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!”
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