//caught a train to america//gonna take awhile//
Well, here's part 2. Please, read and review. I really want to know what you think. I can't continue if I don't know what I'm doing.
Chapter Two; Recovering the Satellites
~*~
every night these silhouettes appear above my head
little angels of the silences
that climb into my bed and whisper
every time i fall asleep every time i dream
Salem was always prettiest at night. It had always had an alluring charm to it, and it still shimmers and shines in the night, just like it did when you were at school here.
It’s easier to be here at night. Sitting in the room that once housed Professor Chadwick, the woman who held so much sway over you when you were here, you can look out the window into the darkened grounds of Salem and know that the ghosts and memories that torment you on a daily basis are resting. It’s easy to remember during the day; walking down the halls, it’s easy to imagine that you’re sixteen again, watching Maria twirl down the halls with a huge smile on her face, her hands outstretched and her head thrown back, golden hair glinting in the sunlight and hazel eyes dancing with laughter. Maria never just walked anywhere -- she glided or twirled or floated. It was too ordinary to walk, far too simple. And it was almost always a surety that where there was a twirling Maria, there would be a you and a Leo, ever-sensible, walking behind her and trying in vain to wipe the smirks off your faces. It was always like that with you three, it seemed. Maria doing totally insane things, beautifully oblivious to the outside world, with you and Leo watching, smirking from the sidelines, you making sarcastic quips here and there with Leo occasionally inserting a well-timed, economically-phrased yet acute observation. He reminded you of your Uncle Oz a lot, and Maria was just like you imagine your mother was like at sixteen.
Your name is still on the board of Head Girls. You stumbled across the trophy room while you were wandering the school during your first week back, determined as you were to rediscover the castle that watched you age and change, within whose walls you had learnt so much. Your name was there, imprinted in the wood and etched in gold, six places from the bottom. You had stood there, in the trophy room, for what seemed like forever, gazing at the boards mounted on the wall above the glass cabinet, drowning in the then-overwhelming flow of memories. ((“Can you imagine? When we get back to school after summer, we’ll walk into the trophy room and your name will be up on the big board, and Leo’s will be right next to you, and I’ll be on the other side. I can’t believe I’m actually Quidditch Captain! First girl ever! Oh, wow. My best friend is Head Girl, my boyfriend is Head Boy and I’m Quidditch Captain. We’re going to be the butt of every single joke, all year.”)) Their names are still there, too. You checked. On the ‘other side’, on the other big board level with yours, in the same gold etched imprinting, it reads ‘2034/5 - Leontius Longbottom’. And on one of the four, slightly smaller boards, directly to the left of the Head Girls board, is the Margeroi Quidditch Captains board, and that too reads ‘2034/5 - Maria Black’. She’s still the only girl ever awarded Quidditch Captain.
~*~
take the way home
take the way home that leads back to sullivan st.
where all the bodies hang on the air
if she remembers, she hides it whenever we meet
Your class is overly chatty the next morning, and while you’re fully aware that not all of Charms is interesting, and that not everyone is as interested in Charms and Spells as you are, you do expect them to at least pretend to be paying attention.
“Alright, what is it?” you ask, turning away from the board mid sentence. The talking, which had been steadily rising, dies away almost immediately. As the youngest professor, and therefore the closest to them in age, you have an interesting relationship with your students. Especially the seventh years, the class you’re teaching now. Many of them knew you while you were studying here; they were first years when you were a sixth year. As the Margeroi prefects, you and Leo were responsible for their general well-being. Now, as their professor, you’re responsible for their education. It’s a strange feeling, to say the least, and a transition you all struggled with at the start of the year.
“Spill it Summers,” you say, when no-one answers. Your baby cousin, Buffy and Angel’s precious eldest child and only daughter ((“Won’t it be great, Kathleen? You have family with you all the time now!”)) sputters. Usually you steer clear of calling on her, to avoid favouritism rumours. You have no desire to be the Snape figure of these teenager’s stories; your father’s stories of his time at Hogwarts seemed marred only by the memories of his Potions professor.
“Well... uh... you mean you haven’t heard?” she asks, her voice nervous then incredulous.
“Heard what?” you ask, sighing. You hope this isn’t more useless, teacher-related gossip that they want you to confirm or deny.
“There’s an English delegation coming today to help evaluate the school,” she replies, her tone implying it should be common knowledge. Which it is, of course. These evaluations happen every 50 years, and are a big deal in every school.
“That’s what’s got you so distracted?” you ask, your voice unconvinced.
“Harry Potter’s coming! And I heard there was a... a Malfoy, too!”
“Oh,” you reply, your tone dismissive.
“It’s a big deal!” a small redhead in the front row blurts out. You sigh, somehow knowing you aren’t going to come out of this unscathed.
“The Malfoys are a perfectly fine family. There’s nothing wrong with them at all. The actions of others are no basis upon which to found your opinions. And, furthermore, Harry Potter’s just a normal person, you know. There’s no reason to get excited.” A snort resounds from the doorway.
“Didn’t stop you from getting excited, did it?” You spin sideways to face the door, surprised, and freeze when you catch sight of the figure in the doorway. You stare at him for a few seconds, drinking him in, before clearing your throat.
“Mr. Malfoy.” You can almost hear the entire class sucking in air at your statement, and the air grows thick with many emotions at the mere mention of the name ‘Malfoy’, and all it is associated with. You can feel the eyes of many of the students on you, as they are all very aware of what happened that summer, the summer between their first and second year and your sixth and seventh year. “I, uh, wasn’t aware you were with the delegation.”
“Well, Professor Finnegan,” he drawls, adding more emphasis to the formal term than necessary, “That’d be because I wasn’t. They asked me to come at the last minute, to aid the evaluation, and I agreed.” You mentally scoff, rolling your eyes internally. ‘Aid the evaluation’, indeed. Andreas Malfoy never did anything without some form of ulterior motive, and you doubt that has changed in the years since you last spoke.
“I take it you’re starting immediately, then?” you ask, forcing all emotion from your voice, replacing it with a cool form of politeness. The last thing you need is your students and your cousin guessing you have any real history with this man.
“Yes. Advanced Charms was the first on my list -- alphabetical, you see -- and I thought it would make sense to work my way down. Do you mind?” he asked, already seating himself to the side of the classroom.
“Not at all,” you force out, turning back to your class.
“Now, where were we? Oh yes, the Fidelus charm. Incredibly complex spell, takes training and skill, and lots of it. Now, don’t get excited, we won’t be attempting to perform the charm in this classroom, but it’s important that you understand this charm. Are there any questions? Yes, Mr. Jones?” you say, your attention on the sandy haired boy by the redhead who’d exploded before.
“So, let me get this straight. You use this charm on, say, a building, and anybody could just walk right past and not see it?” he asked, obviously still confused.
“That’s right. Unless that person was told about the building, and the only person who can tell the secret is the appointed ‘Secret Keeper’, the living person the secret is concealed within. For example, if, for whatever reason, I wanted to go into hiding, and needed assurances that no-one would ever find me, except for the people I wanted to, I would cast the Fidelus charm. I would choose a Secret-Keeper -- Mr. Malfoy over there, for example -- and then go into hiding. Now, unless Andre-uh-Mr. Malfoy, told you where I was, you could be standing in my house, right in front of me, and not see me.”
“Oh. Ok.”
“Right. Now, for homework I want one roll of parchment detailing the Fidelus charm, as well as key roles its use has played in Wizarding -- or even Muggle -- history. And that’s a complete roll, thank you Mr. McLean,” you add, smiling at a tall, dark-haired boy in the back of the classroom. He smiles back at you, his eyes laughing. You roll your eyes, hiding your grin by turning to wipe the board clean.
“Class dismissed.” And with that, they all begin to pack up. You follow suit, squaring away your desk and the like, nodding good bye as your students pass, studiously avoiding Andreas’ gaze. You finish organising your desk and start over again, desperate for a distraction from the fact that Andreas Malfoy, the one person on the Earth that ever affected you so severely, is sitting not ten feet away from you, casually watching your every move.
Several students stay behind to ask questions and you draw your answers out for as long as is plausible, praying that Andreas will just give up and go. Then it’s Meredith Wagner’s turn to ask questions, and you no longer need to draw your answers out. She fires question after question after question at you, each one requiring a complex, detailed answer, and you field them as best you can. Finally, you just can’t take it anymore; she’s managed to confuse even you.
“Miss. Wagner!” you interrupt, basically shouting over her babbling. She stops, obviously taken aback by your tone of voice, and quiets.
“Meredith,” you start, softer, trying to soothe the harshness of your interruption.
“I, personally, have the utmost confidence in your abilities. You needn’t worry so much. As you well know, you excel in Charms, and are miles ahead of the curriculum as it is. Your exams aren’t for several months yet, but I can assure you that you won’t be expected to perform the Fidelus charm. That section will be entirely theory, and as you already know that inside and out, I don’t expect you’ll have any problems.” She takes a deep breath, obviously attempting to calm herself further, before nodding in seeming resignation. You try and smother the grin you can feel rising up inside you, but mostly fail, and can feel it pull at the corners of your lips.
“Now, I’m fully aware how big of a deal everybody makes NEWTs out to be. I’m also young enough to remember them in vivid detail; both myself and the other professors weren’t exaggerating during the first day ‘this is your entire future’ spiel. They’re very important, very hard and very stressful.”
Meredith’s mouth falls open, and you can sense another barrage of questions, so you quickly continue your speech.
“Which is why, as your teacher, but more importantly, as your friend, I recommend that you take some time to just relax and chill out. It’ll help, trust me.” She half-smiles sheepishly, gathering her books closer to her chest as she nods.
“Thanks, Professor.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh, and Meredith?” she turns at the door, eyebrows raise in a question.
“Give the library a break, ok? Madam Lindell has seen me numerous times already. I think she’s worried you’re going to turn into a book someday soon. After all, this is Salem; stranger things have happened.” Meredith grins with you, chuckling to herself, but she nods anyway before leaving the room. Shaking your head at her retreating form, you pull your glasses from your face and drop them on your desk, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose tiredly.
“She reminds me of Hermione.” You jump, startled, suddenly reminded of the presence in the corner of your room. A presence which has largened, apparently, to include the person who just spoke.
“Mr. Potter?” you ask, pleasantly surprised.
“It’s Harry, you silly thing. How many times do I have to tell you?” you smile at the playfulness in his voice, realising how much you missed it these last few years. During the year that you knew them, the Potters never ceased to make you feel warm and loved and part of a family again. Harry and Hermione always encouraged you to call them ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, but you never could bring yourself too, and you couldn’t ever call them by their first names either; you were afraid that ‘Mr. Potter’ and ‘Dr Potter’ would give way to ‘Harry’ and ‘Hermione’, and from there they would become ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’. You don’t think they’ll ever really understand why you can’t; Hermione’s parents are still alive and happily-married, and although Harry’s are dead, he never knew them; he didn’t lose real, actual parents after 17 years of real, actual parenting. It was easier for him to adopt the Weasleys as parents because he had no real basis for comparison, or any real problems with others filling that space.
“She exhausts me,” you reply, ignoring Harry’s question in favour of continuing the conversation about Meredith. “Exceptionally bright student, and a lovely girl, she’s just so...” you trail off, searching for the right adjective.
“High-strung?” Harry supplies helpfully, and you grin.
“Yeh, high strung. Speaking from personal experience?” you ask playfully, your grin still in place.
“Who, me? Oh no, not at all.”
“Mhm. So, what dragged you here then, Mr. Potter? I was under the impression that Mr. Malfoy was evaluating me.” Your choice of title hits home immediately; you can actually see it register on his face. There’s a myriad of emotions running rampant behind his eyes, and any lingering doubts you had that he knew the whole story are gone. You hadn’t really expected him not to know; he is, after all, one of Draco’s closest friends, and Caitlin’s father. They have a relationship very much like the one you had with your own father, and you don’t doubt she told him everything she knew. Which was everything.
Harry looks uncomfortable, and he’s sliding glances to Andreas, on his left. You risk a glance too, and find his arms are crossed nonchalantly and his face impassive. To most people, he looks just like any Malfoy; cool, detached and uncaring. But you aren’t most people; there’s fire lurking behind his eyes, and hurt too. It pains you both that you’ve grown so far apart you’re no longer on first-name basis; that much is clear. As a matter of fact, it pains Harry too, and he looks torn between continuing your vapid excuse for a conversation and just walking out and letting you two have at it.
“Well, I... er... was in the Transfiguration classroom, and I heard ‘Professor Finnegan’ used in passing, so of course I had to interrupt and check, and when I discovered that it was you, I rushed down here at the end of class, only to find you swamped by students and Mini-Hermione.”
“That’d be Professor Andersson. David’s always more than happy to refer his student’s to me. And that’s sweet of you, to come down to see me. How’ve you been, then? It’s been, what? Six years?” Harry nodded, and hesitated a second, glancing between you and Andreas, before launching into a retelling of the last six years. It was a long conversation, with him doing most of the talking and you laughing and smiling and inserting comments and basic tales of your life here and there. You were still talking when your next class piled in, the same class who’d just had Transfiguration -- 3rd year Hawkeyes. The students immediately began bombarding you with Charms-related Transfiguration questions, and Harry and Andreas excused themselves.
In the back of your mind, in a place untouched by the mundane happenings of everyday and unaffected by the multitude of questions, you congratulated yourself. You managed to spend the entire conversation avoiding Andreas; you hadn’t said a word to each other at all.
~*~
waiting for you
all my sins...
i said that i would pay for them if i could come back to you
all my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming
You retreat to the trophy room after classes, knowing that Andreas will chase you, and hoping against hope that he won’t be bothered with a room of such little apparent importance. Your hope was in vain, however, as you knew it would be; he was always good at finding you, no matter where you were.
“James suggested that I might find you here.”
“Of course she did,” you say, thinking of the hopeless romantic of a Deputy Headmistress. She knows the basic skeleton structure of your relationship with Andreas, compliments of a drunken night during the last break, and has no doubt been prodding him in your direction since they were introduced.
You lapse into a somewhat comfortable silence, as you are apt to do together. Andreas is a true Malfoy, though and through, and true Malfoys don’t talk unnessecarily. You were never a rambler -- that was Maria’s job -- and you’ve only grown quieter over the years. The two of you stand next to each other, seperated by only a few inches, neither looking at the other. If you were to sneak a glance, however, you know exactly what you’d see. He hasn’t changed much since you last saw him, three years ago in the middle of an Irish Muggle park ((“How do you know you weren’t followed?” “I don’t. But I don’t care, because it’s you.”)) and you can still see so much of his father in him. The long, silver blonde hair that both you and Ginny were always trying to get him too cut ((“Please baby? Just a little? It won’t hurt, I promise.” “No! Bloody hell woman, you sound just like my mother!”)), the sparkling grey eyes and pale, clear skin. He’s beautiful, just like Draco, just as arrogant and, when it suits him, cruel. He was a Slytherin after all, Head Boy or no.
“You never told me you were Head Girl.” Andreas breaks the silence, and although his voice is its normal tone, you can detect a small amount of hurt in it. You have no idea why; your relationship started as a hateful one, with fiery barbs thrown whenever possible, and although that progressed into a secret, sexual one quite quickly, the two of you were never a ‘care and share’ couple. Back at Hogwarts, it had always pained you that you’d lost your virginity to a snobby, bigoted spoilt brat that hated you, but although you always meant to break the thing you had off, you never did. You think that you needed that reminder that you could feel, even if it was just hate and shame and ‘what would everybody else think?’. And even though your relationship became less about hate and more about each other, it was still secret, and you were both to busy struggling with the ‘How Tos’ of the relationship to really talk, and it wasn’t until Caitlin encouraged you to go public that you began to talk, but you were both so young, and then his father forbid him from seeing you, and try as Ginny might the ruling wasn’t overturned. It was then, with Andreas risking being disowned every week just to visit you, that you realised you loved him. You never told him, of course, but then one night it didn’t matter, because he told you he loved you on bended knee, a beautiful ring of platinum and sapphire in his hand. That was the night you disappeared. After he left you, you’d packed all your things bar that ring, which you left in an envelope at the front desk of your hotel, and fled, using Muggle transport.
You let out a sigh at the memory; it wasn’t the best thing to do at the time, you can see that now, but you were so scared for him and what his father would do that you couldn’t think of anything but getting away as fast as you could.
“I wasn’t,” you reply flatly, crossing your arms over your chest and keeping your eyes facing forwards, towards the wall of trophies and plaques and away from him.
“Says it there,” he says, and you can see his hand indicating the board from the corner of your eye.
“I know. I was picked as Head Girl, but the battle was that same summer. I never even made it to school for seventh year.”
“Oh. Didn’t Hogwarts...”
“Yes, but I couldn’t take it from someone else, or reduce them to Co-Head Girl. Especially not someone like Caitlin.” There was a small pause, an intake of breath, before he asked another question.
“Isn’t that Mini-Hermione?” he asks, indicated the gold etching of ‘2041/2 - Meredith Wagner’ on the Head Girl board.
“Yes.”You lapse back into silence, your eyes travelling the once-again familiar boards easily.
“So Leo was-”
“Yes.”
“And Maria was-”
“Yes.”
Silence again.
“Which would I-”
“Spirren.”
“You think so?”
“You were a Slytherin. I know so.” Andreas nods slightly, his sheet of blonde hair swinging around behind him in a way that’s calling you to run your fingers through it.
“Margerois are the Gryffindors, then?” he asks, obviously comparing Salem with Hogwarts. You aren’t sure what you think of that; Salem is very much your school, and Hogwarts his, no matter the time you spent there.
“Yes. And Hawkeyes are the Ravenclaws, and Corrigons the Hufflepuffs.”
“Oh.” There’s that silence again. You think that, if this weren’t Andreas, you’d be giggling uncontrollably at the uncomfortable, stilted nature of the conversation.
“You should have owled me.” The soft whisper floats over to your ears, and for a moment you think you’re hearing things.
“And said what?” you ask sadly, taking off your glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief from the pocket of your robes.
“They’re new,” he says, indicating the glasses.
“Yes. Don’t change the subject.”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything. It would have been nice to have heard it from you and not my mother.”
“I didn’t want you to know. I don’t even know how your mother found out.”
“She may be a Malfoy by marriage, but she’s still a Weasley by birth; Weasley women have their ways. Besides, you’re the female Harry Potter of our generation. You think this wasn’t all over the Daily Prophet?” You say nothing in response. What can you say? You still love this man, with all of your heart. You love him so much it hurts, and it’s why you just can’t say anything to make this better. If you didn’t love him so much... maybe.
“Who is he?” Andreas asks, his voice edged with cold hatred and jealousy for whomever you’re about to say.
“David Andersson.”
“The Transfiguration professor.” It’s a statement, not a question, but you feel compelled to answer anyway.
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice wavering as the first real signs of emotion creep in. You can’t answer that, not with words, but you know another way, a way more natural to you than speaking and very much a part of who the two of you are, together. You turn to face him, flipping long red hair over your shoulders as you take a step towards him. You have no guitar, but that’s ok; your voice is soft as you start, looking up into his eyes.
“I wanted so badly somebody other than me
Staring back at me but you were gone
I wanted to see you walking backwards
And get the sensation of you coming home
I wanted to see you walking away from me
Without the sensation of you leaving me alone
I wanted the ocean to cover over me
I wanna sink slowly without getting wet”
You can feel your eyes watering, the tears pooling around the corners of your eyes, and when your voice wavers you decide to skip the chorus. Andreas’ eyes are moisture free, but there’s an agony behind them that you can easily identify. His eyes were wearing it that night in the park, and the night he proposed, and a million other times when you both had moments of clarity and knew, just knew, that everything wasn’t going to be alright.
“Maybe someday, I won't be so lonely
And i'll walk on water every chance i get
So when are you coming home sweet angel?
You leaving me alone? All alone?
Well if I'm drowning darling, you'll come down this way on your own
I wish I was traveling on a freeway
Beneath this graveyard western sky
I'm gonna set fire to this city
And out into the desert we're gonna ride”
Your head is tilted up and his down by the time you’ve finished, your foreheads pressed together. The tears have spilled from your eyes and are trailing silently down your cheeks, and as you watch, one single tear spills from Andreas’ eyes. Your breath hitches at the sight and you bring up a hand, wiping his tear away. You smooth your fingers over the skin of his cheek, continuing along to his hairline. You sweep some hair back over his ear, running your fingers through the length of it.
“Do you love him?” Andreas asks, his voice rough with unshed tears.
“I’ve never sung for him,” you say, your voice teary. “And I never will.”
“Do you love him?” Andreas asks again, a little louder and a little more desperately. He wants you to say the words.
“No,” you say, and you feel so much tension leave his muscles. “Not the way I love you. It’s not what we had... have. It’s not forbidden or dangerous. It’s more comfortable and... safe. Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t fit in a category. It just… is.” There was a pause, and you wonder whether you’ve said too much. Andreas was happy... well, happier, when you said you didn’t love David.
“It just is the closest thing I can get to love without you.”
“But you can have me,” he says, his voice pleading desperately, as he threads long, pale fingers through your hair and uses the other hand to wipe away your tears.
“But I can’t,” you whisper in return, and as an illustration, you press the bejewelled ring finger of your right hand into his palm. An imprint of the simple, square-cut diamond is left there when you take your finger away. You press a hard kiss to his forehead and blink back your tears, breaking from the circle of his arms and heading straight for the door.
As you leave you wipe away the last of your tears, but freeze in the doorway when your eyes fall upon James, hovering nearby. You turn sorrowful eyes on her own tear-filled ones, shaking your head in sorrow and disappointment and anger and so many other things. You say nothing to her, your emotions too stormy right now to make any kind of coherent statement, but as you turn on your heel and head towards your office, you can only hope that James will keep what she heard tonight a secret; it would destroy David.
Chapter Two; Recovering the Satellites
~*~
every night these silhouettes appear above my head
little angels of the silences
that climb into my bed and whisper
every time i fall asleep every time i dream
Salem was always prettiest at night. It had always had an alluring charm to it, and it still shimmers and shines in the night, just like it did when you were at school here.
It’s easier to be here at night. Sitting in the room that once housed Professor Chadwick, the woman who held so much sway over you when you were here, you can look out the window into the darkened grounds of Salem and know that the ghosts and memories that torment you on a daily basis are resting. It’s easy to remember during the day; walking down the halls, it’s easy to imagine that you’re sixteen again, watching Maria twirl down the halls with a huge smile on her face, her hands outstretched and her head thrown back, golden hair glinting in the sunlight and hazel eyes dancing with laughter. Maria never just walked anywhere -- she glided or twirled or floated. It was too ordinary to walk, far too simple. And it was almost always a surety that where there was a twirling Maria, there would be a you and a Leo, ever-sensible, walking behind her and trying in vain to wipe the smirks off your faces. It was always like that with you three, it seemed. Maria doing totally insane things, beautifully oblivious to the outside world, with you and Leo watching, smirking from the sidelines, you making sarcastic quips here and there with Leo occasionally inserting a well-timed, economically-phrased yet acute observation. He reminded you of your Uncle Oz a lot, and Maria was just like you imagine your mother was like at sixteen.
Your name is still on the board of Head Girls. You stumbled across the trophy room while you were wandering the school during your first week back, determined as you were to rediscover the castle that watched you age and change, within whose walls you had learnt so much. Your name was there, imprinted in the wood and etched in gold, six places from the bottom. You had stood there, in the trophy room, for what seemed like forever, gazing at the boards mounted on the wall above the glass cabinet, drowning in the then-overwhelming flow of memories. ((“Can you imagine? When we get back to school after summer, we’ll walk into the trophy room and your name will be up on the big board, and Leo’s will be right next to you, and I’ll be on the other side. I can’t believe I’m actually Quidditch Captain! First girl ever! Oh, wow. My best friend is Head Girl, my boyfriend is Head Boy and I’m Quidditch Captain. We’re going to be the butt of every single joke, all year.”)) Their names are still there, too. You checked. On the ‘other side’, on the other big board level with yours, in the same gold etched imprinting, it reads ‘2034/5 - Leontius Longbottom’. And on one of the four, slightly smaller boards, directly to the left of the Head Girls board, is the Margeroi Quidditch Captains board, and that too reads ‘2034/5 - Maria Black’. She’s still the only girl ever awarded Quidditch Captain.
~*~
take the way home
take the way home that leads back to sullivan st.
where all the bodies hang on the air
if she remembers, she hides it whenever we meet
Your class is overly chatty the next morning, and while you’re fully aware that not all of Charms is interesting, and that not everyone is as interested in Charms and Spells as you are, you do expect them to at least pretend to be paying attention.
“Alright, what is it?” you ask, turning away from the board mid sentence. The talking, which had been steadily rising, dies away almost immediately. As the youngest professor, and therefore the closest to them in age, you have an interesting relationship with your students. Especially the seventh years, the class you’re teaching now. Many of them knew you while you were studying here; they were first years when you were a sixth year. As the Margeroi prefects, you and Leo were responsible for their general well-being. Now, as their professor, you’re responsible for their education. It’s a strange feeling, to say the least, and a transition you all struggled with at the start of the year.
“Spill it Summers,” you say, when no-one answers. Your baby cousin, Buffy and Angel’s precious eldest child and only daughter ((“Won’t it be great, Kathleen? You have family with you all the time now!”)) sputters. Usually you steer clear of calling on her, to avoid favouritism rumours. You have no desire to be the Snape figure of these teenager’s stories; your father’s stories of his time at Hogwarts seemed marred only by the memories of his Potions professor.
“Well... uh... you mean you haven’t heard?” she asks, her voice nervous then incredulous.
“Heard what?” you ask, sighing. You hope this isn’t more useless, teacher-related gossip that they want you to confirm or deny.
“There’s an English delegation coming today to help evaluate the school,” she replies, her tone implying it should be common knowledge. Which it is, of course. These evaluations happen every 50 years, and are a big deal in every school.
“That’s what’s got you so distracted?” you ask, your voice unconvinced.
“Harry Potter’s coming! And I heard there was a... a Malfoy, too!”
“Oh,” you reply, your tone dismissive.
“It’s a big deal!” a small redhead in the front row blurts out. You sigh, somehow knowing you aren’t going to come out of this unscathed.
“The Malfoys are a perfectly fine family. There’s nothing wrong with them at all. The actions of others are no basis upon which to found your opinions. And, furthermore, Harry Potter’s just a normal person, you know. There’s no reason to get excited.” A snort resounds from the doorway.
“Didn’t stop you from getting excited, did it?” You spin sideways to face the door, surprised, and freeze when you catch sight of the figure in the doorway. You stare at him for a few seconds, drinking him in, before clearing your throat.
“Mr. Malfoy.” You can almost hear the entire class sucking in air at your statement, and the air grows thick with many emotions at the mere mention of the name ‘Malfoy’, and all it is associated with. You can feel the eyes of many of the students on you, as they are all very aware of what happened that summer, the summer between their first and second year and your sixth and seventh year. “I, uh, wasn’t aware you were with the delegation.”
“Well, Professor Finnegan,” he drawls, adding more emphasis to the formal term than necessary, “That’d be because I wasn’t. They asked me to come at the last minute, to aid the evaluation, and I agreed.” You mentally scoff, rolling your eyes internally. ‘Aid the evaluation’, indeed. Andreas Malfoy never did anything without some form of ulterior motive, and you doubt that has changed in the years since you last spoke.
“I take it you’re starting immediately, then?” you ask, forcing all emotion from your voice, replacing it with a cool form of politeness. The last thing you need is your students and your cousin guessing you have any real history with this man.
“Yes. Advanced Charms was the first on my list -- alphabetical, you see -- and I thought it would make sense to work my way down. Do you mind?” he asked, already seating himself to the side of the classroom.
“Not at all,” you force out, turning back to your class.
“Now, where were we? Oh yes, the Fidelus charm. Incredibly complex spell, takes training and skill, and lots of it. Now, don’t get excited, we won’t be attempting to perform the charm in this classroom, but it’s important that you understand this charm. Are there any questions? Yes, Mr. Jones?” you say, your attention on the sandy haired boy by the redhead who’d exploded before.
“So, let me get this straight. You use this charm on, say, a building, and anybody could just walk right past and not see it?” he asked, obviously still confused.
“That’s right. Unless that person was told about the building, and the only person who can tell the secret is the appointed ‘Secret Keeper’, the living person the secret is concealed within. For example, if, for whatever reason, I wanted to go into hiding, and needed assurances that no-one would ever find me, except for the people I wanted to, I would cast the Fidelus charm. I would choose a Secret-Keeper -- Mr. Malfoy over there, for example -- and then go into hiding. Now, unless Andre-uh-Mr. Malfoy, told you where I was, you could be standing in my house, right in front of me, and not see me.”
“Oh. Ok.”
“Right. Now, for homework I want one roll of parchment detailing the Fidelus charm, as well as key roles its use has played in Wizarding -- or even Muggle -- history. And that’s a complete roll, thank you Mr. McLean,” you add, smiling at a tall, dark-haired boy in the back of the classroom. He smiles back at you, his eyes laughing. You roll your eyes, hiding your grin by turning to wipe the board clean.
“Class dismissed.” And with that, they all begin to pack up. You follow suit, squaring away your desk and the like, nodding good bye as your students pass, studiously avoiding Andreas’ gaze. You finish organising your desk and start over again, desperate for a distraction from the fact that Andreas Malfoy, the one person on the Earth that ever affected you so severely, is sitting not ten feet away from you, casually watching your every move.
Several students stay behind to ask questions and you draw your answers out for as long as is plausible, praying that Andreas will just give up and go. Then it’s Meredith Wagner’s turn to ask questions, and you no longer need to draw your answers out. She fires question after question after question at you, each one requiring a complex, detailed answer, and you field them as best you can. Finally, you just can’t take it anymore; she’s managed to confuse even you.
“Miss. Wagner!” you interrupt, basically shouting over her babbling. She stops, obviously taken aback by your tone of voice, and quiets.
“Meredith,” you start, softer, trying to soothe the harshness of your interruption.
“I, personally, have the utmost confidence in your abilities. You needn’t worry so much. As you well know, you excel in Charms, and are miles ahead of the curriculum as it is. Your exams aren’t for several months yet, but I can assure you that you won’t be expected to perform the Fidelus charm. That section will be entirely theory, and as you already know that inside and out, I don’t expect you’ll have any problems.” She takes a deep breath, obviously attempting to calm herself further, before nodding in seeming resignation. You try and smother the grin you can feel rising up inside you, but mostly fail, and can feel it pull at the corners of your lips.
“Now, I’m fully aware how big of a deal everybody makes NEWTs out to be. I’m also young enough to remember them in vivid detail; both myself and the other professors weren’t exaggerating during the first day ‘this is your entire future’ spiel. They’re very important, very hard and very stressful.”
Meredith’s mouth falls open, and you can sense another barrage of questions, so you quickly continue your speech.
“Which is why, as your teacher, but more importantly, as your friend, I recommend that you take some time to just relax and chill out. It’ll help, trust me.” She half-smiles sheepishly, gathering her books closer to her chest as she nods.
“Thanks, Professor.”
“Don’t mention it. Oh, and Meredith?” she turns at the door, eyebrows raise in a question.
“Give the library a break, ok? Madam Lindell has seen me numerous times already. I think she’s worried you’re going to turn into a book someday soon. After all, this is Salem; stranger things have happened.” Meredith grins with you, chuckling to herself, but she nods anyway before leaving the room. Shaking your head at her retreating form, you pull your glasses from your face and drop them on your desk, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose tiredly.
“She reminds me of Hermione.” You jump, startled, suddenly reminded of the presence in the corner of your room. A presence which has largened, apparently, to include the person who just spoke.
“Mr. Potter?” you ask, pleasantly surprised.
“It’s Harry, you silly thing. How many times do I have to tell you?” you smile at the playfulness in his voice, realising how much you missed it these last few years. During the year that you knew them, the Potters never ceased to make you feel warm and loved and part of a family again. Harry and Hermione always encouraged you to call them ‘Mum’ and ‘Dad’, but you never could bring yourself too, and you couldn’t ever call them by their first names either; you were afraid that ‘Mr. Potter’ and ‘Dr Potter’ would give way to ‘Harry’ and ‘Hermione’, and from there they would become ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’. You don’t think they’ll ever really understand why you can’t; Hermione’s parents are still alive and happily-married, and although Harry’s are dead, he never knew them; he didn’t lose real, actual parents after 17 years of real, actual parenting. It was easier for him to adopt the Weasleys as parents because he had no real basis for comparison, or any real problems with others filling that space.
“She exhausts me,” you reply, ignoring Harry’s question in favour of continuing the conversation about Meredith. “Exceptionally bright student, and a lovely girl, she’s just so...” you trail off, searching for the right adjective.
“High-strung?” Harry supplies helpfully, and you grin.
“Yeh, high strung. Speaking from personal experience?” you ask playfully, your grin still in place.
“Who, me? Oh no, not at all.”
“Mhm. So, what dragged you here then, Mr. Potter? I was under the impression that Mr. Malfoy was evaluating me.” Your choice of title hits home immediately; you can actually see it register on his face. There’s a myriad of emotions running rampant behind his eyes, and any lingering doubts you had that he knew the whole story are gone. You hadn’t really expected him not to know; he is, after all, one of Draco’s closest friends, and Caitlin’s father. They have a relationship very much like the one you had with your own father, and you don’t doubt she told him everything she knew. Which was everything.
Harry looks uncomfortable, and he’s sliding glances to Andreas, on his left. You risk a glance too, and find his arms are crossed nonchalantly and his face impassive. To most people, he looks just like any Malfoy; cool, detached and uncaring. But you aren’t most people; there’s fire lurking behind his eyes, and hurt too. It pains you both that you’ve grown so far apart you’re no longer on first-name basis; that much is clear. As a matter of fact, it pains Harry too, and he looks torn between continuing your vapid excuse for a conversation and just walking out and letting you two have at it.
“Well, I... er... was in the Transfiguration classroom, and I heard ‘Professor Finnegan’ used in passing, so of course I had to interrupt and check, and when I discovered that it was you, I rushed down here at the end of class, only to find you swamped by students and Mini-Hermione.”
“That’d be Professor Andersson. David’s always more than happy to refer his student’s to me. And that’s sweet of you, to come down to see me. How’ve you been, then? It’s been, what? Six years?” Harry nodded, and hesitated a second, glancing between you and Andreas, before launching into a retelling of the last six years. It was a long conversation, with him doing most of the talking and you laughing and smiling and inserting comments and basic tales of your life here and there. You were still talking when your next class piled in, the same class who’d just had Transfiguration -- 3rd year Hawkeyes. The students immediately began bombarding you with Charms-related Transfiguration questions, and Harry and Andreas excused themselves.
In the back of your mind, in a place untouched by the mundane happenings of everyday and unaffected by the multitude of questions, you congratulated yourself. You managed to spend the entire conversation avoiding Andreas; you hadn’t said a word to each other at all.
~*~
waiting for you
all my sins...
i said that i would pay for them if i could come back to you
all my innocence is wasted on the dead and dreaming
You retreat to the trophy room after classes, knowing that Andreas will chase you, and hoping against hope that he won’t be bothered with a room of such little apparent importance. Your hope was in vain, however, as you knew it would be; he was always good at finding you, no matter where you were.
“James suggested that I might find you here.”
“Of course she did,” you say, thinking of the hopeless romantic of a Deputy Headmistress. She knows the basic skeleton structure of your relationship with Andreas, compliments of a drunken night during the last break, and has no doubt been prodding him in your direction since they were introduced.
You lapse into a somewhat comfortable silence, as you are apt to do together. Andreas is a true Malfoy, though and through, and true Malfoys don’t talk unnessecarily. You were never a rambler -- that was Maria’s job -- and you’ve only grown quieter over the years. The two of you stand next to each other, seperated by only a few inches, neither looking at the other. If you were to sneak a glance, however, you know exactly what you’d see. He hasn’t changed much since you last saw him, three years ago in the middle of an Irish Muggle park ((“How do you know you weren’t followed?” “I don’t. But I don’t care, because it’s you.”)) and you can still see so much of his father in him. The long, silver blonde hair that both you and Ginny were always trying to get him too cut ((“Please baby? Just a little? It won’t hurt, I promise.” “No! Bloody hell woman, you sound just like my mother!”)), the sparkling grey eyes and pale, clear skin. He’s beautiful, just like Draco, just as arrogant and, when it suits him, cruel. He was a Slytherin after all, Head Boy or no.
“You never told me you were Head Girl.” Andreas breaks the silence, and although his voice is its normal tone, you can detect a small amount of hurt in it. You have no idea why; your relationship started as a hateful one, with fiery barbs thrown whenever possible, and although that progressed into a secret, sexual one quite quickly, the two of you were never a ‘care and share’ couple. Back at Hogwarts, it had always pained you that you’d lost your virginity to a snobby, bigoted spoilt brat that hated you, but although you always meant to break the thing you had off, you never did. You think that you needed that reminder that you could feel, even if it was just hate and shame and ‘what would everybody else think?’. And even though your relationship became less about hate and more about each other, it was still secret, and you were both to busy struggling with the ‘How Tos’ of the relationship to really talk, and it wasn’t until Caitlin encouraged you to go public that you began to talk, but you were both so young, and then his father forbid him from seeing you, and try as Ginny might the ruling wasn’t overturned. It was then, with Andreas risking being disowned every week just to visit you, that you realised you loved him. You never told him, of course, but then one night it didn’t matter, because he told you he loved you on bended knee, a beautiful ring of platinum and sapphire in his hand. That was the night you disappeared. After he left you, you’d packed all your things bar that ring, which you left in an envelope at the front desk of your hotel, and fled, using Muggle transport.
You let out a sigh at the memory; it wasn’t the best thing to do at the time, you can see that now, but you were so scared for him and what his father would do that you couldn’t think of anything but getting away as fast as you could.
“I wasn’t,” you reply flatly, crossing your arms over your chest and keeping your eyes facing forwards, towards the wall of trophies and plaques and away from him.
“Says it there,” he says, and you can see his hand indicating the board from the corner of your eye.
“I know. I was picked as Head Girl, but the battle was that same summer. I never even made it to school for seventh year.”
“Oh. Didn’t Hogwarts...”
“Yes, but I couldn’t take it from someone else, or reduce them to Co-Head Girl. Especially not someone like Caitlin.” There was a small pause, an intake of breath, before he asked another question.
“Isn’t that Mini-Hermione?” he asks, indicated the gold etching of ‘2041/2 - Meredith Wagner’ on the Head Girl board.
“Yes.”You lapse back into silence, your eyes travelling the once-again familiar boards easily.
“So Leo was-”
“Yes.”
“And Maria was-”
“Yes.”
Silence again.
“Which would I-”
“Spirren.”
“You think so?”
“You were a Slytherin. I know so.” Andreas nods slightly, his sheet of blonde hair swinging around behind him in a way that’s calling you to run your fingers through it.
“Margerois are the Gryffindors, then?” he asks, obviously comparing Salem with Hogwarts. You aren’t sure what you think of that; Salem is very much your school, and Hogwarts his, no matter the time you spent there.
“Yes. And Hawkeyes are the Ravenclaws, and Corrigons the Hufflepuffs.”
“Oh.” There’s that silence again. You think that, if this weren’t Andreas, you’d be giggling uncontrollably at the uncomfortable, stilted nature of the conversation.
“You should have owled me.” The soft whisper floats over to your ears, and for a moment you think you’re hearing things.
“And said what?” you ask sadly, taking off your glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief from the pocket of your robes.
“They’re new,” he says, indicating the glasses.
“Yes. Don’t change the subject.”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything. It would have been nice to have heard it from you and not my mother.”
“I didn’t want you to know. I don’t even know how your mother found out.”
“She may be a Malfoy by marriage, but she’s still a Weasley by birth; Weasley women have their ways. Besides, you’re the female Harry Potter of our generation. You think this wasn’t all over the Daily Prophet?” You say nothing in response. What can you say? You still love this man, with all of your heart. You love him so much it hurts, and it’s why you just can’t say anything to make this better. If you didn’t love him so much... maybe.
“Who is he?” Andreas asks, his voice edged with cold hatred and jealousy for whomever you’re about to say.
“David Andersson.”
“The Transfiguration professor.” It’s a statement, not a question, but you feel compelled to answer anyway.
“Yes.”
“Why?” he asks, his voice wavering as the first real signs of emotion creep in. You can’t answer that, not with words, but you know another way, a way more natural to you than speaking and very much a part of who the two of you are, together. You turn to face him, flipping long red hair over your shoulders as you take a step towards him. You have no guitar, but that’s ok; your voice is soft as you start, looking up into his eyes.
“I wanted so badly somebody other than me
Staring back at me but you were gone
I wanted to see you walking backwards
And get the sensation of you coming home
I wanted to see you walking away from me
Without the sensation of you leaving me alone
I wanted the ocean to cover over me
I wanna sink slowly without getting wet”
You can feel your eyes watering, the tears pooling around the corners of your eyes, and when your voice wavers you decide to skip the chorus. Andreas’ eyes are moisture free, but there’s an agony behind them that you can easily identify. His eyes were wearing it that night in the park, and the night he proposed, and a million other times when you both had moments of clarity and knew, just knew, that everything wasn’t going to be alright.
“Maybe someday, I won't be so lonely
And i'll walk on water every chance i get
So when are you coming home sweet angel?
You leaving me alone? All alone?
Well if I'm drowning darling, you'll come down this way on your own
I wish I was traveling on a freeway
Beneath this graveyard western sky
I'm gonna set fire to this city
And out into the desert we're gonna ride”
Your head is tilted up and his down by the time you’ve finished, your foreheads pressed together. The tears have spilled from your eyes and are trailing silently down your cheeks, and as you watch, one single tear spills from Andreas’ eyes. Your breath hitches at the sight and you bring up a hand, wiping his tear away. You smooth your fingers over the skin of his cheek, continuing along to his hairline. You sweep some hair back over his ear, running your fingers through the length of it.
“Do you love him?” Andreas asks, his voice rough with unshed tears.
“I’ve never sung for him,” you say, your voice teary. “And I never will.”
“Do you love him?” Andreas asks again, a little louder and a little more desperately. He wants you to say the words.
“No,” you say, and you feel so much tension leave his muscles. “Not the way I love you. It’s not what we had... have. It’s not forbidden or dangerous. It’s more comfortable and... safe. Oh, I don’t know. It doesn’t fit in a category. It just… is.” There was a pause, and you wonder whether you’ve said too much. Andreas was happy... well, happier, when you said you didn’t love David.
“It just is the closest thing I can get to love without you.”
“But you can have me,” he says, his voice pleading desperately, as he threads long, pale fingers through your hair and uses the other hand to wipe away your tears.
“But I can’t,” you whisper in return, and as an illustration, you press the bejewelled ring finger of your right hand into his palm. An imprint of the simple, square-cut diamond is left there when you take your finger away. You press a hard kiss to his forehead and blink back your tears, breaking from the circle of his arms and heading straight for the door.
As you leave you wipe away the last of your tears, but freeze in the doorway when your eyes fall upon James, hovering nearby. You turn sorrowful eyes on her own tear-filled ones, shaking your head in sorrow and disappointment and anger and so many other things. You say nothing to her, your emotions too stormy right now to make any kind of coherent statement, but as you turn on your heel and head towards your office, you can only hope that James will keep what she heard tonight a secret; it would destroy David.