Roseate Lies ~ Two
Author's Note: The "smut" I had in this section is what was holding up the show. Something was wrong with it, and eventually I made the authorial decision that it was too jarring to go from 1940s sodomy to 1990s staff meeting. So. We'll see if I can't find a better place for it. This chapter is already so disjointed, I can't see wasting the good stuff on it.
Also, I hope you one reader out there have your thinking cap on! I don't name names this section. . . :) Hee. I'm punny.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and certain characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and also Heyday Films, Moving Picture Company (MPC), Warner Bros. Pictures, et al.
Dorian Gray and certain characters belong to Oscar Wilde, and also Ealing Studios, Alliance Films, Fragile Films, et al.
No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
He had not opened any copy of the book for some time, and yet it continued calling to him, although not nearly in the same manner or to the same degree as the portrait. No, this beckoning was more akin to a heavy chant, a siren's song, lulling him into false feelings of righteousness and contentment. Sleep was thus understandably elusive, and neither food nor drink in truth tempted him in the slightest. The finest alcohols and opiates only succeeded in dulling his senses, leaving him both restless and stupid, and so he gave them up as hopeless. He would find no peace in drugged oblivion; that much was clear.
Pleasures of the flesh still held some fascination for him, but the more he indulged, the closer he came to desperation. He was running out of time. What waited for him at the end, he did not know but felt deep in his bones he would soon discover.
And it would not be pleasant.
***
The day came when he was the only one who remained, and what once was common knowledge commonly discussed seemed to be no longer of any interest. He attended the funeral and was all but ignored, given not a second glance if even a first. The experience was both liberating and terrifying.
He was at that moment simultaneously free and yet bound more tightly than ever before. There was no escape and no one to notice. He was alone, utterly and irreversibly alone.
And when it rained it did pour.
***
Acts of kindness effected no change. Abstinence from all manner of vices proved much the same. Miserable he was if he did everything and just as miserable if he refrained. His person did not molder in that veritable mausoleum of marble and wood-only his soul, such as it was.
Light could not touch him even as he bathed in it, naked as a babe and infinitely more corrupt. Music was nowhere to be found, his fingers on the keys producing only a tremendous racket time after time. Conversation and companionship were inconceivable for such as he. Life itself was ghastly.
And then it was he appeared.
***
He came on the last day of autumn, when already everything was winter. The wind was high and powerful that morning and the sky grey. No snow hid the dirt and grime of the streets, but the large clouds slowly rolling in promised to change that by sundown. It was bitterly and remorselessly cold, and there came a knocking at the front door.
Had it not been a Sunday, he would not have stopped playing to answer. Had it been any other day of the week, the caller on the wide stone stoop would have been politely but firmly turned away, and all would have been different. But, it was Sunday; the year was 1947.
And naught would ever be the same.
***
"I apologize for bothering you on a- "
"No need," he stated, keeping most of himself hidden behind the closed right door and holding the left open a mere crack. "Whatever your business, it will wait until the morrow. Good day." And with that, he promptly pushed the door shut in the young man's face.
Immediately, the knocking resumed, this time accompanied by a somewhat put-out voice saying, "Please! I only wish to briefly speak with the Lord! I'm more than willing to wait! It will take but a minute! Please, sir!"
Already retreating from the drafty foyer, he was nearly to the right staircase when the caller's voice shouted, "It's about the family painting! I- I am writing a dissertation on the famous lost Hallward canvas, and- and it is essential that I speak with Lord Kelso! Please, sir," the voice called out, and he heard the words even as he struggled to breathe, "please hear me out!"
That damn cursed painting, would he never be rid of it? Now his hands were tied. He couldn't very well let the boy stand out there, shouting to the world about the supposed legacy of the Hallward painting, believed missing these many years.
Trudging back to the doors, he opened the left and once more considered the young man on his doorstep-early twenties, dark hair, decent height and breadth of shoulder, handsome face. The boy actually looked to be older than he himself had been when-
"The portrait, do you mean?" he finally asked after several seconds.
The young man nodded quickly, obviously eager and hopeful now that his pleas had not gone unanswered. "Indeed," the boy said, adding after a moment, "sir," in an obsequious attempt at respect and deference. It must have struck him as funny as well, perhaps given the apparent similarity in their ages, as he briefly grinned and his eyes flashed in a show of good humor.
***
His quondam lives, that of poor relation, privileged son, and moneyed recluse, were becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain. As time progressed, government grew more organized and invasive. Numerous documents were required now for nearly every conceivable situation and interaction. Identification meant something different from what it had before. There were cards, squares of paper that were properly stamped with official signatures and all of it done in multiple instances. The act was extremely complicated to keep up, and he found he had a new respect for that type of person-actors, stage people, politicians even, anyone who put on a show and hid oneself away behind a mask.
He found himself remembering all too often poor, dear Sybil, and would oft times pull out Basil's sketches of her-a dead man's drawings of a dead woman for a man who would not die. It seemed fitting.
And now he knew beauty's price.
***
Staff meetings were a new experience, one from which he intended to extract every last drop of pleasure possible. Camaraderie, after a fashion, still held some allure. These professors and custodians and school personnel were even more of a novelty to him, considering their world and all its peculiarity remained a somewhat dangerous yet propitious place for him personally. As an outsider, their various relationships amused and intrigued him no end. There seemed to be layers upon layers of meaning imbued in even the briefest and most reserved of interactions.
He felt it was a case of the more elevated a status in the school hierarchy, the more mysterious and secretive the nature of the person. Appearances were also most certainly misleading, as he had most fortuitously discovered prior to committing some terrible gaffe upon his very arrival within the castle walls. Neither incredible shortness of stature nor a decidedly pitiable lack of personal hygiene prevented someone in this world from attaining a position of respect. Even from the relatively limited scope of his dealings here, he found the people's collective ability to look beneath the surface of matters for quality of character both incredibly admirable and utterly terrifying-the latter due primarily to the extraordinary nature of his own condition and nothing more.
The person third most powerful but fourth most deserving of close scrutiny was in fact only part human, standing roughly waist high for most, and perhaps to the knees of another such hybrid, this second who quite literally seemed a giant. Both of these men were polite towards him, though the former did study him quite intensely for a moment, and the latter joked about his apparent age or seeming lack of it. He was not certain if either man knew the truth of his situation, but found to his surprise their company, either together or separate, the most pleasant and calming of anyone's in the castle. Perhaps it was because of his own isolation and uniqueness in this new world, among these strangers all unbelievably younger and yet also wiser than he, that Dorian found himself gravitating towards the most noticeably different people in the castle and its environs.
It certainly wasn't for the quality of the conversation. That was for certain.
If he'd wanted stimulating dialogue, he needed look no further than his self-styled mentor in this place, one Severus Snape. Efficient, experienced, and possessed of a stunningly sharp wit, Snape was in fact too similar to Dorian for comfort. It was a state of affairs not unlike his imagined interactions with a younger sibling. They were of a like mind on most matters, finding even the most trivial of concerns often worthy of scorn and ridicule. Severus Snape was a lonely man consumed with guilt, who derived little pleasure from anything in life apart from his brewing and perhaps the odd mocking of a student here and there.
He reminded Dorian of himself. He reminded him of Henry. Thus, he was to be avoided if at all possible.
Dorian was here for a very specific purpose, and it wouldn't do to fall back into old habits.
In contrast to the rate at which he gained knowledge of the place was the speed at which progress seemed to be made concerning his-condition. He had personally spoken with the head wizard of the castle on only two occasions. Otherwise, all developments or requests for information were relayed to him through other members of the faculty, usually either Snape or Minerva McGonagall, the latter whom apparently considered him and his situation both burdensome and deplorable. The woman always conducted herself with the strictest of decorum around him but also made it quite clear that were it up to her, he would not be permitted anywhere near the castle or its grounds. Even the caretaker, a nasty man who from all appearances hated everyone and everything in existence save his unsightly feline companion, would likely prove more hospitable than Minerva McGonagall. Dorian found himself hoping she was not a key part in undoing his curse, for he could not fathom her motivations or loyalties. Was she in line with the old wizard, or an independent force? Who in the castle followed her or shared her opinion that Dorian Gray, Damian Gris, was a man to be shunned and avoided at all costs?
He did not know, and uncovering the truths of this castle and its inhabitants was a pursuit that, while he deemed it interesting in theory, would likely remain unsolvable for an outsider. And Dorian was most assuredly an outsider.
He had been allotted several rooms for his own use, including a lavish bedroom with en suite bath, a sitting room tastefully appointed and stocked with fine spirits and wines, and a study complete with a sizeable desk and sundry writing implements. In every room, there was a hearth with a neat pile of kindling, and yet in none were any of the modern conveniences he'd been training himself to use and keep abreast of throughout the years. In a drawer of the desk, he found several impressive hawk feathers, pots of ink, along with a blotter and parchment, and no sign at all of fountain or ball-point pens, and no non-traditional paper. Books upon books lined the study walls as well, all neatly arranged and alphabetized according to author, but there was no television-only a gramophone with a selection of records nearby and a strange contraption reminiscent of a radio's design but with different knobs.
Indeed, intrigued by the lack of technology and curious as to whether or not that was a stylistic choice or a necessary one, he had unpacked his camera and, upon attempting to fire it up, found to his dismay that it was for all intents and purposes dead. After worrying for a brief moment, he had repacked the camera and resolved himself to questioning someone on the matter soon. He needn't have fretted though. Soon after his discovery, a knock sounded on the door to the rooms, and when he answered he found himself, for the first time to his knowledge, face-to-face with nothing other than a magical creature.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is requesting Master Gris in his office. Warbly be showing Master Gris the way now." Then the short, wrinkly creature turned and set off down the corridor, presumably towards said office, and Dorian again did something then he hadn't done in nearly a century.
At that moment, he resolved to follow the directions of another and prayed this time he would not be led once more down the path of damnation.
***
Whilst he found both the world in general and the faculty in particular fascinating, the students themselves left something to be desired. His second lecture of the term ended much like the first, with his steadfast refusal to discuss personal matters. The difference was, instead of respecting him and dropping the subject, a few presumptuous students had begun mouthing off and demanding answers. There were also several words let loose that he was positively certain were insults of one form or another and without question inappropriate. At one point, Dorian had to struggle to even be heard over the din of shouts and name-calling, and his hasty solution had been to send out his silencing trick again and order the students to immediately exit the lecture hall.
He'd been so flustered he hadn't even lifted the silence as they all stomped out, just remained standing stock-still on the stage and gripping his hands tightly behind his back so as not to show any sign of panic.
The topic that night was meant to tie-in with the question posed to the students the previous lecture-that of knowledge, both physical and existential, in addition to belief and class systems, indoctrination, and all of it as defined and influenced by the broad concept of cultural hegemony. His goal was to have the students in a questioning and logic-driven state of mind from the start of the lecture series, as he expected such an attitude would only help facilitate discussion further down the line when he would open the floor in the hopes of creating a dialogue between him and the students, and perhaps later the faculty as well.
It was a good plan, a good idea, and it would have been something to behold if he'd managed to pull it off-a way to teach without telling, encourage without impeding. Sadly, the students had been of another mind on the matter. Or, rather, their minds themselves had been focused on another matter, primarily getting him off-topic seemingly in an effort at tearing down his credibility.
He hoped it hadn't worked, but he truly could not definitively say one way or the other. Some of the students seemed to rally to his defense, but they were few and largely ignored or talked over. Dorian had half a mind to try and track down his defenders out of some disgustingly misplaced sense of gratitude. It would no doubt be impossible, however, for even for as long a time as it had been, he still remembered well the law of the schoolyard. No, it was best to just push it to the back of his mind and keep a look out in the future for do-gooder types who viewed coming to another's defense as a basic part of existence.
What took up most of his thoughts was figuring out the best course of action from here on out. Should he ignore the last session, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred? Or would it be more advisable for him to immediately address the issue-admit the lecture had not gone as planned, and then perhaps open the floor to comments ahead of schedule? No, upon second thought that last did not seem a viable option. The likelihood was too great for a repeat performance from last night's troublemakers. What then should he do? He was at a loss, even idly entertaining the notion of simply begging off the commitment entirely.
Finally, but as he would have been better off doing from the first, Dorian took it upon himself to ask for advice.
He attended the staff meeting the morning following his disastrous lecture with his head held defiantly high, and though everyone was kind enough not to say anything, he detected quite a bit of amusement in the faces around him, particularly McGonagall's.
But, Dorian held both his pride and temper in check, and did his best not to appear unduly flummoxed by the whole ordeal. Nothing but a polite mention was made of his lecture series, and as the staff meetings were conducted by the Headmaster of the school himself, Dorian took that as a sign of understanding or at least awareness of the situation. He wasn't called to the carpet, anyway.
Afterward, however, as the majority of the staff withdrew, Dorian rose from his chair and made his way over to the corner of the room where the Headmaster and Heads of House stood in conversation. He waited back a polite distance, not wishing to interrupt, but it seemed the nature of the topic being discussed was such that eavesdroppers were to be avoided, as no sooner did Dorian come near than Snape whirled around and fixed him with an impressive glower.
Suddenly, the other four broke off their talk in favor of studying him as well, and he was on the receiving end of at least another two suspicious stares.
"Yes, Mister Gris?" the Headmaster then asked quietly. "Was there a matter you wished to discuss?"
Dorian resisted the urge to either swallow or breathe deep as he promptly answered, "Yes, indeed there is, Headmaster. It pertains to my lecture last night." He glanced quickly around the small circle, and hurriedly added, "I wished only to perhaps ask some advice of you, any or all of you, as I admit I'm rather at a loss as to how to continue." As he finished, he noticed the expressions of Professors Flitwick and Sprout smooth into something more sympathetic, while McGonagall's remained impassive. Snape, to his knowledge, was always either scowling or smirking, and in this instance it was the latter expression affixed to the man's sharp edged mouth, which Dorian decided to consider better than the former for the sake of his nerve.
It was the Headmaster who spoke next though, and if he weren't mistaken, Dorian thought that was relief on the man's lined face. "We did indeed hear of your misfortune last night, Damian," he said, which answered at least in part Dorian's long held questions as to whether or not his real identity was known amongst all the staff and if it were "safe" to speak of such matters within the castle. Evidently, the answer to at least one was decidedly "No."
"The students were all abuzz with it last night when they returned," Professor Sprout offered up in agreement, "and it seems likely they'll be gossiping about it this morning too."
Flitwick nodded his head at that, and Snape, the smug bastard, actually snorted, oddly causing McGonagall to smile.
"Well," the Headmaster said, "I see no reason why we can't all lend Damian a metaphorical hand. I'm rather attached to my physical ones," he said jokingly, but which curiously resulted in all the good humor vanishing from Snape's face, "but my teaching hands are open and extended to you. To be sure, you need only ask as you have done here now, and I shall happily prattle on until we are all ghosts and you are covered in dust and cobwebs." He finished by smiling cheerfully, but Dorian was finding it hard to breathe for all the tension just that one casual remark had stirred up in him.
What was the wizard playing at? Had he truly meant that as a barb, or was he trying to tease him?
"Yes, well," Dorian composed himself enough to say, "I certainly appreciate the offer. My lack of experience in this area is definitely showing now. I completely lost control of the situation last night, and it escalated quite alarmingly. One moment I'm attempting to briefly outline existential thought, and the next I'm all but being interrogated on my- my own beliefs." He met Flitwick's eyes for a moment then, and detected what he thought was sympathy as well as something else-something friendlier than suspicion but more insistent than mere curiosity.
From that, he came to the logical conclusion that odds were Flitwick knew, and once he acknowledged that, he began making a quick, rough guess as to the others. The Headmaster of course knew all that Dorian had told him and surely more besides. Snape wasn't clear either way, but for some reason Dorian felt sure Severus had been briefed on at least some of the details. Sprout, on the other hand, Dorian was almost certain remained unaware. She was much too nice and politely distant in her manner for the case to be otherwise. That of course brought him to McGonagall, who treated him the exact opposite as Professor Sprout. If that woman didn't know, then Dorian was a parrot. There seemed no other explanation for her cold yet knowing behavior towards him.
"Classroom management," Flitwick said then, and Dorian respectfully met the man's eyes in response, "is always a gamble. No one method works consistently, and each group of students reacts differently, let alone the student body as a whole."
"Oh, I don't know," came what Dorian recognized as Snape's droll tone of voice, "I find they all respond uniformly to certain-stimuli."
This time it was McGonagall who snorted, her rejoinder a snappy, "Yes, but I doubt Mr. Gris plans on descending from the podium and scowling fiercely down his nose at the troublemakers, Severus."
"Of course not," Snape replied easily, "that would be too simple and direct an approach." This caused everyone but Dorian to smile, and elicited a chuckle and roll of the eyes from McGonagall, which led Dorian to the conclusion that, against all logic, Snape and McGonagall were actually on quite friendly terms, at least insofar as teasing, bantering, and mock-bickering with each other was concerned. It was strange, but it added more evidence to his theory that they both knew of his situation, as well engendering in him some scant amount of hope that eventually McGonagall might come around. She and Snape were opposites in many things, and the two of them still acted cordially.
There was a chance.
There was a chance.
Dorian then looked up as the Headmaster said, "A matter of consid- " only to twitch in surprise when the wizard was interrupted.
"Pardon me, Albus," McGonagall said, which the Headmaster waved dismissively away and gestured for her to continue, "but personally-and while I am sure there is a reason behind this I'm not seeing, it escapes me at the moment-I believe a great deal of the problem lies in the fact that rarely, if ever, are all of the students taught together. Seems to me, there's a reason why we separate them according to Year and then additionally into two groups within that Year, and that is exactly to avoid incidents such as the one last night." She was quite clearly criticizing what Dorian expected had been the Headmaster's decision, and yet nothing in the tone of the room indicated that this was anything too terribly out of the ordinary.
It was fascinating and enlightening. Even better was the fact that while she spoke, McGonagall met Dorian's eyes several times, even seemed to be speaking to him as she continued, and not once did she scowl or narrow her eyes in contempt.
"This year, there are two students in particular capable of starting riots whenever they open their mouths," McGonagall stated, glancing at the other professors' faces before turning her eyes on the Headmaster, "but particularly when they're put together, and you place them not only in the same room, but also with the rest of the student body, and you think nothing will go amiss?"
In response, the Headmaster breathed out deeply, pursed his lips, and then grudgingly nodded that McGonagall had a point.
"I confess," Dumbledore said tiredly, "I had a most optimistic outlook when I arranged these lectures. I have hoped to bridge that particular chasm of ill-will many a time over the years, but often my actions have the reverse effect. I fear I have pushed them further away from each other, to the point where-any reconciliation now is preposterous."
Dorian had no clue who the students in question were, but everyone else in the room seemed to. McGonagall winced in sympathy, and Dorian caught it as she quickly shot a look across to Snape-Snape, who stared blankly at the floor.
"Well," the Headmaster suddenly said into the silence that had followed his admission, "I think, Damian," and Dorian quickly met the wizard's eyes in response, "that in light of Minerva's scolding I shall take another look at the organization of these lectures of yours and see if we can't arrive at a better format, one fostering learning and discussion rather than misunderstanding and quarreling. Why don't you come to my office tomorrow around 4:30 and we'll talk about it." He then nodded at Dorian and raised his hand to gesture at the door behind him. "If that is all then, I'm afraid the Heads of House and I must return to such scintillating matters as assigned corridor supervision and meal schedules."
Dorian politely smiled and then exited the staff room, finding out too late that his timing was particularly awful that morning. As he walked towards his rooms, he encountered several groups of students no doubt wending their way down to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast with a side of gossip. He received those specific knowing looks from nearly all of them, ranging from mild amusement all the way to sneers of ridicule. One group in particular, though, stood out. A handful of them, they actually smiled at him, and it was kind and sympathetic, much like Flitwick's smile to him earlier, or McGonagall's commiserating grimace to the Headmaster.
So Dorian briefly smiled back, and wondered if perhaps he hadn't just stumbled upon his do-gooder types.
Also, I hope you one reader out there have your thinking cap on! I don't name names this section. . . :) Hee. I'm punny.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and certain characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and also Heyday Films, Moving Picture Company (MPC), Warner Bros. Pictures, et al.
Dorian Gray and certain characters belong to Oscar Wilde, and also Ealing Studios, Alliance Films, Fragile Films, et al.
No profit is gained from this writing-only, hopefully, enjoyment.
He had not opened any copy of the book for some time, and yet it continued calling to him, although not nearly in the same manner or to the same degree as the portrait. No, this beckoning was more akin to a heavy chant, a siren's song, lulling him into false feelings of righteousness and contentment. Sleep was thus understandably elusive, and neither food nor drink in truth tempted him in the slightest. The finest alcohols and opiates only succeeded in dulling his senses, leaving him both restless and stupid, and so he gave them up as hopeless. He would find no peace in drugged oblivion; that much was clear.
Pleasures of the flesh still held some fascination for him, but the more he indulged, the closer he came to desperation. He was running out of time. What waited for him at the end, he did not know but felt deep in his bones he would soon discover.
And it would not be pleasant.
***
The day came when he was the only one who remained, and what once was common knowledge commonly discussed seemed to be no longer of any interest. He attended the funeral and was all but ignored, given not a second glance if even a first. The experience was both liberating and terrifying.
He was at that moment simultaneously free and yet bound more tightly than ever before. There was no escape and no one to notice. He was alone, utterly and irreversibly alone.
And when it rained it did pour.
***
Acts of kindness effected no change. Abstinence from all manner of vices proved much the same. Miserable he was if he did everything and just as miserable if he refrained. His person did not molder in that veritable mausoleum of marble and wood-only his soul, such as it was.
Light could not touch him even as he bathed in it, naked as a babe and infinitely more corrupt. Music was nowhere to be found, his fingers on the keys producing only a tremendous racket time after time. Conversation and companionship were inconceivable for such as he. Life itself was ghastly.
And then it was he appeared.
***
He came on the last day of autumn, when already everything was winter. The wind was high and powerful that morning and the sky grey. No snow hid the dirt and grime of the streets, but the large clouds slowly rolling in promised to change that by sundown. It was bitterly and remorselessly cold, and there came a knocking at the front door.
Had it not been a Sunday, he would not have stopped playing to answer. Had it been any other day of the week, the caller on the wide stone stoop would have been politely but firmly turned away, and all would have been different. But, it was Sunday; the year was 1947.
And naught would ever be the same.
***
"I apologize for bothering you on a- "
"No need," he stated, keeping most of himself hidden behind the closed right door and holding the left open a mere crack. "Whatever your business, it will wait until the morrow. Good day." And with that, he promptly pushed the door shut in the young man's face.
Immediately, the knocking resumed, this time accompanied by a somewhat put-out voice saying, "Please! I only wish to briefly speak with the Lord! I'm more than willing to wait! It will take but a minute! Please, sir!"
Already retreating from the drafty foyer, he was nearly to the right staircase when the caller's voice shouted, "It's about the family painting! I- I am writing a dissertation on the famous lost Hallward canvas, and- and it is essential that I speak with Lord Kelso! Please, sir," the voice called out, and he heard the words even as he struggled to breathe, "please hear me out!"
That damn cursed painting, would he never be rid of it? Now his hands were tied. He couldn't very well let the boy stand out there, shouting to the world about the supposed legacy of the Hallward painting, believed missing these many years.
Trudging back to the doors, he opened the left and once more considered the young man on his doorstep-early twenties, dark hair, decent height and breadth of shoulder, handsome face. The boy actually looked to be older than he himself had been when-
"The portrait, do you mean?" he finally asked after several seconds.
The young man nodded quickly, obviously eager and hopeful now that his pleas had not gone unanswered. "Indeed," the boy said, adding after a moment, "sir," in an obsequious attempt at respect and deference. It must have struck him as funny as well, perhaps given the apparent similarity in their ages, as he briefly grinned and his eyes flashed in a show of good humor.
***
His quondam lives, that of poor relation, privileged son, and moneyed recluse, were becoming increasingly more difficult to maintain. As time progressed, government grew more organized and invasive. Numerous documents were required now for nearly every conceivable situation and interaction. Identification meant something different from what it had before. There were cards, squares of paper that were properly stamped with official signatures and all of it done in multiple instances. The act was extremely complicated to keep up, and he found he had a new respect for that type of person-actors, stage people, politicians even, anyone who put on a show and hid oneself away behind a mask.
He found himself remembering all too often poor, dear Sybil, and would oft times pull out Basil's sketches of her-a dead man's drawings of a dead woman for a man who would not die. It seemed fitting.
And now he knew beauty's price.
***
Staff meetings were a new experience, one from which he intended to extract every last drop of pleasure possible. Camaraderie, after a fashion, still held some allure. These professors and custodians and school personnel were even more of a novelty to him, considering their world and all its peculiarity remained a somewhat dangerous yet propitious place for him personally. As an outsider, their various relationships amused and intrigued him no end. There seemed to be layers upon layers of meaning imbued in even the briefest and most reserved of interactions.
He felt it was a case of the more elevated a status in the school hierarchy, the more mysterious and secretive the nature of the person. Appearances were also most certainly misleading, as he had most fortuitously discovered prior to committing some terrible gaffe upon his very arrival within the castle walls. Neither incredible shortness of stature nor a decidedly pitiable lack of personal hygiene prevented someone in this world from attaining a position of respect. Even from the relatively limited scope of his dealings here, he found the people's collective ability to look beneath the surface of matters for quality of character both incredibly admirable and utterly terrifying-the latter due primarily to the extraordinary nature of his own condition and nothing more.
The person third most powerful but fourth most deserving of close scrutiny was in fact only part human, standing roughly waist high for most, and perhaps to the knees of another such hybrid, this second who quite literally seemed a giant. Both of these men were polite towards him, though the former did study him quite intensely for a moment, and the latter joked about his apparent age or seeming lack of it. He was not certain if either man knew the truth of his situation, but found to his surprise their company, either together or separate, the most pleasant and calming of anyone's in the castle. Perhaps it was because of his own isolation and uniqueness in this new world, among these strangers all unbelievably younger and yet also wiser than he, that Dorian found himself gravitating towards the most noticeably different people in the castle and its environs.
It certainly wasn't for the quality of the conversation. That was for certain.
If he'd wanted stimulating dialogue, he needed look no further than his self-styled mentor in this place, one Severus Snape. Efficient, experienced, and possessed of a stunningly sharp wit, Snape was in fact too similar to Dorian for comfort. It was a state of affairs not unlike his imagined interactions with a younger sibling. They were of a like mind on most matters, finding even the most trivial of concerns often worthy of scorn and ridicule. Severus Snape was a lonely man consumed with guilt, who derived little pleasure from anything in life apart from his brewing and perhaps the odd mocking of a student here and there.
He reminded Dorian of himself. He reminded him of Henry. Thus, he was to be avoided if at all possible.
Dorian was here for a very specific purpose, and it wouldn't do to fall back into old habits.
In contrast to the rate at which he gained knowledge of the place was the speed at which progress seemed to be made concerning his-condition. He had personally spoken with the head wizard of the castle on only two occasions. Otherwise, all developments or requests for information were relayed to him through other members of the faculty, usually either Snape or Minerva McGonagall, the latter whom apparently considered him and his situation both burdensome and deplorable. The woman always conducted herself with the strictest of decorum around him but also made it quite clear that were it up to her, he would not be permitted anywhere near the castle or its grounds. Even the caretaker, a nasty man who from all appearances hated everyone and everything in existence save his unsightly feline companion, would likely prove more hospitable than Minerva McGonagall. Dorian found himself hoping she was not a key part in undoing his curse, for he could not fathom her motivations or loyalties. Was she in line with the old wizard, or an independent force? Who in the castle followed her or shared her opinion that Dorian Gray, Damian Gris, was a man to be shunned and avoided at all costs?
He did not know, and uncovering the truths of this castle and its inhabitants was a pursuit that, while he deemed it interesting in theory, would likely remain unsolvable for an outsider. And Dorian was most assuredly an outsider.
He had been allotted several rooms for his own use, including a lavish bedroom with en suite bath, a sitting room tastefully appointed and stocked with fine spirits and wines, and a study complete with a sizeable desk and sundry writing implements. In every room, there was a hearth with a neat pile of kindling, and yet in none were any of the modern conveniences he'd been training himself to use and keep abreast of throughout the years. In a drawer of the desk, he found several impressive hawk feathers, pots of ink, along with a blotter and parchment, and no sign at all of fountain or ball-point pens, and no non-traditional paper. Books upon books lined the study walls as well, all neatly arranged and alphabetized according to author, but there was no television-only a gramophone with a selection of records nearby and a strange contraption reminiscent of a radio's design but with different knobs.
Indeed, intrigued by the lack of technology and curious as to whether or not that was a stylistic choice or a necessary one, he had unpacked his camera and, upon attempting to fire it up, found to his dismay that it was for all intents and purposes dead. After worrying for a brief moment, he had repacked the camera and resolved himself to questioning someone on the matter soon. He needn't have fretted though. Soon after his discovery, a knock sounded on the door to the rooms, and when he answered he found himself, for the first time to his knowledge, face-to-face with nothing other than a magical creature.
"Headmaster Dumbledore is requesting Master Gris in his office. Warbly be showing Master Gris the way now." Then the short, wrinkly creature turned and set off down the corridor, presumably towards said office, and Dorian again did something then he hadn't done in nearly a century.
At that moment, he resolved to follow the directions of another and prayed this time he would not be led once more down the path of damnation.
***
Whilst he found both the world in general and the faculty in particular fascinating, the students themselves left something to be desired. His second lecture of the term ended much like the first, with his steadfast refusal to discuss personal matters. The difference was, instead of respecting him and dropping the subject, a few presumptuous students had begun mouthing off and demanding answers. There were also several words let loose that he was positively certain were insults of one form or another and without question inappropriate. At one point, Dorian had to struggle to even be heard over the din of shouts and name-calling, and his hasty solution had been to send out his silencing trick again and order the students to immediately exit the lecture hall.
He'd been so flustered he hadn't even lifted the silence as they all stomped out, just remained standing stock-still on the stage and gripping his hands tightly behind his back so as not to show any sign of panic.
The topic that night was meant to tie-in with the question posed to the students the previous lecture-that of knowledge, both physical and existential, in addition to belief and class systems, indoctrination, and all of it as defined and influenced by the broad concept of cultural hegemony. His goal was to have the students in a questioning and logic-driven state of mind from the start of the lecture series, as he expected such an attitude would only help facilitate discussion further down the line when he would open the floor in the hopes of creating a dialogue between him and the students, and perhaps later the faculty as well.
It was a good plan, a good idea, and it would have been something to behold if he'd managed to pull it off-a way to teach without telling, encourage without impeding. Sadly, the students had been of another mind on the matter. Or, rather, their minds themselves had been focused on another matter, primarily getting him off-topic seemingly in an effort at tearing down his credibility.
He hoped it hadn't worked, but he truly could not definitively say one way or the other. Some of the students seemed to rally to his defense, but they were few and largely ignored or talked over. Dorian had half a mind to try and track down his defenders out of some disgustingly misplaced sense of gratitude. It would no doubt be impossible, however, for even for as long a time as it had been, he still remembered well the law of the schoolyard. No, it was best to just push it to the back of his mind and keep a look out in the future for do-gooder types who viewed coming to another's defense as a basic part of existence.
What took up most of his thoughts was figuring out the best course of action from here on out. Should he ignore the last session, acting as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred? Or would it be more advisable for him to immediately address the issue-admit the lecture had not gone as planned, and then perhaps open the floor to comments ahead of schedule? No, upon second thought that last did not seem a viable option. The likelihood was too great for a repeat performance from last night's troublemakers. What then should he do? He was at a loss, even idly entertaining the notion of simply begging off the commitment entirely.
Finally, but as he would have been better off doing from the first, Dorian took it upon himself to ask for advice.
He attended the staff meeting the morning following his disastrous lecture with his head held defiantly high, and though everyone was kind enough not to say anything, he detected quite a bit of amusement in the faces around him, particularly McGonagall's.
But, Dorian held both his pride and temper in check, and did his best not to appear unduly flummoxed by the whole ordeal. Nothing but a polite mention was made of his lecture series, and as the staff meetings were conducted by the Headmaster of the school himself, Dorian took that as a sign of understanding or at least awareness of the situation. He wasn't called to the carpet, anyway.
Afterward, however, as the majority of the staff withdrew, Dorian rose from his chair and made his way over to the corner of the room where the Headmaster and Heads of House stood in conversation. He waited back a polite distance, not wishing to interrupt, but it seemed the nature of the topic being discussed was such that eavesdroppers were to be avoided, as no sooner did Dorian come near than Snape whirled around and fixed him with an impressive glower.
Suddenly, the other four broke off their talk in favor of studying him as well, and he was on the receiving end of at least another two suspicious stares.
"Yes, Mister Gris?" the Headmaster then asked quietly. "Was there a matter you wished to discuss?"
Dorian resisted the urge to either swallow or breathe deep as he promptly answered, "Yes, indeed there is, Headmaster. It pertains to my lecture last night." He glanced quickly around the small circle, and hurriedly added, "I wished only to perhaps ask some advice of you, any or all of you, as I admit I'm rather at a loss as to how to continue." As he finished, he noticed the expressions of Professors Flitwick and Sprout smooth into something more sympathetic, while McGonagall's remained impassive. Snape, to his knowledge, was always either scowling or smirking, and in this instance it was the latter expression affixed to the man's sharp edged mouth, which Dorian decided to consider better than the former for the sake of his nerve.
It was the Headmaster who spoke next though, and if he weren't mistaken, Dorian thought that was relief on the man's lined face. "We did indeed hear of your misfortune last night, Damian," he said, which answered at least in part Dorian's long held questions as to whether or not his real identity was known amongst all the staff and if it were "safe" to speak of such matters within the castle. Evidently, the answer to at least one was decidedly "No."
"The students were all abuzz with it last night when they returned," Professor Sprout offered up in agreement, "and it seems likely they'll be gossiping about it this morning too."
Flitwick nodded his head at that, and Snape, the smug bastard, actually snorted, oddly causing McGonagall to smile.
"Well," the Headmaster said, "I see no reason why we can't all lend Damian a metaphorical hand. I'm rather attached to my physical ones," he said jokingly, but which curiously resulted in all the good humor vanishing from Snape's face, "but my teaching hands are open and extended to you. To be sure, you need only ask as you have done here now, and I shall happily prattle on until we are all ghosts and you are covered in dust and cobwebs." He finished by smiling cheerfully, but Dorian was finding it hard to breathe for all the tension just that one casual remark had stirred up in him.
What was the wizard playing at? Had he truly meant that as a barb, or was he trying to tease him?
"Yes, well," Dorian composed himself enough to say, "I certainly appreciate the offer. My lack of experience in this area is definitely showing now. I completely lost control of the situation last night, and it escalated quite alarmingly. One moment I'm attempting to briefly outline existential thought, and the next I'm all but being interrogated on my- my own beliefs." He met Flitwick's eyes for a moment then, and detected what he thought was sympathy as well as something else-something friendlier than suspicion but more insistent than mere curiosity.
From that, he came to the logical conclusion that odds were Flitwick knew, and once he acknowledged that, he began making a quick, rough guess as to the others. The Headmaster of course knew all that Dorian had told him and surely more besides. Snape wasn't clear either way, but for some reason Dorian felt sure Severus had been briefed on at least some of the details. Sprout, on the other hand, Dorian was almost certain remained unaware. She was much too nice and politely distant in her manner for the case to be otherwise. That of course brought him to McGonagall, who treated him the exact opposite as Professor Sprout. If that woman didn't know, then Dorian was a parrot. There seemed no other explanation for her cold yet knowing behavior towards him.
"Classroom management," Flitwick said then, and Dorian respectfully met the man's eyes in response, "is always a gamble. No one method works consistently, and each group of students reacts differently, let alone the student body as a whole."
"Oh, I don't know," came what Dorian recognized as Snape's droll tone of voice, "I find they all respond uniformly to certain-stimuli."
This time it was McGonagall who snorted, her rejoinder a snappy, "Yes, but I doubt Mr. Gris plans on descending from the podium and scowling fiercely down his nose at the troublemakers, Severus."
"Of course not," Snape replied easily, "that would be too simple and direct an approach." This caused everyone but Dorian to smile, and elicited a chuckle and roll of the eyes from McGonagall, which led Dorian to the conclusion that, against all logic, Snape and McGonagall were actually on quite friendly terms, at least insofar as teasing, bantering, and mock-bickering with each other was concerned. It was strange, but it added more evidence to his theory that they both knew of his situation, as well engendering in him some scant amount of hope that eventually McGonagall might come around. She and Snape were opposites in many things, and the two of them still acted cordially.
There was a chance.
There was a chance.
Dorian then looked up as the Headmaster said, "A matter of consid- " only to twitch in surprise when the wizard was interrupted.
"Pardon me, Albus," McGonagall said, which the Headmaster waved dismissively away and gestured for her to continue, "but personally-and while I am sure there is a reason behind this I'm not seeing, it escapes me at the moment-I believe a great deal of the problem lies in the fact that rarely, if ever, are all of the students taught together. Seems to me, there's a reason why we separate them according to Year and then additionally into two groups within that Year, and that is exactly to avoid incidents such as the one last night." She was quite clearly criticizing what Dorian expected had been the Headmaster's decision, and yet nothing in the tone of the room indicated that this was anything too terribly out of the ordinary.
It was fascinating and enlightening. Even better was the fact that while she spoke, McGonagall met Dorian's eyes several times, even seemed to be speaking to him as she continued, and not once did she scowl or narrow her eyes in contempt.
"This year, there are two students in particular capable of starting riots whenever they open their mouths," McGonagall stated, glancing at the other professors' faces before turning her eyes on the Headmaster, "but particularly when they're put together, and you place them not only in the same room, but also with the rest of the student body, and you think nothing will go amiss?"
In response, the Headmaster breathed out deeply, pursed his lips, and then grudgingly nodded that McGonagall had a point.
"I confess," Dumbledore said tiredly, "I had a most optimistic outlook when I arranged these lectures. I have hoped to bridge that particular chasm of ill-will many a time over the years, but often my actions have the reverse effect. I fear I have pushed them further away from each other, to the point where-any reconciliation now is preposterous."
Dorian had no clue who the students in question were, but everyone else in the room seemed to. McGonagall winced in sympathy, and Dorian caught it as she quickly shot a look across to Snape-Snape, who stared blankly at the floor.
"Well," the Headmaster suddenly said into the silence that had followed his admission, "I think, Damian," and Dorian quickly met the wizard's eyes in response, "that in light of Minerva's scolding I shall take another look at the organization of these lectures of yours and see if we can't arrive at a better format, one fostering learning and discussion rather than misunderstanding and quarreling. Why don't you come to my office tomorrow around 4:30 and we'll talk about it." He then nodded at Dorian and raised his hand to gesture at the door behind him. "If that is all then, I'm afraid the Heads of House and I must return to such scintillating matters as assigned corridor supervision and meal schedules."
Dorian politely smiled and then exited the staff room, finding out too late that his timing was particularly awful that morning. As he walked towards his rooms, he encountered several groups of students no doubt wending their way down to the Great Hall for a spot of breakfast with a side of gossip. He received those specific knowing looks from nearly all of them, ranging from mild amusement all the way to sneers of ridicule. One group in particular, though, stood out. A handful of them, they actually smiled at him, and it was kind and sympathetic, much like Flitwick's smile to him earlier, or McGonagall's commiserating grimace to the Headmaster.
So Dorian briefly smiled back, and wondered if perhaps he hadn't just stumbled upon his do-gooder types.