’t naturally stutter but had felt it necessary to produce a passable rendition. Minerva felt herself becoming incensed. She stared into the pale, shocked face, suddenly feeling as though the whole display was an act designed to placate her.
“Then I would very much like to know an alternative explanation!” She drew herself up to her full height. “You have blatantly either copied from a book or gotten someone else both older and cleverer than you to write it instead! Provide me with the source or I shall be forced to contact your parents.”
The boy gazed at her silently. His pale cheeks were beginning to flush and the blue eyes begged her not to do anything of the sort, but the pointed jaw remained clamped.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “I’m writing to your parents tonight. You may go. Don’t forget your detention on Saturday.”
He got up from the chair and left the office. As he did so, Minerva was satisfied to see that his small limbs were shaking very slightly. The moment the door closed behind him, the portraits began to mutter as she sat back down at the desk.
“Disgraceful behaviour,” declared Dippet. “Simply shocking.”
“In my day,” said Everard, “he would have been hung upside-down in the dungeons by his ankles and left there for a couple of hours.”
“Well, Headmistress, you certainly had him cowed,” commented Derwent, shaking her painted silver ringlets.
“On the contrary, Dilys,” Minerva stated coldly. “I believe he was considerably less frightened than how he appeared. A cold and calculating student.”
“Doubtlessly just the sort of boy Lestrange would have approved of,” Phineas Nigellus drawled, looking over at the mentioned former headmaster’s portrait only to find it empty. “But then, I never understood Dumbledore’s fixation on the father-”
“-Who has little to do with his son, personality-wise,” interrupted Minerva, irritated. It saddened her that He would most certainly have thought of the boy as a grandson - how disappointed He would have been!
She ripped a sheet of clean parchment from the roll inside the nearest drawer, and dipped a quill into some ink, wondering how to begin chastising the boy to his family. She was about to set point on paper when a small voice broke the overhead clamour.
“I wouldn’t dismiss the boy out of hand if I were you, Headmistress.”
Minerva looked around, at first confused - and then saw the Sorting Hat twitching on its shelf across the office. It was unusual for the hat to speak at all, and the portraits were automatically silenced.
“I saw some very… unusual things in his head. He won’t go through Hogwarts unnoticed, that’s for sure.”
She sniffed and turned back to the parchment. “Unusual, yes, but not desirable.”
Minerva looked up as Professor Read and the wayward student entered. Around her, the portraits mimed sleep, snoring convincingly - but ever ready to listen in and get a piece of the gossip. Doubtlessly after Brian Potter had left, either Dippet or Nigellus would insist on airing their opinions on the child.
She glanced at the essay, sat ready on her desk, and nodded at Professor Read to leave. There was no point in becoming any more irritated than was necessary. Nevertheless, cheating was a serious matter, and the purpose of the interview was impress upon Brian the need for honesty in the future. Once the door had closed she looked up at the boy himself, to see what impression being summoned to the Headmistress’s office was making on him.
The child’s face was deathly pale and his blue eyes were wide; he was standing as far away from the desk as possible, seemingly transfixed by the sight of her. Minerva was put in the mind of shocked and terrified mouse being hynotised by a snake. Surely she wasn’t all that frightening?
The urge to soften the blow came to her and she frowned at the impulse. There was no sense in being gentle now if it simply resulted in Brian’s expulsion if he cheated at his OWLs. The problem had to be nipped in the bud.
“Mr Potter, please sit down,” she said crisply, fixing him with a disapproving glare.
Brian gaped at her, and she found herself thinking how dissimilar to his parents he was - and yet, how familiar his eyes seemed. He walked across the room and sat himself in the chair slowly, and ripped his face away from Minerva’s, turning it to his lap.
“Mr Potter, are you aware of why you have been summoned here today?”
The boy shook his head, his half-moon spectacles almost falling off. Minerva blinked; the glasses were an odd choice for an eleven-year-old.
“I think you are.”
He looked up and gave her a searching look with his sapphire eyes. She waited but he was apparently unable to speak, so she continued.
“Brian Potter, I would like to impress on you-” She stopped, suddenly remembering exactly who the boy was named after. What would He have thought, she thought bitterly, if He had known that the boy named after Him would turn out to be deceitful? Anger sharpened her words. “I would like to impress on you the seriousness of cheating at Hogwarts. We do not tolerate such deceit here.”
The boy stared at her insolently; he was obviously still pretending ignorance. Minerva felt her nostrils flare in irritation, and she picked up the essay and waved it at him.
“I want you to tell me whom or what you copied - for there is little doubt, Mr Potter, that you have copied. Trying to pass other people’s work as your own qualifies as theft. I am deeply shocked and disappointed in this behaviour, and further attempts to cheat will result in me contacting your parents.”
The child’s face suddenly sagged in horror as he gazed at the essay. Minerva gazed at him coldly; he had been found out, the lie had been unearthed.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I - I-” the student gulped.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, M-Professor.”
The Headmistress blinked and narrowed her eyes. M-Professor? Had the boy just been impertinent enough to try and address her by her name? A fire roared into life in her chest.
“Mr Potter,” she found herself whispering. “I will not suffer this impudence.”
His silence infuriated her.
“Explain yourself.”
Brian’s mouth worked. Then-
“I apologise, Professor. It won’t happen again,” he said smoothly.
Minerva stood up. Students who did wrong and denied it when caught were bad enough, but students like the one before her - who at first pretended ignorance and then apologised so slickly, insincerely - were beyond the pale. The boy was nothing like his parents, she thought fiercely, nothing at all. This was a reborn Draco Malfoy at the peak of his insolence and disregard for authority - that the child she had once held in her arms should turn into this-! She placed her hands at opposite ends of the desk and leaned forward, so that the boy sank back in his chair.
“I’m afraid that more than cursory apologies are needed here! I will not tolerate such lack of respect, Mr Potter! Detention, on Saturday at five o’clock with Mr Filch! Now tell me what source you copied from!”
“I d-didn’t, P-Professor! I honestly s-swear I didn’t copy from a-anything!”
There was something wrong about the stutter, as if the voice’s owner didn’t naturally stutter but had felt it necessary to produce a passable rendition. Minerva felt herself becoming incensed. She stared into the pale, shocked face, suddenly feeling as though the whole display was an act designed to placate her.
“Then I would very much like to know an alternative explanation!” She drew herself up to her full height. “You have blatantly either copied from a book or gotten someone else both older and cleverer than you to write it instead! Provide me with the source or I shall be forced to contact your parents.”
The boy gazed at her silently. His pale cheeks were beginning to flush and the blue eyes begged her not to do anything of the sort, but the pointed jaw remained clamped.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “I’m writing to your parents tonight. You may go. Don’t forget your detention on Saturday.”
He got up from the chair and left the office. As he did so, Minerva was satisfied to see that his small limbs were shaking very slightly. The moment the door closed behind him, the portraits began to mutter as she sat back down at the desk.
“Disgraceful behaviour,” declared Dippet. “Simply shocking.”
“In my day,” said Everard, “he would have been hung upside-down in the dungeons by his ankles and left there for a couple of hours.”
“Well, Headmistress, you certainly had him cowed,” commented Derwent, shaking her painted silver ringlets.
“On the contrary, Dilys,” Minerva stated coldly. “I believe he was considerably less frightened than how he appeared. A cold and calculating student.”
“Doubtlessly just the sort of boy Lestrange would have approved of,” Phineas Nigellus drawled, looking over at the mentioned former headmaster’s portrait only to find it empty. “But then, I never understood Dumbledore’s fixation on the father-”
“-Who has little to do with his son, personality-wise,” interrupted Minerva, irritated. It saddened her that He would most certainly have thought of the boy as a grandson - how disappointed He would have been!
She ripped a sheet of clean parchment from the roll inside the nearest drawer, and dipped a quill into some ink, wondering how to begin chastising the boy to his family. She was about to set point on paper when a small voice broke the overhead clamour.
“I wouldn’t dismiss the boy out of hand if I were you, Headmistress.”
Minerva looked around, at first confused - and then saw the Sorting Hat twitching on its shelf across the office. It was unusual for the hat to speak at all, and the portraits were automatically silenced.
“I saw some very… unusual things in his head. He won’t go through Hogwarts unnoticed, that’s for sure.”
She sniffed and turned back to the parchment. “Unusual, yes, but not desirable.”
HA 10d: Student
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 10: Ashes to Ashes - Student
The other boys had already gone down to breakfast by the time Albus woke up the next morning - with the exception of Eric, who had quite obviously waited for him.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily, as Albus washed and donned Brian’s school-robes. “Are you all right now?”
“Sorry?”
“Last night. When you were asleep. It looked like you were having a really weird nightmare.”
“Really?” asked Albus, a small version of himself beginning to jangle the alarm bells.
“Yeah - you went all rigid at one point, and nearly fell out of your bed. It really freaked me out. And you said something, too.”
Albus stared at Eric, desperately keeping the happy expression pasted on Brian’s face. What had he said? Had it been… Minerva? Why - why would his subconscious self want to call that?
Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.
He knew the answer really. He just didn’t dare think it; the hopelessness of the situation-
“It sounded like ‘Serverus.’ Or ‘Siverus.’ Or ‘Severus.’ Something like that. And you said please to something. Can’t you remember what it was about at all?”
“No,” he blurted - but he felt the blood leave Brian’s face. Snape stood before him again, ignoring his pleas not to turn his back on truth and justice and Lily, raising his wand, face contorted, sending him to his death. The betrayal was like a knife entering his ribcage, coldly penetrating to his beating heart. Poor, damaged, guilt-wracked Severus, whom he’d cared for in a similar way to Harry, had turned into the malignant Snape, merciless and filled with contempt for the man who’d supported him. What had happened, what had he done wrong?
Eric was eyeing him oddly; Albus struggled to get control over his - and Brian’s - face, but the damage was done. Hopefully Eric would simply think it had been a horrific nightmare that Brian didn’t want to talk about, which wasn’t that far from the truth anyway. Neither spoke on the way down to breakfast.
Potions was first. Albus, too moved by the reported nightmare to try at pretences, brewed a perfect Anti-Boil potion that resulted in Slughorn talking fondly of Harry for half the lesson. Really, Albus thought half-indignantly, it wasn’t as if he had ever known Harry all that well. I had the monopoly there. The thought of Harry calmed him, steadied his shaken nerves.
Transfiguration came next, this time punctuated with inexplicably stony glances from Professor Read and convincing failures at simple Transfiguration spells. The advantage of having once been a teacher who had understood where students could go wrong allowed Albus the satisfaction of successfully answering a question incorrectly.
“Your homework is to practice,” Professor Read said reedily. “That is all.”
“Come on,” Eric said, as Albus packed away his bag.
“Brian Potter,” the teacher squawked just as both boys were about to leave the room. “See me. Run along, Mr Weasley.”
Confused, Albus walked up to Professor Read, head bowed in an accurate impersonation of a nervous pupil. Since Professor Read looked like the sort of person to be easily blown away by a strong gust of wind, such anxiety really did have to be feigned.
“Mr Potter. You are to come and see the Headmistress immediately.”
“Why, Professor?”
He was astonished he had managed to speak, to ask such an innocent question. Minerva’s face filled his brain - as it had been, strong and defiant, and as it was, hollow and pale. His body had frozen in shock; here it was, the ultimate test of his will, of his acting abilities, of his heart-
Professor Read looked outraged. “You may find wasting my time amusing, Mr Potter, but I assure you the Headmistress does not! Follow me!”
The corridors passed by like a dream. It occurred to Albus that, ironically, he felt just as any other First-Year would feel having been summoned to the head teacher’s office. His stomach twisted; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Minerva had found out somehow, had cooked up some excuse for Professor Read to take him to her office, in a few minutes time he would be pouring out the whole story to her…
Then, perhaps, one day he would be able to tell her what he felt. Perhaps he would be able to do so when Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman on her death-bed-
Of course, she would die before him now. That fact was undeniable. It made him want to hurl himself out of the nearest window.
When Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman - surely that would be better than when he was trapped in the body of a child? He couldn’t imagine the saying the words in a child’s voice whilst in a child’s body. The image was wrong. At least, if he told her at the last, then there would be a finality to it. There would be no need for rejections or pain, because she would be gone to her next great adventure…
“Such interesting thoughts you have,” the Sorting Hat said again, but bitterly.
“Ashes to ashes.”
The odd, macabre password was spoken quickly and the gargoyle leapt aside. They were ascending up stairs he still thought of as his own…
The door was before them. Professor Read rapped smartly on the wood, ignore the Griffin knocker. Albus stared at it vaguely, remembering what a terrific joke it had seemed when he’d installed it upon becoming headmaster. Griffin-door. Gryffindor. Now the door had become a portal to more than a joke.
There was an agonising silence, and then a curt reply.
“Enter.”
The other boys had already gone down to breakfast by the time Albus woke up the next morning - with the exception of Eric, who had quite obviously waited for him.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily, as Albus washed and donned Brian’s school-robes. “Are you all right now?”
“Sorry?”
“Last night. When you were asleep. It looked like you were having a really weird nightmare.”
“Really?” asked Albus, a small version of himself beginning to jangle the alarm bells.
“Yeah - you went all rigid at one point, and nearly fell out of your bed. It really freaked me out. And you said something, too.”
Albus stared at Eric, desperately keeping the happy expression pasted on Brian’s face. What had he said? Had it been… Minerva? Why - why would his subconscious self want to call that?
Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.
He knew the answer really. He just didn’t dare think it; the hopelessness of the situation-
“It sounded like ‘Serverus.’ Or ‘Siverus.’ Or ‘Severus.’ Something like that. And you said please to something. Can’t you remember what it was about at all?”
“No,” he blurted - but he felt the blood leave Brian’s face. Snape stood before him again, ignoring his pleas not to turn his back on truth and justice and Lily, raising his wand, face contorted, sending him to his death. The betrayal was like a knife entering his ribcage, coldly penetrating to his beating heart. Poor, damaged, guilt-wracked Severus, whom he’d cared for in a similar way to Harry, had turned into the malignant Snape, merciless and filled with contempt for the man who’d supported him. What had happened, what had he done wrong?
Eric was eyeing him oddly; Albus struggled to get control over his - and Brian’s - face, but the damage was done. Hopefully Eric would simply think it had been a horrific nightmare that Brian didn’t want to talk about, which wasn’t that far from the truth anyway. Neither spoke on the way down to breakfast.
Potions was first. Albus, too moved by the reported nightmare to try at pretences, brewed a perfect Anti-Boil potion that resulted in Slughorn talking fondly of Harry for half the lesson. Really, Albus thought half-indignantly, it wasn’t as if he had ever known Harry all that well. I had the monopoly there. The thought of Harry calmed him, steadied his shaken nerves.
Transfiguration came next, this time punctuated with inexplicably stony glances from Professor Read and convincing failures at simple Transfiguration spells. The advantage of having once been a teacher who had understood where students could go wrong allowed Albus the satisfaction of successfully answering a question incorrectly.
“Your homework is to practice,” Professor Read said reedily. “That is all.”
“Come on,” Eric said, as Albus packed away his bag.
“Brian Potter,” the teacher squawked just as both boys were about to leave the room. “See me. Run along, Mr Weasley.”
Confused, Albus walked up to Professor Read, head bowed in an accurate impersonation of a nervous pupil. Since Professor Read looked like the sort of person to be easily blown away by a strong gust of wind, such anxiety really did have to be feigned.
“Mr Potter. You are to come and see the Headmistress immediately.”
“Why, Professor?”
He was astonished he had managed to speak, to ask such an innocent question. Minerva’s face filled his brain - as it had been, strong and defiant, and as it was, hollow and pale. His body had frozen in shock; here it was, the ultimate test of his will, of his acting abilities, of his heart-
Professor Read looked outraged. “You may find wasting my time amusing, Mr Potter, but I assure you the Headmistress does not! Follow me!”
The corridors passed by like a dream. It occurred to Albus that, ironically, he felt just as any other First-Year would feel having been summoned to the head teacher’s office. His stomach twisted; his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Minerva had found out somehow, had cooked up some excuse for Professor Read to take him to her office, in a few minutes time he would be pouring out the whole story to her…
Then, perhaps, one day he would be able to tell her what he felt. Perhaps he would be able to do so when Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman on her death-bed-
Of course, she would die before him now. That fact was undeniable. It made him want to hurl himself out of the nearest window.
When Brian was a man and Minerva an ailing old woman - surely that would be better than when he was trapped in the body of a child? He couldn’t imagine the saying the words in a child’s voice whilst in a child’s body. The image was wrong. At least, if he told her at the last, then there would be a finality to it. There would be no need for rejections or pain, because she would be gone to her next great adventure…
“Such interesting thoughts you have,” the Sorting Hat said again, but bitterly.
“Ashes to ashes.”
The odd, macabre password was spoken quickly and the gargoyle leapt aside. They were ascending up stairs he still thought of as his own…
The door was before them. Professor Read rapped smartly on the wood, ignore the Griffin knocker. Albus stared at it vaguely, remembering what a terrific joke it had seemed when he’d installed it upon becoming headmaster. Griffin-door. Gryffindor. Now the door had become a portal to more than a joke.
There was an agonising silence, and then a curt reply.
“Enter.”
HA 10c: Liar
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 10: Ashes to Ashes - Liar
It was late, and Minerva’s body was beginning to protest as she dragged it up the stairs to her office - yet there was still the matter of Professor Read’s ‘genius’ essay to attend to. Seeing it lying on the desk where she‘d abandoned it earlier, she eyed it distastefully.
Prejudice again, someone in her head pointed out. You don’t want to read it because Read loved it.
She nodded to herself, accepting the charge. There was something so profoundly irritating about Martha that it coloured everything she touched or approved of - the essay, the embodiment of all things inanimate and harmless, seemed to exude a fussy, melodramatic air that made her want to throw it in the bin. Nevertheless, reading it would only take a few minutes, and Martha was bound to mention it the next day so there was no excuse to put it off.
Easing herself into the chair, Minerva found herself struck by the handwriting - loopy and distinctive, somehow old-fashioned and quaint. For a moment, she gazed at it. There was an aura of familiarity about it; something she couldn’t put her finger on. She shook herself and began to read: she had never read Brian Potter’s handwriting before and there was no logical reason for it to be familiar.
Fifteen minutes passed. Scepticism gave way to astonishment, astonishment to awe, awe to vague annoyance. She set the essay back down on the table and stared out of the window distractedly.
The style was impressive, far beyond the standard of most Seventh-Years. Complicated technical terms littered the text and the subject was analysed in a depth Minerva knew the that even Transfiguration teacher-training board did not expect. Martha had been right - this sort of thing belonged in an international professional journal, not in a First-Year’s first essay. The mind who had written this was brilliant, with their knowledge standing beyond even her own, excelling her in reasoned speculation and theory. In fact, Minerva felt herself desiring to meet with the writer and have a good intellectual discussion about some of the issues they’d raised.
The name at the top of the parchment stood out at her again. Brian Potter.
She sighed and sat back. There was no doubt about it: the boy had either copied and not had the sense to copy something average and mediocre, or he had somehow persuaded a professional to write it. She fancied that there was something familiar about the style; perhaps she had read the work of the same writer in a book somewhere?
A disappointing, Slytherin-ish thing for the son of Harry and Ginny Potter to have done, she thought. Then fury fired her mind. Could she not suppress the prejudice? Would she always be looking for ways to think well of the children of her friends?
Trying to calm herself, Minerva got up and walked into her chambers, straight up to the bookcase. Stimulated by a First-Year essay, she took down a book and began to read, exhaustion forgotten.
It was late, and Minerva’s body was beginning to protest as she dragged it up the stairs to her office - yet there was still the matter of Professor Read’s ‘genius’ essay to attend to. Seeing it lying on the desk where she‘d abandoned it earlier, she eyed it distastefully.
Prejudice again, someone in her head pointed out. You don’t want to read it because Read loved it.
She nodded to herself, accepting the charge. There was something so profoundly irritating about Martha that it coloured everything she touched or approved of - the essay, the embodiment of all things inanimate and harmless, seemed to exude a fussy, melodramatic air that made her want to throw it in the bin. Nevertheless, reading it would only take a few minutes, and Martha was bound to mention it the next day so there was no excuse to put it off.
Easing herself into the chair, Minerva found herself struck by the handwriting - loopy and distinctive, somehow old-fashioned and quaint. For a moment, she gazed at it. There was an aura of familiarity about it; something she couldn’t put her finger on. She shook herself and began to read: she had never read Brian Potter’s handwriting before and there was no logical reason for it to be familiar.
Fifteen minutes passed. Scepticism gave way to astonishment, astonishment to awe, awe to vague annoyance. She set the essay back down on the table and stared out of the window distractedly.
The style was impressive, far beyond the standard of most Seventh-Years. Complicated technical terms littered the text and the subject was analysed in a depth Minerva knew the that even Transfiguration teacher-training board did not expect. Martha had been right - this sort of thing belonged in an international professional journal, not in a First-Year’s first essay. The mind who had written this was brilliant, with their knowledge standing beyond even her own, excelling her in reasoned speculation and theory. In fact, Minerva felt herself desiring to meet with the writer and have a good intellectual discussion about some of the issues they’d raised.
The name at the top of the parchment stood out at her again. Brian Potter.
She sighed and sat back. There was no doubt about it: the boy had either copied and not had the sense to copy something average and mediocre, or he had somehow persuaded a professional to write it. She fancied that there was something familiar about the style; perhaps she had read the work of the same writer in a book somewhere?
A disappointing, Slytherin-ish thing for the son of Harry and Ginny Potter to have done, she thought. Then fury fired her mind. Could she not suppress the prejudice? Would she always be looking for ways to think well of the children of her friends?
Trying to calm herself, Minerva got up and walked into her chambers, straight up to the bookcase. Stimulated by a First-Year essay, she took down a book and began to read, exhaustion forgotten.
HA 10b: Outcast
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 10: Ashes to Ashes - Outcast
“Lights out!”
Abigail Lupin was stomping around the Gryffindor dormitories, glaring at those who weren’t yet in bed. Albus had had to suppress a knowing chuckle more than once; Abigail seemed to have inherited both her father’s sense and her mother’s forthrightness - when one Second-Year had refused to give up his chair in the Common Room, she had simply grabbed him by one ear and pulled him up to his dormitory whilst using her Metamorphmagi abilities to pull threatening faces.
“You, what are you sniggering at?” she demanded, staring at him as he began to draw the bed-hangings closed.
“Nothing,” he said politely, suppressing a smile.
“Right then. Nox.”
The dormitory dimmed and there was a brief silence in the first few minutes after the Head Girl had exited. Then the First-Years, the excitement of sleeping away from home having not quite worn off, began to whisper and giggle, sitting up and drawing back their bed-hangings. Albus drew back his own too; if he was going to relive life as a student there was no point in being stand-offish.
The other four boys in his dormitory were already chatting and laughing. His eyes moved to their faces one by one, knowing that his observation was unlikely to be interrupted. Stand-offish he tried not to be, but his lack of confidence in accurately portraying an eleven-year-old to actual eleven-year-olds and his awareness of being much older and inevitably cleverer had led to a good deal of silence on his part. That accompanied with awkward smiles and one word replies had soon given his classmates the impression that he wanted to be left alone, just four days into the term.
The first boy Albus’s eyes found was Eric Weasley, the loud and humorous third child of Bill and Fleur. His young face was already very like Bill’s, and Albus was certain that the coming years would leave a mark on the Hogwarts female population. He also happened to be Brian's cousin, and was the subject of an unspoken war between Molly and Fleur; Molly welcomed him into the bosom of the Weasley family, whilst Fleur firmly dragged him away to the Delacours, with the result that alone out of the Weasley clan, Eric and his siblings were perfect strangers to Brian. Unsurprisingly, Eric, out of all the Gryffindor boys, had been the most persistent in trying to make friends with him, chattering away at him in Potions until even a very genial Slughorn had wagged a warning finger at their table. Family connection notwithstanding, Albus suspected that it was something to do with the fact that both Brian and Eric was children of figures of the Second War and, as such, both had to deal with unwanted media attention.
The second boy, Mark Scott, had taken Albus’s reticence as a sign of vanity and now tended to pointedly ignore him whenever he was in the same room. Mark also talked with the air of pretending to know more than he actually did; the Scott family patriarch’s opinions could be heard in every word. The third, Daniel Glover, seemed to fall easily into the role of Eric’s hero-worshipper (“I can’t believe you can fly like that! I can’t believe anyone can fly like that!”) and the fourth, Cal Smith, was painfully shy, adopting an ingratiating manner every time someone spoke to him (“Really? Yes! I thought that too!”).
“…And Madam Hooch said she was going to speak to Professor McGonagall about it,” Eric was saying triumphantly.
“Wicked!” said Daniel, beaming. “I bet she lets you, too! You’ll be the second youngest on the team in over a century!”
“Wasn’t the first your dad?” Eric said suddenly, looking over at Brian.
“Yes,” said Albus, injecting some hesitation into Brian’s voice so as to reinforce the impression of shyness.
“What position did he play?” asked Daniel.
“Seeker, of course!” Eric replied, rolling his eyes. “Madam Hooch talked about him for half the lesson!”
“And then she spent the other half of the lesson talking about you,” Mark pointed out.
Erin flushed. “Yeah, well - Brian wasn’t bad either. Had you flown before?” he asked, addressing him again.
“Yes,” said Albus easily. For one thing, it was the truth - Harry had often taken Brian flying on his old Firebolt, allowing for some ability to be displayed in class.
“He wasn’t bad,” said Mark. “But he was nothing like you, Eric. Did you see Madam Hooch’s face? She thought he was going to be like his dad and he wasn’t-!”
“He was still good,” Eric interrupted, shooting Albus an encouraging smile. “And he’s in the best in the class at every lesson.”
“Not really,” protested Albus, knowing that most normal eleven-year-olds would object to that. “I wasn’t really.”
“Yes you were! You got everything right first time in Charms - and in Transfiguration - and in Herbology!”
Albus had to suppress a sigh. Every time he walked into a classroom he resolved to make deliberate mistakes, to be slow at learning, to pretend to get confused. Unfortunately, the resolution was usually forgotten whenever the situation presented itself, and whenever it was remembered, it proved almost impossible to fulfil. Performing spells that were second-nature wrongly was incredibly difficult and took far more concentration than was required to cast the spells in the first place. He’d managed to set his feather on fire in Charms, but only after levitating it almost to the ceiling and he‘d contrived to add the wrong ingredients in Potions, leading to a short scolding from Slughorn, but the mistake seemed too obvious to be repeated too many times. The worst crises had been in the first few lessons of Transfiguration - during which he had struggled to simplify his answers to questions and had had to repress the urge to clarify the inept teacher on certain points. All in all, it was exhausting.
“So, what do you all think of the teachers so far?” he asked, trying to make conversation. He winced; the question sounded just the sort of thing the Hogwarts Headmaster would ask if secretly disguised as a student - as he was now.
“Dunno, really.” Eric shrugged. “Slughorn’s funny, even if he does go on about all the famous people he’s ever known. Sprout’s all right, Binns is boring, Hooch is okay, I suppose… Read’s annoying.”
“Yeah - yeah I thought that,” Cal agreed.
“I tried to run away back to the Common Room today, when she gave us that essay,” Mark muttered.
“Really?” said Eric interestedly. “Didn’t you get into trouble?”
“Obviously - that’s why I still turned up, but late. McGonagall caught me in the corridors.”
Albus felt his attention sharpen to a point. Minerva! Why had he not tried to bunk off too so as to meet her, even if only for a scolding? The other boys also sat up - but for a different reason.
“What’s she like?” Daniel asked. “I mean, we only ever see her at breakfast and dinner-”
Mark shrugged. “Strict and stern. She all pursed her lips at me and acted as though I’d tried to throw someone out the window or something.” He put on a high, squeaky voice that Albus didn’t think sounded at all like Minerva’s. “‘Mr Scott, is it? Why are you not in your lessons? Run along immediately or I shall inform your Head of House.’”
Both Daniel and Eric laughed - and Albus found himself liking the latter less. “She looks ill, doesn’t she?” the former commented.
“Yes. I asked someone about that - one of the Fifth-Years about whether she was suffering from some lethal wasting disease and was about to drop down dead. They got well annoyed and bit my head off - but they said she’s always looked like that! And that, actually, she’s gotten better!”
“My dad said something about her getting hurt in the war,” Eric murmured. “It’s probably to do with that.”
Albus found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, as though nearness could affect the amount of information received. Minerva… getting hurt. But how? What had happened? Or had Bill simply been talking about her encounter with Umbridge and her Stunners?
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.
Eric gave him a blank look whilst Mark raised one eyebrow. “I dunno. Dad didn’t say.”
Daniel yawned. “I’m turning in now. That Flying lesson really tired me out.”
“Oh all right then.”
The First-Years settled back down in their beds. Albus laid down with his back to the other boys and his face to the cold chill of the window. Through it, he could see the dark spire of the Astronomy Tower rising up against the moon. As though from a long way away, he again saw himself falling, with the ghostly light of the Dark Mark shining up above. How ridiculous it must have looked, he thought distantly. His beard and robes would have been all flapping in the wind - and Merlin knew what his body must have looked like.
“I was the one who found his - his body…” Harry said softly, staring over the baby Brian’s head at a past both dark and horrible.
Poor Harry, he thought. On top of everything else, he shouldn’t have had to find that.
“He’s weird,” he heard Mark whisper.
“Who?” Daniel whispered back.
“Potter. Too high and mighty to talk properly.”
“He was a bit funny about McGonagall.”
“He’s bit funny about everything.”
“Shush,” said Eric.
“Lights out!”
Abigail Lupin was stomping around the Gryffindor dormitories, glaring at those who weren’t yet in bed. Albus had had to suppress a knowing chuckle more than once; Abigail seemed to have inherited both her father’s sense and her mother’s forthrightness - when one Second-Year had refused to give up his chair in the Common Room, she had simply grabbed him by one ear and pulled him up to his dormitory whilst using her Metamorphmagi abilities to pull threatening faces.
“You, what are you sniggering at?” she demanded, staring at him as he began to draw the bed-hangings closed.
“Nothing,” he said politely, suppressing a smile.
“Right then. Nox.”
The dormitory dimmed and there was a brief silence in the first few minutes after the Head Girl had exited. Then the First-Years, the excitement of sleeping away from home having not quite worn off, began to whisper and giggle, sitting up and drawing back their bed-hangings. Albus drew back his own too; if he was going to relive life as a student there was no point in being stand-offish.
The other four boys in his dormitory were already chatting and laughing. His eyes moved to their faces one by one, knowing that his observation was unlikely to be interrupted. Stand-offish he tried not to be, but his lack of confidence in accurately portraying an eleven-year-old to actual eleven-year-olds and his awareness of being much older and inevitably cleverer had led to a good deal of silence on his part. That accompanied with awkward smiles and one word replies had soon given his classmates the impression that he wanted to be left alone, just four days into the term.
The first boy Albus’s eyes found was Eric Weasley, the loud and humorous third child of Bill and Fleur. His young face was already very like Bill’s, and Albus was certain that the coming years would leave a mark on the Hogwarts female population. He also happened to be Brian's cousin, and was the subject of an unspoken war between Molly and Fleur; Molly welcomed him into the bosom of the Weasley family, whilst Fleur firmly dragged him away to the Delacours, with the result that alone out of the Weasley clan, Eric and his siblings were perfect strangers to Brian. Unsurprisingly, Eric, out of all the Gryffindor boys, had been the most persistent in trying to make friends with him, chattering away at him in Potions until even a very genial Slughorn had wagged a warning finger at their table. Family connection notwithstanding, Albus suspected that it was something to do with the fact that both Brian and Eric was children of figures of the Second War and, as such, both had to deal with unwanted media attention.
The second boy, Mark Scott, had taken Albus’s reticence as a sign of vanity and now tended to pointedly ignore him whenever he was in the same room. Mark also talked with the air of pretending to know more than he actually did; the Scott family patriarch’s opinions could be heard in every word. The third, Daniel Glover, seemed to fall easily into the role of Eric’s hero-worshipper (“I can’t believe you can fly like that! I can’t believe anyone can fly like that!”) and the fourth, Cal Smith, was painfully shy, adopting an ingratiating manner every time someone spoke to him (“Really? Yes! I thought that too!”).
“…And Madam Hooch said she was going to speak to Professor McGonagall about it,” Eric was saying triumphantly.
“Wicked!” said Daniel, beaming. “I bet she lets you, too! You’ll be the second youngest on the team in over a century!”
“Wasn’t the first your dad?” Eric said suddenly, looking over at Brian.
“Yes,” said Albus, injecting some hesitation into Brian’s voice so as to reinforce the impression of shyness.
“What position did he play?” asked Daniel.
“Seeker, of course!” Eric replied, rolling his eyes. “Madam Hooch talked about him for half the lesson!”
“And then she spent the other half of the lesson talking about you,” Mark pointed out.
Erin flushed. “Yeah, well - Brian wasn’t bad either. Had you flown before?” he asked, addressing him again.
“Yes,” said Albus easily. For one thing, it was the truth - Harry had often taken Brian flying on his old Firebolt, allowing for some ability to be displayed in class.
“He wasn’t bad,” said Mark. “But he was nothing like you, Eric. Did you see Madam Hooch’s face? She thought he was going to be like his dad and he wasn’t-!”
“He was still good,” Eric interrupted, shooting Albus an encouraging smile. “And he’s in the best in the class at every lesson.”
“Not really,” protested Albus, knowing that most normal eleven-year-olds would object to that. “I wasn’t really.”
“Yes you were! You got everything right first time in Charms - and in Transfiguration - and in Herbology!”
Albus had to suppress a sigh. Every time he walked into a classroom he resolved to make deliberate mistakes, to be slow at learning, to pretend to get confused. Unfortunately, the resolution was usually forgotten whenever the situation presented itself, and whenever it was remembered, it proved almost impossible to fulfil. Performing spells that were second-nature wrongly was incredibly difficult and took far more concentration than was required to cast the spells in the first place. He’d managed to set his feather on fire in Charms, but only after levitating it almost to the ceiling and he‘d contrived to add the wrong ingredients in Potions, leading to a short scolding from Slughorn, but the mistake seemed too obvious to be repeated too many times. The worst crises had been in the first few lessons of Transfiguration - during which he had struggled to simplify his answers to questions and had had to repress the urge to clarify the inept teacher on certain points. All in all, it was exhausting.
“So, what do you all think of the teachers so far?” he asked, trying to make conversation. He winced; the question sounded just the sort of thing the Hogwarts Headmaster would ask if secretly disguised as a student - as he was now.
“Dunno, really.” Eric shrugged. “Slughorn’s funny, even if he does go on about all the famous people he’s ever known. Sprout’s all right, Binns is boring, Hooch is okay, I suppose… Read’s annoying.”
“Yeah - yeah I thought that,” Cal agreed.
“I tried to run away back to the Common Room today, when she gave us that essay,” Mark muttered.
“Really?” said Eric interestedly. “Didn’t you get into trouble?”
“Obviously - that’s why I still turned up, but late. McGonagall caught me in the corridors.”
Albus felt his attention sharpen to a point. Minerva! Why had he not tried to bunk off too so as to meet her, even if only for a scolding? The other boys also sat up - but for a different reason.
“What’s she like?” Daniel asked. “I mean, we only ever see her at breakfast and dinner-”
Mark shrugged. “Strict and stern. She all pursed her lips at me and acted as though I’d tried to throw someone out the window or something.” He put on a high, squeaky voice that Albus didn’t think sounded at all like Minerva’s. “‘Mr Scott, is it? Why are you not in your lessons? Run along immediately or I shall inform your Head of House.’”
Both Daniel and Eric laughed - and Albus found himself liking the latter less. “She looks ill, doesn’t she?” the former commented.
“Yes. I asked someone about that - one of the Fifth-Years about whether she was suffering from some lethal wasting disease and was about to drop down dead. They got well annoyed and bit my head off - but they said she’s always looked like that! And that, actually, she’s gotten better!”
“My dad said something about her getting hurt in the war,” Eric murmured. “It’s probably to do with that.”
Albus found himself sitting on the edge of his bed, as though nearness could affect the amount of information received. Minerva… getting hurt. But how? What had happened? Or had Bill simply been talking about her encounter with Umbridge and her Stunners?
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.
Eric gave him a blank look whilst Mark raised one eyebrow. “I dunno. Dad didn’t say.”
Daniel yawned. “I’m turning in now. That Flying lesson really tired me out.”
“Oh all right then.”
The First-Years settled back down in their beds. Albus laid down with his back to the other boys and his face to the cold chill of the window. Through it, he could see the dark spire of the Astronomy Tower rising up against the moon. As though from a long way away, he again saw himself falling, with the ghostly light of the Dark Mark shining up above. How ridiculous it must have looked, he thought distantly. His beard and robes would have been all flapping in the wind - and Merlin knew what his body must have looked like.
“I was the one who found his - his body…” Harry said softly, staring over the baby Brian’s head at a past both dark and horrible.
Poor Harry, he thought. On top of everything else, he shouldn’t have had to find that.
“He’s weird,” he heard Mark whisper.
“Who?” Daniel whispered back.
“Potter. Too high and mighty to talk properly.”
“He was a bit funny about McGonagall.”
“He’s bit funny about everything.”
“Shush,” said Eric.
HA 10a: Genius
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 10: Ashes to Ashes - Genius
A mere four days into the new school year - and already, there had been trouble.
A bad sign, Minerva thought wearily as she made her way up to the staff room. It certainly did not bode well for the rest of the year when it had taken just two days for three students to be found wandering around the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid - Sixth-Years, no less, who should have known better. Then there had been the recent spat of trouble between Slughorn and Pomona - with the latter claiming that the former had ‘mutilated her prize Tentacula with the base intention of procuring venom for his wretched potions.’ Sybil Trelawney had yet again marched into Minerva’s office to demand Firenze’s immediate ejection from the castle, with the result that the Headmistress had felt very much like ejecting Sybil from the castle. To cap it all, Professor Read, the new Transfiguration teacher, had stubbornly set the First-Years an essay that was quite beyond their capabilities despite multiple objections.
She shook her head; surely it wasn’t all that bad? The Sixth-Years had been unharmed, with the lies simply extending to the idea of ‘some man in the woods’ they’d apparently followed, the prize Tantacula was hardly ‘mutilated’ and Sybil was as a permanent a problem as the drainage; one had to accept it and move on. As for Professor Read - there was no doubt that her own prejudices were interfering there. Perhaps it was because she lived in the past so much, but Professor Read would always be ‘new’ - and what’s more, a usurper of her position. Minerva wondered whether Albus had felt the same when she’d taken over Transfiguration; she hoped not.
The staff room was ominously silent when she entered. Pomona was fuming darkly in an armchair by the fire, a book entitled Repairing Herbological Damage perched conspicuously on her knee, and Slughorn was red in the face and seemed inflated even more than usual by an air of injured self-importance. The room still seemed to echo from the sounds of a heated argument. Trelawney gave an obvious sniff at Minerva’s entry and went back to her marking with a look that said: That woman. She’ll never understand me, the poor abused Seer…
The Headmistress shot her a glare and made her way over the sofa where Rolanda sat. She rarely entered the staff room but when she did, it was usually to see the flying instructor. Rolanda had mumbled something at breakfast about one of the First-Years ‘being uncommonly good on a broom - and the rule was broken once before…’
“Minerva!” said Rolanda, noticing her presence only she sat down next to her. “Glad you’re here - the atmosphere here is terrible-”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Pomona loudly. “But then, vandalism has never been welcome here at Hogwarts-”
Slughorn mouthed incoherently at the back of the Herbology professor’s head. “These accusations are completely unfounded! My good woman-”
“I am not your good woman, Professor Slughorn,” replied Pomona coldly. “If you needed ingredients, you simply had to ask-”
“I did! Several times! But to suggest that I-”
“And each time, I believe I informed you that it had not yet matured sufficiently-”
“Preposterous! Tentacula venom doesn’t need to mature-”
“Headmistress,” Pomona said sharply. “Professor Slughorn has admitted-”
“Admitted? I have admitted nothing! First you supply me with inaccurate information and then you accuse me-”
Rolanda rolled her eyes and gently put a hand on Minerva‘s shoulder to stop her from standing up to interfere. “Oh ignore them, they’ve been at it all evening.” She leaned forward suddenly, with a serious, excited look.
“Rolanda, if this is about the First-Year-” Minerva began, deciding to stem the adulation before it got out of hand.
To her astonishment, Rolanda waved her hand airily as though batting away a fly. “Never mind about Mr Weasley; he can wait. Listen, I was going up to the Owlery and you’d never believe what I saw!”
“What?”
Doubt crept into her friend’s face. “Well - I think that was what I saw - I only glimpsed it, you see, before it flew away-”
“Spit it out, Rolanda.”
The flying instructor was looking more and more anxious with every second. Minerva felt the brown eyes sweep over her, as if a bombshell was about to be dropped and it was arguable as to whether or not the Headmistress could withstand the impact. “Minerva… I’m not sure whether it was his… it looked like his - but I suppose it could have been-”
The sounds of Slughorn and Pomona’s argument cut off, suddenly, as if all the debate had been was a broadcast on a radio that had been turned off. His. Minerva found herself leaning forward. His? As in… His? A pain shafted down the centre of her chest, down the internal scars left by the Stunners of over a decade before. She took a deep breath-
CRASH.
The door rebounded back off the wall, almost smacking back in the freckled face of Professor Read, who shouted something nobody understood, waving a length of parchment in the air. Minerva found herself in her Animagus form, the shock of the Transfiguration teacher’s entry having forced her transformation and set her fur on end.
Embarassed, the Headmistress shifted back, and sent a disapproving glare in Professor Read’s direction. She turned her head back to Rolanda - but the disturber of the peace was now shrieking something, continuing to wave the parchment.
“A genius! A genius! Oh, Headmistress!”
Minerva could feel a headache beginning. Martha Read reminded her something of Sybil, in that she was rather highly-strung and prone to screeching at loud volume.
“Yes, Martha!” she snapped. Patience is a virtue, chanted her brain piously.
Martha swooped down on her and shoved the parchment in her face. She glimpsed lines of narrow, loopy writing before the text was ripped away, to be held delicately on up-turned palms as though the professor was making some sort of offering to the sky.
“Headmistress! In my hands I now hold… an academic peak!”
There was a pause - Slughorn and Pomona having been stunned into silence, and the rest of the room speechless at the bizarre statement. Minerva gazed from the parchment to Professor Read’s excited face and back again, at a loss.
“An academic peak?” she repeated, carefully.
“Yes!”
“Really?” asked Professor Vector. “I never thought that that was something that one could actually hold, so to speak.”
Hagrid set down his book, scratching his head in obvious confusion. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Professor Read, but I’m afraid I’m not understandin’ yeh.”
“Neither does anyone else,” said Minerva acidly, impatience beginning to break free. “Spit it out, Martha. And please sit down and stop cluttering up the room.”
Martha Read sank down into a chair - but continued to hold the parchment up, gazing skywards with a starstruck expression. “Headmistress,” she whispered. “This academic peak I have here - is none other than the work of a First-Year.”
Pomona snorted. “Then I sincerely doubt that it’s any sort of an academic peak.”
“This essay,” Martha continued reverently, “is a work of genius.”
There was another startled pause. Minerva raised one eyebrow: student’s work had been described as excellent, outstanding and brilliant - and even then, those drooling descriptions were confined to reports and references. Students themselves were sometimes referred to tentatively as bright or talented, on the basis of multiple essays and other pieces of work. To sit in the staff room and declare a student to be a genius was unheard of - especially when said pupil was a First-Year and the evidence was one essay.
“’Genius?’ That’s a very strong word,” squeaked Filius from the other side of the room.
“Unless you are going to explain further-” began Minerva testily.
Martha snapped to attention and brought the essay down to lap-level. “Headmistress, I’m not sure if you were aware, but I set the First-Years an essay in their third lesson on-”
“I was most certainly aware. I believe I urged you not to set it.”
“Yes, well… The essay was on the simple template of any normal Transfiguration spell - known as the Transmutation Matrix, which concerns the-”
“Once upon a time, around about the time when dinosaurs walked the earth, I was the Transfiguration Professor; I’m quite aware of the Transmutation Matrix,” hissed Minerva. She clamped her jaw shut, knowing that if she continued, she would be completely unable to curb her tongue.
“Oh… Oh yes, of course,” said the other woman, flushing. “Well… I only meant for them to do a very basic discussion of the main principles - but this student-” she waved the essay “-this student - oh, Headmistress, I’ve never read anything like it.”
“Please stop gushing and get to the point.”
“Of course, well, this student’s essay - it reads like something out of the Transfiguration Journal!”
“Are you sure they did not simply copy out of it?” suggested Filius gently.
“They can’t have - they explained it from a very neutral standpoint, when most articles in the Journal are biased to one side or the other and nobody’s recently-”
“Forgive me,” said Professor Vector. “But Transfiguration was never my speciality. This …Matrix is a template, correct? How can there be a debate over it?”
“There are many arguments over the actual fundamentals,” Minerva found herself explaining. “It’s very complicated: there are two views on how particles behave during Transfiguration, and then there are many standpoints on whether or not the particles can be manipulated in certain ways… Also, the Matrix fails to explain the why in why does Transfiguration work that way? There are even debates about it in regards to things like death, birth and ageing.”
“Thank Merlin I never took Transfiguration beyond my OWLs,” muttered Slughorn.
“Anyway,” continued Professor Read, “this student covers most of the main debates and actually talked about particles! It’s far beyond Seventh-Year level! I - I confess I don’t understand a good deal of it-”
Slughorn raised his thick eyebrows. “You don’t understand a First-Year’s essay?”
Minerva took a deep, bracing breath. Martha Read was simply silly and deluded; she did not deserve to be shouted at, especially when she honestly believed what she was saying. It was time to be gentle. “I don’t like to suggest it, but it sounds as though this student either copied out of a book on the subject or got someone more knowledgeable than themselves to write it for them.”
Martha’s face fell. “Yes… I suppose that’s always possible,” she said slowly.
“What’s the student’s name?”
“Brian Potter.”
The Headmistress blinked in disappointed surprise - and then scolded herself inside her head. Just because Harry and Ginny were pinnacles of modesty and honesty didn’t necessarily mean that their son was immune from human failings, she berated herself. Such prejudice!
“Let me read it myself, and perhaps it might ring a bell to me and allow me to pin-point the source or whatever he’s copied from.”
“Oh… oh all right then,” said Martha, seeming to deflate like a popped balloon. “I’ll just be - be getting back to my marking, then.”
The door slammed, Pomona and Slughorn resumed arguing and Sybil continued to sniff. Minerva set the essay aside and turned back to Rolanda - only to find that the flying instructor had exited some time before, thoroughly worn down with impatience.
A mere four days into the new school year - and already, there had been trouble.
A bad sign, Minerva thought wearily as she made her way up to the staff room. It certainly did not bode well for the rest of the year when it had taken just two days for three students to be found wandering around the Forbidden Forest by Hagrid - Sixth-Years, no less, who should have known better. Then there had been the recent spat of trouble between Slughorn and Pomona - with the latter claiming that the former had ‘mutilated her prize Tentacula with the base intention of procuring venom for his wretched potions.’ Sybil Trelawney had yet again marched into Minerva’s office to demand Firenze’s immediate ejection from the castle, with the result that the Headmistress had felt very much like ejecting Sybil from the castle. To cap it all, Professor Read, the new Transfiguration teacher, had stubbornly set the First-Years an essay that was quite beyond their capabilities despite multiple objections.
She shook her head; surely it wasn’t all that bad? The Sixth-Years had been unharmed, with the lies simply extending to the idea of ‘some man in the woods’ they’d apparently followed, the prize Tantacula was hardly ‘mutilated’ and Sybil was as a permanent a problem as the drainage; one had to accept it and move on. As for Professor Read - there was no doubt that her own prejudices were interfering there. Perhaps it was because she lived in the past so much, but Professor Read would always be ‘new’ - and what’s more, a usurper of her position. Minerva wondered whether Albus had felt the same when she’d taken over Transfiguration; she hoped not.
The staff room was ominously silent when she entered. Pomona was fuming darkly in an armchair by the fire, a book entitled Repairing Herbological Damage perched conspicuously on her knee, and Slughorn was red in the face and seemed inflated even more than usual by an air of injured self-importance. The room still seemed to echo from the sounds of a heated argument. Trelawney gave an obvious sniff at Minerva’s entry and went back to her marking with a look that said: That woman. She’ll never understand me, the poor abused Seer…
The Headmistress shot her a glare and made her way over the sofa where Rolanda sat. She rarely entered the staff room but when she did, it was usually to see the flying instructor. Rolanda had mumbled something at breakfast about one of the First-Years ‘being uncommonly good on a broom - and the rule was broken once before…’
“Minerva!” said Rolanda, noticing her presence only she sat down next to her. “Glad you’re here - the atmosphere here is terrible-”
“Yes, isn’t it?” said Pomona loudly. “But then, vandalism has never been welcome here at Hogwarts-”
Slughorn mouthed incoherently at the back of the Herbology professor’s head. “These accusations are completely unfounded! My good woman-”
“I am not your good woman, Professor Slughorn,” replied Pomona coldly. “If you needed ingredients, you simply had to ask-”
“I did! Several times! But to suggest that I-”
“And each time, I believe I informed you that it had not yet matured sufficiently-”
“Preposterous! Tentacula venom doesn’t need to mature-”
“Headmistress,” Pomona said sharply. “Professor Slughorn has admitted-”
“Admitted? I have admitted nothing! First you supply me with inaccurate information and then you accuse me-”
Rolanda rolled her eyes and gently put a hand on Minerva‘s shoulder to stop her from standing up to interfere. “Oh ignore them, they’ve been at it all evening.” She leaned forward suddenly, with a serious, excited look.
“Rolanda, if this is about the First-Year-” Minerva began, deciding to stem the adulation before it got out of hand.
To her astonishment, Rolanda waved her hand airily as though batting away a fly. “Never mind about Mr Weasley; he can wait. Listen, I was going up to the Owlery and you’d never believe what I saw!”
“What?”
Doubt crept into her friend’s face. “Well - I think that was what I saw - I only glimpsed it, you see, before it flew away-”
“Spit it out, Rolanda.”
The flying instructor was looking more and more anxious with every second. Minerva felt the brown eyes sweep over her, as if a bombshell was about to be dropped and it was arguable as to whether or not the Headmistress could withstand the impact. “Minerva… I’m not sure whether it was his… it looked like his - but I suppose it could have been-”
The sounds of Slughorn and Pomona’s argument cut off, suddenly, as if all the debate had been was a broadcast on a radio that had been turned off. His. Minerva found herself leaning forward. His? As in… His? A pain shafted down the centre of her chest, down the internal scars left by the Stunners of over a decade before. She took a deep breath-
CRASH.
The door rebounded back off the wall, almost smacking back in the freckled face of Professor Read, who shouted something nobody understood, waving a length of parchment in the air. Minerva found herself in her Animagus form, the shock of the Transfiguration teacher’s entry having forced her transformation and set her fur on end.
Embarassed, the Headmistress shifted back, and sent a disapproving glare in Professor Read’s direction. She turned her head back to Rolanda - but the disturber of the peace was now shrieking something, continuing to wave the parchment.
“A genius! A genius! Oh, Headmistress!”
Minerva could feel a headache beginning. Martha Read reminded her something of Sybil, in that she was rather highly-strung and prone to screeching at loud volume.
“Yes, Martha!” she snapped. Patience is a virtue, chanted her brain piously.
Martha swooped down on her and shoved the parchment in her face. She glimpsed lines of narrow, loopy writing before the text was ripped away, to be held delicately on up-turned palms as though the professor was making some sort of offering to the sky.
“Headmistress! In my hands I now hold… an academic peak!”
There was a pause - Slughorn and Pomona having been stunned into silence, and the rest of the room speechless at the bizarre statement. Minerva gazed from the parchment to Professor Read’s excited face and back again, at a loss.
“An academic peak?” she repeated, carefully.
“Yes!”
“Really?” asked Professor Vector. “I never thought that that was something that one could actually hold, so to speak.”
Hagrid set down his book, scratching his head in obvious confusion. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Professor Read, but I’m afraid I’m not understandin’ yeh.”
“Neither does anyone else,” said Minerva acidly, impatience beginning to break free. “Spit it out, Martha. And please sit down and stop cluttering up the room.”
Martha Read sank down into a chair - but continued to hold the parchment up, gazing skywards with a starstruck expression. “Headmistress,” she whispered. “This academic peak I have here - is none other than the work of a First-Year.”
Pomona snorted. “Then I sincerely doubt that it’s any sort of an academic peak.”
“This essay,” Martha continued reverently, “is a work of genius.”
There was another startled pause. Minerva raised one eyebrow: student’s work had been described as excellent, outstanding and brilliant - and even then, those drooling descriptions were confined to reports and references. Students themselves were sometimes referred to tentatively as bright or talented, on the basis of multiple essays and other pieces of work. To sit in the staff room and declare a student to be a genius was unheard of - especially when said pupil was a First-Year and the evidence was one essay.
“’Genius?’ That’s a very strong word,” squeaked Filius from the other side of the room.
“Unless you are going to explain further-” began Minerva testily.
Martha snapped to attention and brought the essay down to lap-level. “Headmistress, I’m not sure if you were aware, but I set the First-Years an essay in their third lesson on-”
“I was most certainly aware. I believe I urged you not to set it.”
“Yes, well… The essay was on the simple template of any normal Transfiguration spell - known as the Transmutation Matrix, which concerns the-”
“Once upon a time, around about the time when dinosaurs walked the earth, I was the Transfiguration Professor; I’m quite aware of the Transmutation Matrix,” hissed Minerva. She clamped her jaw shut, knowing that if she continued, she would be completely unable to curb her tongue.
“Oh… Oh yes, of course,” said the other woman, flushing. “Well… I only meant for them to do a very basic discussion of the main principles - but this student-” she waved the essay “-this student - oh, Headmistress, I’ve never read anything like it.”
“Please stop gushing and get to the point.”
“Of course, well, this student’s essay - it reads like something out of the Transfiguration Journal!”
“Are you sure they did not simply copy out of it?” suggested Filius gently.
“They can’t have - they explained it from a very neutral standpoint, when most articles in the Journal are biased to one side or the other and nobody’s recently-”
“Forgive me,” said Professor Vector. “But Transfiguration was never my speciality. This …Matrix is a template, correct? How can there be a debate over it?”
“There are many arguments over the actual fundamentals,” Minerva found herself explaining. “It’s very complicated: there are two views on how particles behave during Transfiguration, and then there are many standpoints on whether or not the particles can be manipulated in certain ways… Also, the Matrix fails to explain the why in why does Transfiguration work that way? There are even debates about it in regards to things like death, birth and ageing.”
“Thank Merlin I never took Transfiguration beyond my OWLs,” muttered Slughorn.
“Anyway,” continued Professor Read, “this student covers most of the main debates and actually talked about particles! It’s far beyond Seventh-Year level! I - I confess I don’t understand a good deal of it-”
Slughorn raised his thick eyebrows. “You don’t understand a First-Year’s essay?”
Minerva took a deep, bracing breath. Martha Read was simply silly and deluded; she did not deserve to be shouted at, especially when she honestly believed what she was saying. It was time to be gentle. “I don’t like to suggest it, but it sounds as though this student either copied out of a book on the subject or got someone more knowledgeable than themselves to write it for them.”
Martha’s face fell. “Yes… I suppose that’s always possible,” she said slowly.
“What’s the student’s name?”
“Brian Potter.”
The Headmistress blinked in disappointed surprise - and then scolded herself inside her head. Just because Harry and Ginny were pinnacles of modesty and honesty didn’t necessarily mean that their son was immune from human failings, she berated herself. Such prejudice!
“Let me read it myself, and perhaps it might ring a bell to me and allow me to pin-point the source or whatever he’s copied from.”
“Oh… oh all right then,” said Martha, seeming to deflate like a popped balloon. “I’ll just be - be getting back to my marking, then.”
The door slammed, Pomona and Slughorn resumed arguing and Sybil continued to sniff. Minerva set the essay aside and turned back to Rolanda - only to find that the flying instructor had exited some time before, thoroughly worn down with impatience.
Monday, February 12, 2007
HA 9f: Languish
HIM AGAIN: Chapter 9: Human Intelligence - Languish
Minerva McGonagall watched as Deputy Headmaster Flitwick set the hat upon the stool and let the song wash over her, resting her eyes on the line of bedraggled, soaked First-Years standing nervously near the High Table. Rolanda nudged her and mouthed a name in her ear. She soon found Eric Weasley, the third child of Bill and Fleur, already bearing his father’s rakish air, but he was busy gawping at the Sorting Hat and so didn’t noticed the small smile she aimed at him.
She was about to finally tune into the Sorting Hat’s song when she became aware of the prickling sensation of sitting under a very intense gaze. Her orbs scanned the line again - and found a boy with long untidy auburn hair and large blue eyes, who was giving her such a penetrating look that she was strongly reminded of Moody’s artificial stare that saw through everything.
Minerva expected the boy to look away once he became aware that his stare was being returned - but he did not. Oddly disconcerted, she smiled in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. Brian Potter, whispered her brain, finally matching a name to a face.
The boy’s lips twitched in return. His eyes were wide, his face pale.
People were clapping; the song had ended. Filius cleared his throat and beamed.
“When I call your name, please sit and put on the hat,” he squeaked. “Ainsley, Robert!”
The First-Years began to be be Sorted, walking off to their respective assorted destinies. Minerva found herself waiting for the moment when ‘Potter, Brian’ would be called - and when it was, watched the boy curiously as he strode up to the stool with an unusually confident manner and placed the hat upon his head.
Albus got a glimpse of the Gryffindor table craning eagerly at him before the hat dropped over his eyes. He waited, with the profound sense of the familiar and known all around him, and with Minerva’s smile dominating a greater part of his brain than the issue of the Sorting.
“Well now-” The smooth voice of the hat cut itself off. Albus felt himself revelling in the shock of something that had always previously been frustratingly omniscient.
“By Merlin! You!” said the hat.
Me, he thought back somewhat smugly.
“Alive! And as… Merlin’s beard, Merlin’s beard! Such a thing has never happened! What? Oh, so you’re enjoying my surprise, hmm? I have a good mind to put you in Slytherin or shout the truth to the whole school, Headmaster Dumbledore!”
I would rather you didn’t. It could make things exceptionally difficult.
“Difficult, eh? Well, I must say I’m finding things very interesting at present. It’s rare for me to rest on a mind as old as yours anyway. The things I’m finding…
Please place me.
“Now, now, Albus. Impatience is a virtue in nobody, least of all you - especially when you’ve been incredibly sluggish in realising certain things. Is this your plan, then? To languish away in another life and never tell anybody the truth? Or do you plan to proclaim your affections the next time you get sent to the Headmistress’s office after a carefully obtained detention? Or do you want me to slip it in her ear some time..?”
Albus felt his knuckles crack as he gripped the stool in shock. The hat knew - but no, of course, it had got it all wrong - his affections? Really-
“I thought you’d come to terms with it,” said the hat disapprovingly. “If you wish to delude yourself, then very well. You haven’t planned a thing - which is very unlike you. Your mind has the hallmarks of a brilliant Slytherin, such cunning and resourcefulness…”
I do not believe I’m deluding myself. And-
“That was a rather circumlocutionary thought.”
-I doubt I would like being a Slytherin for seven years.
“No? Yet no prejudice in this head, only old pain. Wondering what’s the matter with Minerva? I’ll let you work it out on your own, armed with your great wisdom and almost supernatural intelligence… You have a honed mind, a beautifully honed mind. There’s Slytherin cunning, Ravenclaw cleverness, Hufflepuff kindness and Gryffindor bravery all in here, all working in union… Hmm, what a decision…”
Thank you.
“Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.”
I’ve been sitting here for five minutes. I don’t mean to be rude, but-
“‘Yet accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best say nothing at all, my good man.’ Classic, Albus, simply classic. Such interesting memories you have… I think I concur with my previous decision. That’ll be… GRYFFINDOR!”
Albus took off the hat with a sigh of relief and marched up to Gryffindor table, barely hearing the cheers. He sat down, smiled distractedly at Abigail Lupin, Head Girl, and looked back at the High Table.
Connection sprang between the Headmistress and the boy again, an invisible thread attached their pupils. Brian’s cheeks flushed; Minerva looked away and began talking to Rolanda Hooch. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the Great Hall faded from existence until only Minerva remained.
…Proclaim your affections…
Never; it was impossible.
…Languish away in another life…
He opened his eyes and the brightness of the Great Hall stung them. What other choice did he have?
Minerva McGonagall watched as Deputy Headmaster Flitwick set the hat upon the stool and let the song wash over her, resting her eyes on the line of bedraggled, soaked First-Years standing nervously near the High Table. Rolanda nudged her and mouthed a name in her ear. She soon found Eric Weasley, the third child of Bill and Fleur, already bearing his father’s rakish air, but he was busy gawping at the Sorting Hat and so didn’t noticed the small smile she aimed at him.
She was about to finally tune into the Sorting Hat’s song when she became aware of the prickling sensation of sitting under a very intense gaze. Her orbs scanned the line again - and found a boy with long untidy auburn hair and large blue eyes, who was giving her such a penetrating look that she was strongly reminded of Moody’s artificial stare that saw through everything.
Minerva expected the boy to look away once he became aware that his stare was being returned - but he did not. Oddly disconcerted, she smiled in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. Brian Potter, whispered her brain, finally matching a name to a face.
The boy’s lips twitched in return. His eyes were wide, his face pale.
People were clapping; the song had ended. Filius cleared his throat and beamed.
“When I call your name, please sit and put on the hat,” he squeaked. “Ainsley, Robert!”
The First-Years began to be be Sorted, walking off to their respective assorted destinies. Minerva found herself waiting for the moment when ‘Potter, Brian’ would be called - and when it was, watched the boy curiously as he strode up to the stool with an unusually confident manner and placed the hat upon his head.
Albus got a glimpse of the Gryffindor table craning eagerly at him before the hat dropped over his eyes. He waited, with the profound sense of the familiar and known all around him, and with Minerva’s smile dominating a greater part of his brain than the issue of the Sorting.
“Well now-” The smooth voice of the hat cut itself off. Albus felt himself revelling in the shock of something that had always previously been frustratingly omniscient.
“By Merlin! You!” said the hat.
Me, he thought back somewhat smugly.
“Alive! And as… Merlin’s beard, Merlin’s beard! Such a thing has never happened! What? Oh, so you’re enjoying my surprise, hmm? I have a good mind to put you in Slytherin or shout the truth to the whole school, Headmaster Dumbledore!”
I would rather you didn’t. It could make things exceptionally difficult.
“Difficult, eh? Well, I must say I’m finding things very interesting at present. It’s rare for me to rest on a mind as old as yours anyway. The things I’m finding…
Please place me.
“Now, now, Albus. Impatience is a virtue in nobody, least of all you - especially when you’ve been incredibly sluggish in realising certain things. Is this your plan, then? To languish away in another life and never tell anybody the truth? Or do you plan to proclaim your affections the next time you get sent to the Headmistress’s office after a carefully obtained detention? Or do you want me to slip it in her ear some time..?”
Albus felt his knuckles crack as he gripped the stool in shock. The hat knew - but no, of course, it had got it all wrong - his affections? Really-
“I thought you’d come to terms with it,” said the hat disapprovingly. “If you wish to delude yourself, then very well. You haven’t planned a thing - which is very unlike you. Your mind has the hallmarks of a brilliant Slytherin, such cunning and resourcefulness…”
I do not believe I’m deluding myself. And-
“That was a rather circumlocutionary thought.”
-I doubt I would like being a Slytherin for seven years.
“No? Yet no prejudice in this head, only old pain. Wondering what’s the matter with Minerva? I’ll let you work it out on your own, armed with your great wisdom and almost supernatural intelligence… You have a honed mind, a beautifully honed mind. There’s Slytherin cunning, Ravenclaw cleverness, Hufflepuff kindness and Gryffindor bravery all in here, all working in union… Hmm, what a decision…”
Thank you.
“Thank me when you’ve sorted your heart out as well as your head.”
I’ve been sitting here for five minutes. I don’t mean to be rude, but-
“‘Yet accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often. Best say nothing at all, my good man.’ Classic, Albus, simply classic. Such interesting memories you have… I think I concur with my previous decision. That’ll be… GRYFFINDOR!”
Albus took off the hat with a sigh of relief and marched up to Gryffindor table, barely hearing the cheers. He sat down, smiled distractedly at Abigail Lupin, Head Girl, and looked back at the High Table.
Connection sprang between the Headmistress and the boy again, an invisible thread attached their pupils. Brian’s cheeks flushed; Minerva looked away and began talking to Rolanda Hooch. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the Great Hall faded from existence until only Minerva remained.
…Proclaim your affections…
Never; it was impossible.
…Languish away in another life…
He opened his eyes and the brightness of the Great Hall stung them. What other choice did he have?
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