Tu tienes una mirada demasiada pintoresca
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Draco Malfory woke up under the covers, feeling suffocated under the light cotton sheet. For being something of a popular figure in the blue-blood wizard society, he wasn’t really giving a damn about keeping up appearances like his father had wanted.
Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t stopped her incessant mothering after the Dark Lord’s fall. So much for devotion, he thought.
Pansy Parkinson was doing the same as well in her own way, it seemed, as he pushed her arm off his ribs. She groaned sleepily, shifting slightly as her grip readjusted to dig into the edge of the mattress.
He pushed his hair back which had been tangled by Pansy the night before and felt his skin slick against his palm.
Something about her brand of comfort was both immediately gratifying in its intensity and yet, unfulfilling in the aftermath. It reminded him of his feud with Potter, of which he could not remember how it started, only that the animosity was mutual. While fighting with Potter was somewhat satisfying, he wasn’t sure what to do make of sharing his covers with Parkinson.
He hardly dreamed since arriving at school, something that left him grateful after witnessing the horrors the Death Eaters performed.
Pansy shifted again, facing away from him. He caught the sight of bare shoulders and wondered why the hell she had chosen his bed to hide between the sheets. In his mind, fear was what had driven her. He’d barely understood what made her reach out to him from inside a broom closet and practically attack him. She’d tasted the way he remembered - like whiskey and dark chocolate. It lingered like a memory, although he wasn’t sure why it was him she sought. During the war, he hadn’t heard any news regarding the Parkinsons, even in the hushed rumours that abounded in the classrooms.
She was the first to slide her hands under his clothes, seeking something he couldn’t see. He’d gone along with it, like any hot-blooded male would have done in his situation. Still, the urgency didn’t escape his attention in the darkness of that enclosed space where nothing mattered to her except feeling something other than the constant despair brought on by constant conflict, real or perceived.
When her legs, which wrapped around him tightly, finally let go, he’d been able to breathe. The rush of air that followed hit his lungs and burned, although he found that he had little use for it anyway.
He thought of his mother that night when he laid awake in his bed as he’d often done at night. She had often spoken about loyalty and love-silly things his father had never really bothered to explain, at least not in those words.
Instead, Lucius spoke of image and power as the only two things to live life by. As a child, Draco found his father’s words had a hold on him, despite not being a spell. Perhaps it was his upbringing as a wizard, but the mystique of the old man’s words meant something, especially as they mostly deal with knowing the right (although not necessarily good) people to get ahead. It seemed that growing up had made them lose their magic, as he had little to believe in. The Malfoy name had been disgraced for a number of reasons he could count on one hand.
Voldemort followers.
Dark wizard traitors.
Mudblood defenders.
Those were the whispers he’d heard among the talk about Potter’s heroics, his sacrifices, his loyal friends that resulted in a triumph.
Draco, in typical manner, saw things slightly differently. Never let it be said he would not resort to rationalizing (read: full-blown denial).
Rather than the Malfoys being the reviled family of high wizard society for being indecisive when they changed sides under the threat of death, he thought of opportunism. To get ahead, they had to adapt to the situation. The circumstances called for their sacrifices, things which they were not capable of performing. His thoughts drifted to an old man he could not murder as he’d been expected to.
He shook his head, the image leaving him.
Of all the sins he’d been accomplice to, that last one on the list burned him. The image of big hair and brown eyes came to mind, irritating him instantly. She always knew the answers, understood the questions and calculated favorable odds. Her mind was like clockwork and he hated it. She was the embodiment of loyalty found in all definitions, that Mudblood.
Regret soaked through him like sweat, although he wasn’t sure what he wanted to take back-not going through with killing the old man or having thought himself capable in the first place. The next thing to flash in his mind was of a mentor-one who understood the capricious nature of balance when creating something as lethal as a poison or vital as a potion. The man had been patient enough to understand him and talk him through the vagaries of Death Eaters as he’d experienced them.
That man had been a traitor as well. Just like him. Severus Snape was never truly on his side.
So much for devotion.
He turned sides, just like his mentor. It was just like him to always follow another’s footsteps.
He breathed in, wondering how the hell he’d gotten himself into such messes without a helping hand to lead him into some order and logic which would instill him with the certainty that the world would not suddenly turn around on its axis and crash upside down, killing them as it rewound itself.
As stuffy as he found his room to be, he didn’t move from the bed. It had become habit, this thing between him and Pansy. She often came to him and he didn’t mind the company, especially when the nights were longer than he’d expected with the insomnia he experienced. She gave of herself quite freely, without being the demanding girl who wanted everyone to see her on his arm all the time. She’d become quite the opposite, not caring what he thought of their little arrangement. There were no questions, no pre-set deal of their shared nights, just the instant gratification of their supple bodies seeking each other in the dark.
He thought nothing of it in the mornings. She seemed to do the same, tending not to bother him with aimless chatter in public. She found solace with her classmates, prattling on as usual with familiar classmates and barely looked at him.
The alarm sounded, announcing a new day of class that awaited them both.
He thought nothing of it.
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It was long before the war that Hermione Granger learned that academic work was the best distraction for whatever ailed the soul. Before even setting foot in Hogwarts, School of Magical Arts for Wizards and Witches (she’d memorized the entire formal title once she’d received her admission letter) books had made their way into her heart. She remembered being nine and heartbroken at the announcement of her grandfather dying of a heart attack. He’d only just held her the day before, smiling and giving her all sorts of sweets that her parents would have disapproved from their medical standpoint as practicing dentists.
“It’s rubbish,” the dear old man said as he handed her another plate of Sacher torte, an entire cake barely arrived from Vienna that morning. “What your parents tell you about cavities.”
She stayed quiet as he looked rather distantly out of the window. He was seeing something her young eyes could not comprehend. She wouldn’t forget his next words.
“You’re supposed to enjoy life. Now eat your cake and don’t mention this to your parents,” he said.
Smiling behind her tea cup, she didn’t have to be told twice to dig into the best dessert she’d ever had. What she hadn’t known then was that it would be the last time she’d ever enjoyed pastries with someone she had been fond of. He’d gone in his sleep in a week, she later learned.
Somewhere behind the pages of a Dickens book, she learned all about unrequited love. It seemed fitting at the time, knowing that life could deal her hard blows that she’d somehow learn to stand up against when she was being denied the love of someone who could no longer return it. It also helped that the hard cover shielded her red rimmed eyes from her distraught mother, who could barely comprehend what had just occurred and why. Always why.
It seemed now, more than ever, she took the lesson to heart. Education was not only a means to protect oneself with knowledge, but she felt it provided some distance from the reality outside of four walls, which were both protective and confining.
She found some humor in the overwhelming sense of irony. Paradoxes, she concluded, were stupid. And yet, she had the infuriating needling at her side telling her she was stuck in one.
After rereading an embarrassingly worn copy of Great Expectations, it seemed the story took on a similar meaning from that summer eight years earlier. She doubted she could ever be Estella, who had the ability to make a boy pine after her for the rest of her life as way of justifying his existence and making himself worthy of her. She wasn’t as regal, manipulative or arrogant, for starters. She was simple and unassuming and didn’t think much of her looks. Despite being a fictional character, Estella was an exceptional beauty-haunting, alluring and impossible to ignore-things she would never be. She’d learned as much about herself over the summer, when she’d gone largely ignored by random boys she’d met-all vacant eyes and next to no sense of discovery in conversation.
Instead, their questions were quite simple: What’s your name? Want a drink? Meet me outside? (While she’d lied about the first, she answered yes to the latter two.) It was not just familiar territory, it had become a recurring scene along with recycled pick up lines and disposable moments.
Ron’s prior infatuation with her had not resulted in much except for petty bickering and her patience cut short as a long term after effect of that brief foray into what she supposed was romance. As for their mutual friend, it was yet to be seen, but she held little hope for that. He barely looked at her since the term began and she couldn’t blame him.
There was an air of unresolved issues that hovered around them both, that seemed to her like the lingering taste of doubt in the back of her mouth.
“We’ll figure this out,” she remembered him telling her once in a hushed whisper. She’d been hanging on to him, arms around his neck, wishing it wasn’t a dream or a figment of her imagination playing cruel tricks on her tired mind.
It had been a lifetime ago or so it felt. And in some ways, it was.
She repeated those four words to the empty space in her room.
Out of habit, she reached under the pillow to find that familiar outline of the book. It was the smallest comfort she’d have that day.
- - -
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Luna Lovegood had a tendency to look cheerful at the crack of dawn, despite most people’s annoyance. She smiled easily and toyed with her radish earrings unconsciously before Professor Trelawney made her usual flustered, tardy entrance.
The grandfather clock chimed nine a.m., earning a few groans and waking others from a light doze. She watched as Dennis Creevey’s head bobbed forward and then snapped awake in alarm when he laid eyes on Trelawney.
Tarot cards were the lesson of the day, according to the class syllabus, which she reread for the third time again. Of the first things she had been looking forward to, she thought reading cards was a more accurate way to gauge people and their intentions than astrology or tea leaves.
For one thing, astrology required reading stars for people who shared a similar attribute - birthdays or horoscope signs, which made the information flawed and unreliable. Tea leaves also had a similar problem, which required a person to be careful in drinking their tea without swallowing the leaves. The leaves also had a tendency to move around in the cup-all the more to provide a flexible reading, Professor Trelawney said, but she tended to doubt that reason. They tended to slide all over the place and she wasn’t sure if she’d seen a duck or a hammer when reading her classmate’s future.
Even if incorrectly interpreted, the results of the reading would stay with the person, almost like a wrongly diagnosed illness, which would lead the person astray, intentional or not. She remembered an instance like that, when she’d been told to steer clear of strict professors to avoid conflicts. Of course, even when she did, it didn’t stop the conflicts from appearing and wreaking their havoc on Hogwarts entirely.
Luna shuffled her deck, thinking it was a more accurate method to read a person and any relevant signs, as it was strictly for an individual and could not be misinterpreted with another’s reading. She’d been lied to plenty, or so she figured. At least learning the trade from the inside out, she’d be less inclined to follow misguided advice.
“Class,” Trelawney said in her usual false mystical voice that grated everyone’s nerves but Luna. “Today, we begin with advanced fortune telling.”
Trelawney held up a deck of tarot cards.
“Now class, the first thing we will do today is to shuffle the cards,” she said. “You must learn to feel the aura of the cards-that they are calling to you.”
A loud laugh pierced the quiet of the room.
“Now that’s a load of rubbish,” someone said, a bit loudly.
The voice, though familiar, eluded her for a moment. When she turned to look, along with most of the class, she first noticed blond hair and familiar blue eyes that she imagined had never really felt warmth during his 17 years of life.
He wasn’t trying to hide his annoyance so early in the morning.
She wasn’t sure what to feel or think as she saw him, sitting on the low table tucked in the corner. He seemed the perfect image of an ungrateful child only that instead of pouting, he was trying to be as uncooperative as possible. She supposed it was his way of throwing a fit.
Draco sneered as usual, before taking up the first few cards of his deck between thumb and index finger. Despite his nonchalance, she noted the irritation under bored glare.
She shifted slightly in her seat, ignoring him instead as the lesson continued.
Trelawney cleared her throat loudly.
“Before shuffling, the first thing you must do is clear your mind,” she said.
Luna heard the door slam before she let out what was supposed to be a deep, cleansing breath.
Trelawney did not let her usual indignation go ignored by the remaining class in Malfoy’s absence.
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For Harry Potter, who dwelled in low spirits and little hope, the sight of her the first morning of the term came as something of a surprise he continued to linger in. He found her ready to go off to class to absorb information through her pores, likening her ability to learn as soaking up the material through osmosis.
“You’re a sponge,” he told her once.
“Obtaining and disseminating information is important,” she’d replied, glancing up at him from the top of her book before lecturing him on life or death situations that required specialized knowledge.
He wasn’t surprised because of her usual impeccable appearance so early in the morning or that she was exactly as he remembered; he was surprised that his heart was a little too broken and instead of some subtle intimate gesture known only to them both, he barely managed a nod in her direction. He didn’t look directly at her to know what the response would be. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Hermione, book-bag ready and eager as ever to march willingly into the classroom, smiled as best as she could and returned his wave, ignoring the sudden cold in the pit of her stomach. He could sense her dread but didn’t understand what warranted it in the first place.
She was beautiful. Perhaps not in the same way she learned to define it through her beloved books, but there was something in her that warranted his attention. It was the way her hair glowed and the careful way of looking at things with those dark eyes that he found he’d memorized in daydreams. She wasn’t the type to leave one breathless at first sight. If anything, they would have agreed that love at first sight was silly. But on closer inspection, she was everything he admired-intelligent, trusting and loyal.
She was the type that although pleasing to the eyes on first glance had to be admired for her other qualities - courage and tenacity among them - things that had saved him on numerous occasions. But even for him, her virtues did not disguise her from his baser instincts, which attracted him to her. He often found himself thinking of her-honeyed hair, molasses coloured eyes, smooth alabaster skin. (She was made of sugar in his dreams.)
On that first morning, it hurt to look at her and feel the doubt that radiated off her in waves. The second guessing stood by him and he could not shake it off despite being one month into the term.
The morning appetite hadn’t returned, despite missing dinner on a few occasions.
And instead of being at the standard hangout in the Quidditch pitch, he meandered aimlessly through the barren hallways, without any actual direction except to be on time to Charms, where he purposefully sat toward the front, trying to keep her outside his line of vision.
He remembered that much in between the short hours of sleep that an endless bout of insomnia allowed him.
He hadn’t stopped that little morning ritual, choosing instead to stay in bed for another ten minutes or so longer instead of eating. He still lurked in the empty classroom before anyone else arrived.
Inwardly, he wondered if a version of her-the one he knew before uncovering his past, war, bloodshed and mourning-was proud of their accomplishments. They’d taken down the most bloodthirsty being in recent history with little more than her book smarts and his foolish courage.
That, he thought, was probably the most miraculous part of this story.
“I’m waiting to see what will happen,” she told him once, gripping his left hand and feeling their entwined fingers get coated with something warm. She was bleeding from a wound somewhere along her arm, which she said looked worse than it felt. He hadn’t been faring any better, walking with a limp leg and barely holding himself up.
He remembered kissing her then, but didn’t know how it had been-if he had barely touched her lips or hungrily pressed himself against her, only that he tasted salt and sweat and copper. It was a moment in which he got lost in, forgetting about the instances in which he was nearly hit with curses flying from all different directions because she was alive and breathing and the most beautiful thing he’d ever set eyes on, despite the fear and danger.
He whispered something in her ear which he hoped was comforting because with that brief kiss, she’d given him something he carried off in the final battle.
He wondered if she carried it too.
Perhaps she still did.
He could be optimistic when the mood hit him, after all.
And yet at times, he caught glimpses of memories he was sure he’d never lived personally and woke up to the taste of chocolate in his mouth, even when he hadn’t dared reached for dessert at dinnertime. He felt warm embraces, soft smiles and a comfort he’d never received behind closed eyes. He also experienced discomfort on his toes, as if he’d walked in bad shoes the day before and once woke up with swollen eyes, despite them being dry and his not crying in the middle of the night.
He half expected someone to provide him with a reasonable explanation. As if that would happen.
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The Lovegoods prided themselves on being somewhat experts of the lesser known aspects of the wizarding world. Despite being called eccentrics, it seemed their extensive knowledge tended to help in vanquishing evil during its eternal struggle with good.
At least, in her father’s words, it was how the Lovegoods helped win the Goblin Rebellion two centuries earlier. According to the story Luna’s father recited again and again, Luna’s great-great-great-great-great aunt Nebula Lovegood had helped the wizards crush the rebellion by learning the goblins’ weaknesses.
Cornelius Lovegood had always said the wizards had experienced trouble with the in crushing the learned the name of the goblin rebellion’s leader. According to the story, the goblin leader who had instigated the uprising had kept his identity a secret so that wizard intelligence wouldn’t find know the family blacksmithing tradition, which dated back millennia.
Nebula, more astute witch than her name suggested, had wandered near the camp (although if she realized it or not, Luna never knew) within earshot of the day’s festivities for having won a fight earlier that day. The rumors of those days circulated of the goblin leader negotiating a potential alliance with either giants or elves.
None of the intelligence gathered had known any of the movements by either goblins or giants. Being the sort of enterprising witch, Nebula, who had partly tracked the goblins’ movements during the day, had forgotten which way to exit the forest without being caught.
During the loud festivities, however, she was not being watched and listened to the rhyme the goblin leader sang.
The leader’s claim to fame had been refining alchemy, or so he had said in his song that boasted of his ability to make even straw into gold.
The moral of the story, as she had understood it, was the Lovegood’s ability to listen and listen well. It was what ultimately crushed the rebellion, after all.
- - -
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Minerva McGonagall stared out the window of the office that bore the name Headmaster, wondering where she’d gone wrong in her lessons. While she’d no doubt spent time behind those walls, that space did not belong to her. She was the latest occupant in a line of wizards and witches whose power surpassed hers easily.
And yet, none were there but her.
Their memories lingered, not only in portraits on the wall, but in the very room she stood. Albus had not even had a chance to clear out
The desks in the seventh year classes were not as full as she’d remembered from previous years. The absences tugged at her heart in ways she’d never wanted to feel. Failure loomed over her conscience like a dark and persistent cloud over her long and illustrious career. But it wasn’t a reputation she was concerned about. The young lives, all full of possibility, were no longer there. Instead of knowing how those pupils would grow and create all sorts of changes in the world, she was left to ponder their absences in the classrooms.
She turned toward the wall of former headmaster photographs and stared at the empty frame in the far right. He was gone again, just like in her dreams.
When life gives you lemons…
She found that tidying up small areas, like her office or bedroom tended to improve her mood. It was more manageable, she supposed, to organize those areas that made up most of her world. It made a little less chaos in her world to know exactly where her belongings lay. It made her less prone to being surprised.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
- - -
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Horace Slughorn made a mistake.
He wasn’t remotely thinking about Tom Riddle.
Instead, he mourned over the fact that in attempting to teach his students the finer points of potions and exhibit the delicate balance that could mean life or death, he’d made them interested in two things. One was the Felix Felicis, which most boys wanted desperately to learn. The other was the Amorentia potion, which conversely, was what every girl wanted.
He reminded himself that every student in his class was a teenager.
It didn’t assuage him.
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It started rather innocently, with a little dusting and filing in that old, cluttered office she dwelled. In between the dusty clouds she that arose in the wake of her order, a scrap of paper slipped out from under a pile of papers.
McGonagall recognized the neat scrawl, the signature beneath a request to leave and not return for further instruction.
Even the most intelligent and talented of students tended to confuse a teacher as experienced as her. The war was intending to claim one more from those protective charms and knowledge.
Still, for one as aggressively competitive student, Granger was the most puzzling case of dropping out that she’d encountered. The girl was neither stupid, nor failing any of the classes. In fact, she was the top student, making even the Ravenclaw house look underprepared in exams.
“Where did I go wrong?” she muttered to herself as she sank into the oversized chair.
Nothing quite fit her in that room, as she’d expected. Despite making it somewhat neater (although not as close to her liking), she had not managed to make it her own. Not that she had realistically sought to do so in the first place.
“Where?” she wondered aloud, and fixed her stare upward, toward the immovable and unknowable ceiling.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” came a reply.
She smiled bitterly, quietly, all to herself. It figured he would reappear in a moment of vulnerability. But that was the way she remembered him anyway. Anything less and she’d be suspicious.
“You finally appear,” she said.
If he smiled or made any other expression, she didn’t catch it and wasn’t quite ready to turn around and face it.
“You must excuse my absence,” he said, a little sheepish in tone.
She supposed that even the semi-recently deceased had busy schedules to attend to, including former headmasters.
“Been busy much?” she replied, finally looking at him.
That familiar mystifying smile spread on his face and she found herself trying to decipher what might be going through his head. It was the same as always, she thought.
“The demand for public appearances has decreased somewhat,” he said ruefully. “But that’s to be expected.”
She didn’t return the smile. Of all the faculty at Hogwart’s, he’d been the one she could never figure out, although she’d always had the most respect for him.
“You mustn’t joke about death, Albus,” she admonished. “We’ve been fighting to keep everyone safe.”
He smiled nonetheless, looking at her with same good humor as ever. Even in the afterlife, the man never lost his vitality. He would always be perpetually young, stuck in an older man’s body. It made her feel old than she was, as if she’d lived a thousand years while he kept the same lightness in spirit.
“Don’t take life too seriously,” he said. “You’ve only got the one.”
She sat in the much too large chair, unsure of what to say, but pointing a disapproving look at him.
“And besides, we’re not here to talk about me,” he added. “You’re worried about those two.”
She exhaled quietly, her fingers dancing lightly along the armrest signaling her unrest.
“Hermione Granger wants to leave,” she said simply. “And she’s half way through the period of time she’s agreed to stay for her studies.”
Dumbledore’s smile faded somewhat, replaced by a confused look. It was somewhat bewildering to see the expression on his face, she thought, at least for someone who always seemed to know the answers and was ten steps ahead of everyone else.
“Perhaps it’s time for a little chat with our students,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow alarmingly.
“Who else did you have in mind?” she asked.
- - -
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Hands in his hair, he pulled slightly, wondering why the taste of chocolate and Earl Grey lingered in his mouth. He couldn’t rub the image of a dream featuring someone else’s childhood from his eyes.
And after weeks of deliberate and barely veiled indifference from Hermione, he snapped. It was beginning to show in his sometimes easily irritated manner, as when Ginny tended to ask him questions about the assignments McGonagall handed out for homework. He seemed not to see the beseeching looks she gave him while asking, batting her eyelids slowly.
“I seem to have forgotten,” he would tell her instead.
Inevitably, Ginny would seek out her brother for questioning, but he had mysteriously developed amnesia as well. She could not fathom why homework assignments grated on Harry’s nerves so much. At least, not as early in the term as they seem to have been doing now.
Harry, ignored by the person he couldn’t stop considering important, decided a conversation was in order.
Apparently, someone else beat him to it.
Ginny sought a third opinion.
- - -
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She received the summons notice for that afternoon to present herself in the headmistress’ office for another official meeting on the status of her schooling. With all the composure she could muster, she marched her way out of the Great Hall in the direction of McGonagall’s office.
Hermione read and reread the note in her hand requesting the meeting and breathed in deeply. It would probably be some academic evaluation McGonagall would subject her to, she supposed. It had been six weeks since the term had begun and a periodic update was in line.
Her footsteps echoed quietly along the hallway and she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that she wasn’t just in for a review.
“Weeping willow,” she said when she reached the door.
The staircase wound itself upwards for her and she walked upward uncertainly. The sight of Fawkes was somewhat reassuring, even if the bird was in bad shape, with grey and black feathers. Harry had explained the bird’s cycle after he’d seen it for the first time. Still, she could almost swear she’d also seen Fawkes the way it had been described to her. She could make out the details of charred feathers and deadly grey. She looked away when an unexpected chill spread over her skin.
Instead of being met with McGonagall’s usual presence, she found office empty.
“Professor McGonagall?”
No response.
She heard what she supposed was her professor’s voice, speaking low, as if in a conference with someone else.
“Professor?” she tried again.
Again, nothing.
She came across the large desk, where she’d stood a few times, often courtesy of her best friends that involved some half baked plan to save the world (it tended to work, much to her frustration in finding logic to how lucky they got). The room was working its magic on her, she noted, without quite understanding why she was practically tiptoeing her way across the floor. Something about being within those walls never failed to inspire her sense of awe and danger.
“Miss Granger.”
Her slow advance to the edge of the desk stopped abruptly.
That voice.
She turned toward the exposed brick wall on her right, finding the latest portrait posted. Her heart inadvertently broke upon seeing kindly blue eyes and those half moon spectacles.
Her arm slowly crossed her waist, and she didn’t react until a rather sharp pinch near her wrist reassured her that no, she wasn’t hallucinating this moment.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
Dumbledore regarded her with a muted smile. It was comforting to know that some things didn’t change. Hermione was the eternal skeptic, even when faced with proof. Truly, this was part of Harry’s influence.
“Albus, I seem to have found them, although they were under quite a bit of paperwork,” McGonagall said.
When Hermione tore her eyes away from Dumbledore’s portrait, she noticed the books her professor held tightly to her chest. She swallowed hard, intending to hear some loop hole that would require her to stay and complete the year.
She was sadly mistaken.
- - -
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Harry walked into the familiar part of Hogwart’s. Although again, it was unusual to be called in so early, as was his previous experience.
“Weeping willow,” he said to an unmoving statue, which then revealed a stone staircase.
A conversation was in order while he ascended the stairs and was now intruding. He looked at his watch to verify his mandatory appointment.
“But not before I consult a few sources, you understand?” McGonagall was ordering.
Silence.
“Right, understood.”
He was right on time, apparently. A scheme was hatching again. It was too early to tell if it would be to his advantage or not. Footsteps approached him, which lightly echoed off the grey walls.
Seeing Fawkes on a bad day didn’t reassure him. He reached out, petting the bird on its head. It cooed softly.
“You’ll be feeling better soon,” he said softly, although he could hardly imagine what it was like to be reborn every so often. The bird experienced youth, pain and eventual decay before starting the cycle once more. Magic at its most incomprehensible, he thought.
The steps stopped abruptly and he looked away from Fawkes.
Brown hair. Dark eyes. Neat uniform.
His heart dropped unexpectedly.
“Hi.”
He stepped closer to her.
“Hey.”
While she was pretending to be repulsed by him like two negative magnetic polarities, she mirrored his step. Bright green eyes always took her by surprise.
Recognition seemed to seep into her as if by a funnel.
“I have to get going,” she said suddenly, moving hastily.
Rather than making a clean break for the door, she was intercepted by his arm, which wound itself around her waist.
His hip bumped against her side. She bit the corner of her bottom lip. Had either one of them turned, their stiff sideways stance would have turned into a ridiculous dance. One of them was bound to make the wrong move and step on the other’s toes.
Her hand bunched up his sleeve, trying in vain to push his elbow. Of course, he had to be strong. The pressure she exerted meant nothing, she was sure.
Her hair was more tame than previous years. No longer was it uncontrollable and wild. The joke that any comb would break if it came into contact with it no longer applied. At least that one thing hadn’t changed over the summer.
Although, instead of onions, she now smelled like sandalwood. He wondered briefly if it was to prevent tears rather than provoke them, as she had been doing before.
“Let go,” she said softly.
A deep breath later, she was able to look him straight in the eye.
“Please.”
Her sharp gaze cut him down and his resolve weakened.
His hand slipped over the curve of her hip and over her stomach as he let go. She was thinner than he remembered. Before he could linger that thought, the sound of fast steps distracted him. Her retreat was more rushed than she anticipated. He sighed softly to himself before pushing the door to see the Headmistress.
McGonagall awaited behind a neater desk.
“Professor,” he said solemnly, nodding toward her.
“Harry,” she said. “You’re on time. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
He shook his head.
“Not a problem,” he answered mechanically.
He looked to his right, where the newest portrait lay empty. Despite having his senses alert, he heard her say some things, although none of it really stuck.
McGonagall, sensing she wasn’t getting anything across after five minutes of her talking, pushed her glasses up her nose. She sat back in the chair. It was comfortable, the mores she got used to it.
“Tell me, Potter,” she said. “Any good dreams lately?”
If experience taught her anything about teenagers, it was to cut to the chase.
Although his interest had been peaked, he did not look amused. She rested her chin on her hands, awaiting a response.
And isn't is ironic? Don't you think?
Draco Malfory woke up under the covers, feeling suffocated under the light cotton sheet. For being something of a popular figure in the blue-blood wizard society, he wasn’t really giving a damn about keeping up appearances like his father had wanted.
Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t stopped her incessant mothering after the Dark Lord’s fall. So much for devotion, he thought.
Pansy Parkinson was doing the same as well in her own way, it seemed, as he pushed her arm off his ribs. She groaned sleepily, shifting slightly as her grip readjusted to dig into the edge of the mattress.
He pushed his hair back which had been tangled by Pansy the night before and felt his skin slick against his palm.
Something about her brand of comfort was both immediately gratifying in its intensity and yet, unfulfilling in the aftermath. It reminded him of his feud with Potter, of which he could not remember how it started, only that the animosity was mutual. While fighting with Potter was somewhat satisfying, he wasn’t sure what to do make of sharing his covers with Parkinson.
He hardly dreamed since arriving at school, something that left him grateful after witnessing the horrors the Death Eaters performed.
Pansy shifted again, facing away from him. He caught the sight of bare shoulders and wondered why the hell she had chosen his bed to hide between the sheets. In his mind, fear was what had driven her. He’d barely understood what made her reach out to him from inside a broom closet and practically attack him. She’d tasted the way he remembered - like whiskey and dark chocolate. It lingered like a memory, although he wasn’t sure why it was him she sought. During the war, he hadn’t heard any news regarding the Parkinsons, even in the hushed rumours that abounded in the classrooms.
She was the first to slide her hands under his clothes, seeking something he couldn’t see. He’d gone along with it, like any hot-blooded male would have done in his situation. Still, the urgency didn’t escape his attention in the darkness of that enclosed space where nothing mattered to her except feeling something other than the constant despair brought on by constant conflict, real or perceived.
When her legs, which wrapped around him tightly, finally let go, he’d been able to breathe. The rush of air that followed hit his lungs and burned, although he found that he had little use for it anyway.
He thought of his mother that night when he laid awake in his bed as he’d often done at night. She had often spoken about loyalty and love-silly things his father had never really bothered to explain, at least not in those words.
Instead, Lucius spoke of image and power as the only two things to live life by. As a child, Draco found his father’s words had a hold on him, despite not being a spell. Perhaps it was his upbringing as a wizard, but the mystique of the old man’s words meant something, especially as they mostly deal with knowing the right (although not necessarily good) people to get ahead. It seemed that growing up had made them lose their magic, as he had little to believe in. The Malfoy name had been disgraced for a number of reasons he could count on one hand.
Voldemort followers.
Dark wizard traitors.
Mudblood defenders.
Those were the whispers he’d heard among the talk about Potter’s heroics, his sacrifices, his loyal friends that resulted in a triumph.
Draco, in typical manner, saw things slightly differently. Never let it be said he would not resort to rationalizing (read: full-blown denial).
Rather than the Malfoys being the reviled family of high wizard society for being indecisive when they changed sides under the threat of death, he thought of opportunism. To get ahead, they had to adapt to the situation. The circumstances called for their sacrifices, things which they were not capable of performing. His thoughts drifted to an old man he could not murder as he’d been expected to.
He shook his head, the image leaving him.
Of all the sins he’d been accomplice to, that last one on the list burned him. The image of big hair and brown eyes came to mind, irritating him instantly. She always knew the answers, understood the questions and calculated favorable odds. Her mind was like clockwork and he hated it. She was the embodiment of loyalty found in all definitions, that Mudblood.
Regret soaked through him like sweat, although he wasn’t sure what he wanted to take back-not going through with killing the old man or having thought himself capable in the first place. The next thing to flash in his mind was of a mentor-one who understood the capricious nature of balance when creating something as lethal as a poison or vital as a potion. The man had been patient enough to understand him and talk him through the vagaries of Death Eaters as he’d experienced them.
That man had been a traitor as well. Just like him. Severus Snape was never truly on his side.
So much for devotion.
He turned sides, just like his mentor. It was just like him to always follow another’s footsteps.
He breathed in, wondering how the hell he’d gotten himself into such messes without a helping hand to lead him into some order and logic which would instill him with the certainty that the world would not suddenly turn around on its axis and crash upside down, killing them as it rewound itself.
As stuffy as he found his room to be, he didn’t move from the bed. It had become habit, this thing between him and Pansy. She often came to him and he didn’t mind the company, especially when the nights were longer than he’d expected with the insomnia he experienced. She gave of herself quite freely, without being the demanding girl who wanted everyone to see her on his arm all the time. She’d become quite the opposite, not caring what he thought of their little arrangement. There were no questions, no pre-set deal of their shared nights, just the instant gratification of their supple bodies seeking each other in the dark.
He thought nothing of it in the mornings. She seemed to do the same, tending not to bother him with aimless chatter in public. She found solace with her classmates, prattling on as usual with familiar classmates and barely looked at him.
The alarm sounded, announcing a new day of class that awaited them both.
He thought nothing of it.
- - -
-
- - -
It was long before the war that Hermione Granger learned that academic work was the best distraction for whatever ailed the soul. Before even setting foot in Hogwarts, School of Magical Arts for Wizards and Witches (she’d memorized the entire formal title once she’d received her admission letter) books had made their way into her heart. She remembered being nine and heartbroken at the announcement of her grandfather dying of a heart attack. He’d only just held her the day before, smiling and giving her all sorts of sweets that her parents would have disapproved from their medical standpoint as practicing dentists.
“It’s rubbish,” the dear old man said as he handed her another plate of Sacher torte, an entire cake barely arrived from Vienna that morning. “What your parents tell you about cavities.”
She stayed quiet as he looked rather distantly out of the window. He was seeing something her young eyes could not comprehend. She wouldn’t forget his next words.
“You’re supposed to enjoy life. Now eat your cake and don’t mention this to your parents,” he said.
Smiling behind her tea cup, she didn’t have to be told twice to dig into the best dessert she’d ever had. What she hadn’t known then was that it would be the last time she’d ever enjoyed pastries with someone she had been fond of. He’d gone in his sleep in a week, she later learned.
Somewhere behind the pages of a Dickens book, she learned all about unrequited love. It seemed fitting at the time, knowing that life could deal her hard blows that she’d somehow learn to stand up against when she was being denied the love of someone who could no longer return it. It also helped that the hard cover shielded her red rimmed eyes from her distraught mother, who could barely comprehend what had just occurred and why. Always why.
It seemed now, more than ever, she took the lesson to heart. Education was not only a means to protect oneself with knowledge, but she felt it provided some distance from the reality outside of four walls, which were both protective and confining.
She found some humor in the overwhelming sense of irony. Paradoxes, she concluded, were stupid. And yet, she had the infuriating needling at her side telling her she was stuck in one.
After rereading an embarrassingly worn copy of Great Expectations, it seemed the story took on a similar meaning from that summer eight years earlier. She doubted she could ever be Estella, who had the ability to make a boy pine after her for the rest of her life as way of justifying his existence and making himself worthy of her. She wasn’t as regal, manipulative or arrogant, for starters. She was simple and unassuming and didn’t think much of her looks. Despite being a fictional character, Estella was an exceptional beauty-haunting, alluring and impossible to ignore-things she would never be. She’d learned as much about herself over the summer, when she’d gone largely ignored by random boys she’d met-all vacant eyes and next to no sense of discovery in conversation.
Instead, their questions were quite simple: What’s your name? Want a drink? Meet me outside? (While she’d lied about the first, she answered yes to the latter two.) It was not just familiar territory, it had become a recurring scene along with recycled pick up lines and disposable moments.
Ron’s prior infatuation with her had not resulted in much except for petty bickering and her patience cut short as a long term after effect of that brief foray into what she supposed was romance. As for their mutual friend, it was yet to be seen, but she held little hope for that. He barely looked at her since the term began and she couldn’t blame him.
There was an air of unresolved issues that hovered around them both, that seemed to her like the lingering taste of doubt in the back of her mouth.
“We’ll figure this out,” she remembered him telling her once in a hushed whisper. She’d been hanging on to him, arms around his neck, wishing it wasn’t a dream or a figment of her imagination playing cruel tricks on her tired mind.
It had been a lifetime ago or so it felt. And in some ways, it was.
She repeated those four words to the empty space in her room.
Out of habit, she reached under the pillow to find that familiar outline of the book. It was the smallest comfort she’d have that day.
- - -
-
- - -
Luna Lovegood had a tendency to look cheerful at the crack of dawn, despite most people’s annoyance. She smiled easily and toyed with her radish earrings unconsciously before Professor Trelawney made her usual flustered, tardy entrance.
The grandfather clock chimed nine a.m., earning a few groans and waking others from a light doze. She watched as Dennis Creevey’s head bobbed forward and then snapped awake in alarm when he laid eyes on Trelawney.
Tarot cards were the lesson of the day, according to the class syllabus, which she reread for the third time again. Of the first things she had been looking forward to, she thought reading cards was a more accurate way to gauge people and their intentions than astrology or tea leaves.
For one thing, astrology required reading stars for people who shared a similar attribute - birthdays or horoscope signs, which made the information flawed and unreliable. Tea leaves also had a similar problem, which required a person to be careful in drinking their tea without swallowing the leaves. The leaves also had a tendency to move around in the cup-all the more to provide a flexible reading, Professor Trelawney said, but she tended to doubt that reason. They tended to slide all over the place and she wasn’t sure if she’d seen a duck or a hammer when reading her classmate’s future.
Even if incorrectly interpreted, the results of the reading would stay with the person, almost like a wrongly diagnosed illness, which would lead the person astray, intentional or not. She remembered an instance like that, when she’d been told to steer clear of strict professors to avoid conflicts. Of course, even when she did, it didn’t stop the conflicts from appearing and wreaking their havoc on Hogwarts entirely.
Luna shuffled her deck, thinking it was a more accurate method to read a person and any relevant signs, as it was strictly for an individual and could not be misinterpreted with another’s reading. She’d been lied to plenty, or so she figured. At least learning the trade from the inside out, she’d be less inclined to follow misguided advice.
“Class,” Trelawney said in her usual false mystical voice that grated everyone’s nerves but Luna. “Today, we begin with advanced fortune telling.”
Trelawney held up a deck of tarot cards.
“Now class, the first thing we will do today is to shuffle the cards,” she said. “You must learn to feel the aura of the cards-that they are calling to you.”
A loud laugh pierced the quiet of the room.
“Now that’s a load of rubbish,” someone said, a bit loudly.
The voice, though familiar, eluded her for a moment. When she turned to look, along with most of the class, she first noticed blond hair and familiar blue eyes that she imagined had never really felt warmth during his 17 years of life.
He wasn’t trying to hide his annoyance so early in the morning.
She wasn’t sure what to feel or think as she saw him, sitting on the low table tucked in the corner. He seemed the perfect image of an ungrateful child only that instead of pouting, he was trying to be as uncooperative as possible. She supposed it was his way of throwing a fit.
Draco sneered as usual, before taking up the first few cards of his deck between thumb and index finger. Despite his nonchalance, she noted the irritation under bored glare.
She shifted slightly in her seat, ignoring him instead as the lesson continued.
Trelawney cleared her throat loudly.
“Before shuffling, the first thing you must do is clear your mind,” she said.
Luna heard the door slam before she let out what was supposed to be a deep, cleansing breath.
Trelawney did not let her usual indignation go ignored by the remaining class in Malfoy’s absence.
- - -
-
- - -
For Harry Potter, who dwelled in low spirits and little hope, the sight of her the first morning of the term came as something of a surprise he continued to linger in. He found her ready to go off to class to absorb information through her pores, likening her ability to learn as soaking up the material through osmosis.
“You’re a sponge,” he told her once.
“Obtaining and disseminating information is important,” she’d replied, glancing up at him from the top of her book before lecturing him on life or death situations that required specialized knowledge.
He wasn’t surprised because of her usual impeccable appearance so early in the morning or that she was exactly as he remembered; he was surprised that his heart was a little too broken and instead of some subtle intimate gesture known only to them both, he barely managed a nod in her direction. He didn’t look directly at her to know what the response would be. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Hermione, book-bag ready and eager as ever to march willingly into the classroom, smiled as best as she could and returned his wave, ignoring the sudden cold in the pit of her stomach. He could sense her dread but didn’t understand what warranted it in the first place.
She was beautiful. Perhaps not in the same way she learned to define it through her beloved books, but there was something in her that warranted his attention. It was the way her hair glowed and the careful way of looking at things with those dark eyes that he found he’d memorized in daydreams. She wasn’t the type to leave one breathless at first sight. If anything, they would have agreed that love at first sight was silly. But on closer inspection, she was everything he admired-intelligent, trusting and loyal.
She was the type that although pleasing to the eyes on first glance had to be admired for her other qualities - courage and tenacity among them - things that had saved him on numerous occasions. But even for him, her virtues did not disguise her from his baser instincts, which attracted him to her. He often found himself thinking of her-honeyed hair, molasses coloured eyes, smooth alabaster skin. (She was made of sugar in his dreams.)
On that first morning, it hurt to look at her and feel the doubt that radiated off her in waves. The second guessing stood by him and he could not shake it off despite being one month into the term.
The morning appetite hadn’t returned, despite missing dinner on a few occasions.
And instead of being at the standard hangout in the Quidditch pitch, he meandered aimlessly through the barren hallways, without any actual direction except to be on time to Charms, where he purposefully sat toward the front, trying to keep her outside his line of vision.
He remembered that much in between the short hours of sleep that an endless bout of insomnia allowed him.
He hadn’t stopped that little morning ritual, choosing instead to stay in bed for another ten minutes or so longer instead of eating. He still lurked in the empty classroom before anyone else arrived.
Inwardly, he wondered if a version of her-the one he knew before uncovering his past, war, bloodshed and mourning-was proud of their accomplishments. They’d taken down the most bloodthirsty being in recent history with little more than her book smarts and his foolish courage.
That, he thought, was probably the most miraculous part of this story.
“I’m waiting to see what will happen,” she told him once, gripping his left hand and feeling their entwined fingers get coated with something warm. She was bleeding from a wound somewhere along her arm, which she said looked worse than it felt. He hadn’t been faring any better, walking with a limp leg and barely holding himself up.
He remembered kissing her then, but didn’t know how it had been-if he had barely touched her lips or hungrily pressed himself against her, only that he tasted salt and sweat and copper. It was a moment in which he got lost in, forgetting about the instances in which he was nearly hit with curses flying from all different directions because she was alive and breathing and the most beautiful thing he’d ever set eyes on, despite the fear and danger.
He whispered something in her ear which he hoped was comforting because with that brief kiss, she’d given him something he carried off in the final battle.
He wondered if she carried it too.
Perhaps she still did.
He could be optimistic when the mood hit him, after all.
And yet at times, he caught glimpses of memories he was sure he’d never lived personally and woke up to the taste of chocolate in his mouth, even when he hadn’t dared reached for dessert at dinnertime. He felt warm embraces, soft smiles and a comfort he’d never received behind closed eyes. He also experienced discomfort on his toes, as if he’d walked in bad shoes the day before and once woke up with swollen eyes, despite them being dry and his not crying in the middle of the night.
He half expected someone to provide him with a reasonable explanation. As if that would happen.
- - -
-
- - -
The Lovegoods prided themselves on being somewhat experts of the lesser known aspects of the wizarding world. Despite being called eccentrics, it seemed their extensive knowledge tended to help in vanquishing evil during its eternal struggle with good.
At least, in her father’s words, it was how the Lovegoods helped win the Goblin Rebellion two centuries earlier. According to the story Luna’s father recited again and again, Luna’s great-great-great-great-great aunt Nebula Lovegood had helped the wizards crush the rebellion by learning the goblins’ weaknesses.
Cornelius Lovegood had always said the wizards had experienced trouble with the in crushing the learned the name of the goblin rebellion’s leader. According to the story, the goblin leader who had instigated the uprising had kept his identity a secret so that wizard intelligence wouldn’t find know the family blacksmithing tradition, which dated back millennia.
Nebula, more astute witch than her name suggested, had wandered near the camp (although if she realized it or not, Luna never knew) within earshot of the day’s festivities for having won a fight earlier that day. The rumors of those days circulated of the goblin leader negotiating a potential alliance with either giants or elves.
None of the intelligence gathered had known any of the movements by either goblins or giants. Being the sort of enterprising witch, Nebula, who had partly tracked the goblins’ movements during the day, had forgotten which way to exit the forest without being caught.
During the loud festivities, however, she was not being watched and listened to the rhyme the goblin leader sang.
The leader’s claim to fame had been refining alchemy, or so he had said in his song that boasted of his ability to make even straw into gold.
The moral of the story, as she had understood it, was the Lovegood’s ability to listen and listen well. It was what ultimately crushed the rebellion, after all.
- - -
-
- - -
Minerva McGonagall stared out the window of the office that bore the name Headmaster, wondering where she’d gone wrong in her lessons. While she’d no doubt spent time behind those walls, that space did not belong to her. She was the latest occupant in a line of wizards and witches whose power surpassed hers easily.
And yet, none were there but her.
Their memories lingered, not only in portraits on the wall, but in the very room she stood. Albus had not even had a chance to clear out
The desks in the seventh year classes were not as full as she’d remembered from previous years. The absences tugged at her heart in ways she’d never wanted to feel. Failure loomed over her conscience like a dark and persistent cloud over her long and illustrious career. But it wasn’t a reputation she was concerned about. The young lives, all full of possibility, were no longer there. Instead of knowing how those pupils would grow and create all sorts of changes in the world, she was left to ponder their absences in the classrooms.
She turned toward the wall of former headmaster photographs and stared at the empty frame in the far right. He was gone again, just like in her dreams.
When life gives you lemons…
She found that tidying up small areas, like her office or bedroom tended to improve her mood. It was more manageable, she supposed, to organize those areas that made up most of her world. It made a little less chaos in her world to know exactly where her belongings lay. It made her less prone to being surprised.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
- - -
-
- - -
Horace Slughorn made a mistake.
He wasn’t remotely thinking about Tom Riddle.
Instead, he mourned over the fact that in attempting to teach his students the finer points of potions and exhibit the delicate balance that could mean life or death, he’d made them interested in two things. One was the Felix Felicis, which most boys wanted desperately to learn. The other was the Amorentia potion, which conversely, was what every girl wanted.
He reminded himself that every student in his class was a teenager.
It didn’t assuage him.
- - -
-
- - -
It started rather innocently, with a little dusting and filing in that old, cluttered office she dwelled. In between the dusty clouds she that arose in the wake of her order, a scrap of paper slipped out from under a pile of papers.
McGonagall recognized the neat scrawl, the signature beneath a request to leave and not return for further instruction.
Even the most intelligent and talented of students tended to confuse a teacher as experienced as her. The war was intending to claim one more from those protective charms and knowledge.
Still, for one as aggressively competitive student, Granger was the most puzzling case of dropping out that she’d encountered. The girl was neither stupid, nor failing any of the classes. In fact, she was the top student, making even the Ravenclaw house look underprepared in exams.
“Where did I go wrong?” she muttered to herself as she sank into the oversized chair.
Nothing quite fit her in that room, as she’d expected. Despite making it somewhat neater (although not as close to her liking), she had not managed to make it her own. Not that she had realistically sought to do so in the first place.
“Where?” she wondered aloud, and fixed her stare upward, toward the immovable and unknowable ceiling.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” came a reply.
She smiled bitterly, quietly, all to herself. It figured he would reappear in a moment of vulnerability. But that was the way she remembered him anyway. Anything less and she’d be suspicious.
“You finally appear,” she said.
If he smiled or made any other expression, she didn’t catch it and wasn’t quite ready to turn around and face it.
“You must excuse my absence,” he said, a little sheepish in tone.
She supposed that even the semi-recently deceased had busy schedules to attend to, including former headmasters.
“Been busy much?” she replied, finally looking at him.
That familiar mystifying smile spread on his face and she found herself trying to decipher what might be going through his head. It was the same as always, she thought.
“The demand for public appearances has decreased somewhat,” he said ruefully. “But that’s to be expected.”
She didn’t return the smile. Of all the faculty at Hogwart’s, he’d been the one she could never figure out, although she’d always had the most respect for him.
“You mustn’t joke about death, Albus,” she admonished. “We’ve been fighting to keep everyone safe.”
He smiled nonetheless, looking at her with same good humor as ever. Even in the afterlife, the man never lost his vitality. He would always be perpetually young, stuck in an older man’s body. It made her feel old than she was, as if she’d lived a thousand years while he kept the same lightness in spirit.
“Don’t take life too seriously,” he said. “You’ve only got the one.”
She sat in the much too large chair, unsure of what to say, but pointing a disapproving look at him.
“And besides, we’re not here to talk about me,” he added. “You’re worried about those two.”
She exhaled quietly, her fingers dancing lightly along the armrest signaling her unrest.
“Hermione Granger wants to leave,” she said simply. “And she’s half way through the period of time she’s agreed to stay for her studies.”
Dumbledore’s smile faded somewhat, replaced by a confused look. It was somewhat bewildering to see the expression on his face, she thought, at least for someone who always seemed to know the answers and was ten steps ahead of everyone else.
“Perhaps it’s time for a little chat with our students,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow alarmingly.
“Who else did you have in mind?” she asked.
- - -
-
- - -
Hands in his hair, he pulled slightly, wondering why the taste of chocolate and Earl Grey lingered in his mouth. He couldn’t rub the image of a dream featuring someone else’s childhood from his eyes.
And after weeks of deliberate and barely veiled indifference from Hermione, he snapped. It was beginning to show in his sometimes easily irritated manner, as when Ginny tended to ask him questions about the assignments McGonagall handed out for homework. He seemed not to see the beseeching looks she gave him while asking, batting her eyelids slowly.
“I seem to have forgotten,” he would tell her instead.
Inevitably, Ginny would seek out her brother for questioning, but he had mysteriously developed amnesia as well. She could not fathom why homework assignments grated on Harry’s nerves so much. At least, not as early in the term as they seem to have been doing now.
Harry, ignored by the person he couldn’t stop considering important, decided a conversation was in order.
Apparently, someone else beat him to it.
Ginny sought a third opinion.
- - -
-
- - -
She received the summons notice for that afternoon to present herself in the headmistress’ office for another official meeting on the status of her schooling. With all the composure she could muster, she marched her way out of the Great Hall in the direction of McGonagall’s office.
Hermione read and reread the note in her hand requesting the meeting and breathed in deeply. It would probably be some academic evaluation McGonagall would subject her to, she supposed. It had been six weeks since the term had begun and a periodic update was in line.
Her footsteps echoed quietly along the hallway and she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that she wasn’t just in for a review.
“Weeping willow,” she said when she reached the door.
The staircase wound itself upwards for her and she walked upward uncertainly. The sight of Fawkes was somewhat reassuring, even if the bird was in bad shape, with grey and black feathers. Harry had explained the bird’s cycle after he’d seen it for the first time. Still, she could almost swear she’d also seen Fawkes the way it had been described to her. She could make out the details of charred feathers and deadly grey. She looked away when an unexpected chill spread over her skin.
Instead of being met with McGonagall’s usual presence, she found office empty.
“Professor McGonagall?”
No response.
She heard what she supposed was her professor’s voice, speaking low, as if in a conference with someone else.
“Professor?” she tried again.
Again, nothing.
She came across the large desk, where she’d stood a few times, often courtesy of her best friends that involved some half baked plan to save the world (it tended to work, much to her frustration in finding logic to how lucky they got). The room was working its magic on her, she noted, without quite understanding why she was practically tiptoeing her way across the floor. Something about being within those walls never failed to inspire her sense of awe and danger.
“Miss Granger.”
Her slow advance to the edge of the desk stopped abruptly.
That voice.
She turned toward the exposed brick wall on her right, finding the latest portrait posted. Her heart inadvertently broke upon seeing kindly blue eyes and those half moon spectacles.
Her arm slowly crossed her waist, and she didn’t react until a rather sharp pinch near her wrist reassured her that no, she wasn’t hallucinating this moment.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
Dumbledore regarded her with a muted smile. It was comforting to know that some things didn’t change. Hermione was the eternal skeptic, even when faced with proof. Truly, this was part of Harry’s influence.
“Albus, I seem to have found them, although they were under quite a bit of paperwork,” McGonagall said.
When Hermione tore her eyes away from Dumbledore’s portrait, she noticed the books her professor held tightly to her chest. She swallowed hard, intending to hear some loop hole that would require her to stay and complete the year.
She was sadly mistaken.
- - -
-
- - -
Harry walked into the familiar part of Hogwart’s. Although again, it was unusual to be called in so early, as was his previous experience.
“Weeping willow,” he said to an unmoving statue, which then revealed a stone staircase.
A conversation was in order while he ascended the stairs and was now intruding. He looked at his watch to verify his mandatory appointment.
“But not before I consult a few sources, you understand?” McGonagall was ordering.
Silence.
“Right, understood.”
He was right on time, apparently. A scheme was hatching again. It was too early to tell if it would be to his advantage or not. Footsteps approached him, which lightly echoed off the grey walls.
Seeing Fawkes on a bad day didn’t reassure him. He reached out, petting the bird on its head. It cooed softly.
“You’ll be feeling better soon,” he said softly, although he could hardly imagine what it was like to be reborn every so often. The bird experienced youth, pain and eventual decay before starting the cycle once more. Magic at its most incomprehensible, he thought.
The steps stopped abruptly and he looked away from Fawkes.
Brown hair. Dark eyes. Neat uniform.
His heart dropped unexpectedly.
“Hi.”
He stepped closer to her.
“Hey.”
While she was pretending to be repulsed by him like two negative magnetic polarities, she mirrored his step. Bright green eyes always took her by surprise.
Recognition seemed to seep into her as if by a funnel.
“I have to get going,” she said suddenly, moving hastily.
Rather than making a clean break for the door, she was intercepted by his arm, which wound itself around her waist.
His hip bumped against her side. She bit the corner of her bottom lip. Had either one of them turned, their stiff sideways stance would have turned into a ridiculous dance. One of them was bound to make the wrong move and step on the other’s toes.
Her hand bunched up his sleeve, trying in vain to push his elbow. Of course, he had to be strong. The pressure she exerted meant nothing, she was sure.
Her hair was more tame than previous years. No longer was it uncontrollable and wild. The joke that any comb would break if it came into contact with it no longer applied. At least that one thing hadn’t changed over the summer.
Although, instead of onions, she now smelled like sandalwood. He wondered briefly if it was to prevent tears rather than provoke them, as she had been doing before.
“Let go,” she said softly.
A deep breath later, she was able to look him straight in the eye.
“Please.”
Her sharp gaze cut him down and his resolve weakened.
His hand slipped over the curve of her hip and over her stomach as he let go. She was thinner than he remembered. Before he could linger that thought, the sound of fast steps distracted him. Her retreat was more rushed than she anticipated. He sighed softly to himself before pushing the door to see the Headmistress.
McGonagall awaited behind a neater desk.
“Professor,” he said solemnly, nodding toward her.
“Harry,” she said. “You’re on time. I apologize for keeping you waiting.”
He shook his head.
“Not a problem,” he answered mechanically.
He looked to his right, where the newest portrait lay empty. Despite having his senses alert, he heard her say some things, although none of it really stuck.
McGonagall, sensing she wasn’t getting anything across after five minutes of her talking, pushed her glasses up her nose. She sat back in the chair. It was comfortable, the mores she got used to it.
“Tell me, Potter,” she said. “Any good dreams lately?”
If experience taught her anything about teenagers, it was to cut to the chase.
Although his interest had been peaked, he did not look amused. She rested her chin on her hands, awaiting a response.
And isn't is ironic? Don't you think?