Dumbledore sat still at his desk. A serious expression painted underneath his half-mooned glasses and long flowing silver mane. He picked up the stone that rested silently on his desk. The philosopher's stone. After Nicholas Flamel had destroyed the first one Dumbledore had sworn to himself that he would never remove this second one from its hiding place. There are two types of philosopher's stone, Dumbledore reminded himself, and this one may be more lethal than the first. Gazing at it intensively he watched as the light caught it, flickering the spectrum of colours across the room. Many rays hit the assorted brass objects strewn across the headmaster's office, and fired back a twinkle to Dumbledore's eye. Sighing he placed it back on the desk and reached for the parchment in front of him. It was as blank as any other piece in the school but held the potential of winning the war. He picked up the quill, some of the feathers falling off under the pressure of his firm grip, and jabbed it several times into a pot of ink. Rising it up swiftly to the parchment the ink fell clumsily down, making what should be a perfect incantation, written by the most powerful wizard alive, look like a scrappy piece of first year homework. He slammed the quill down and buried his face into his hands.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he told Fawkes, the only being in his presence, "it's too dangerous, I shouldn't be taking this to such an extreme."
Fawkes lifted into flight, spreading his wings gracefully across the room, swooping in one grand movement to his master. He landed with only a slight patter on Dumbledore's shoulder, rustled his head of golden feathers into Dumbledore's silver mane and cooed gently. Stroking the wise bird Dumbledore found the strength to continue. Methodically and out loud he ran through his reasons for unleashing this powerful weapon.
"There are two types of philosopher's stone: the first having been created by an alchemist in order to turn any matter into any object as well as give it's beholder eternal life; the second being a tool of a philosopher, and only a true philosopher, wise enough to use it in battle. It holds the power to activate any type of philosophy into the world. With this stone the philosopher can do the illogically possible like square a circle or create a triangle with two right angles. Hopefully they can do something to tilt the events of the war in our favour…"
"But…" he sighed and looked up to his familiar with a deeply concerned expression. "The wizarding world hasn't had a true philosopher born since Nicholas Flamel, which means I will have to find a Muggle. This entails exposing the wizarding world, and trusting a stranger with an essential job. Whoever they are they'll have to be introduced to Harry, get along with him, and be able to cope with his adolescent mood swings and excessive worrying. He's never been the same since his godfather died. I don't know why I can't find another way."
With a little nodding movement from Fawkes followed by a soft squawk Dumbledore picked up his pen, only this time he began to write. The words came more easily once in motion, a simple incantation that will call the most able man to him in the next forty-eight hours. It wasn't the best of timing, seeing as the school year was about to commence and the students would all be arriving on the Hogwarts train the next day. Dumbledore chuckled slightly at the thought of his powerful and wise philosopher being a nerd of an eleven year old.
Have faith, he told himself, you've made it this far.
"So Miss Immanuartes, this will be your first school out of college?" said Mr Basford, through his small spectacles, whilst twitching his humongous moustache. He had a clipboard in front of him and was leant forward over the desk, staring at Sophie with slight disgust. A lump formed in her throat, gurgling around underneath her tonsils and she felt she would spew it out as soon as she opened her mouth. She reached for a lock of her crazily bushy hair, which she'd futilely tried to tie back in a small bobble. It hung rebelliously in front of her eyes, obscuring the view of her interviewer so all she could see was a blurry outline of what looked like a great big bogey.
"Well yes, although I have done teacher training," she replied, fidgeting in her seat and shuffling her feet that were sweating in her brand new shoes. The lady on the right of Mr Basford raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows, suspended them there for three seconds then lowered them into a frown. Scribbling a couple of words on her clipboard she leant forward also.
"And what interest do you have in teaching religious education? Are you a practising Christian yourself?" she said, smiling widely, which was her form of intimidation.
Great, Sophie thought, What a question! Time to either begin lying or skimming around the truth. Or I could just leave now before the interview gets any worse.
"I… erm…. Well I… I did my philosophy degree before thinking of teaching and I really want to become a college lecturer in the subject. Philosophy is my main interest and…."
"We don't teach philosophy in this school Miss Immanuartes, only the Catholic doctrine, so we ask you again – Why do you want to become a religious education teacher?" the man to the far right boomed, his oversized belly inflating so that it was pushing the table closer to Sophie.
Sophie grabbed another lock of her hair and furiously pushed it behind her small ear with her sweaty palm. Her eyes bulging and her throat growing dry she nervously scanned her brain for an explanation.
"Because I need the money!" she squealed, afterwards dreading that she ever spoke the truth. It was true though; she had travelled all the way to London that day just on the off chance of getting the job. The electricity bill had turned red that weekend and little Maggie was beginning school in two days time, Sophie hadn't yet bought all her uniform. Ashamed, she bowed her head to the floor, looking at the much more pleasant sight that was a small piece of chewing gum.
"Is that your only reason?" the woman said in a croaky voice. Sophie looked up at her, in her perfectly pressed linen suit and Christian Dior makeup. She was quivering her thin upper-lip, which created creases that spread across her face. She looked so snobbish, so perfectly content in Sophie's misery. Stupid cow, she thought, just because I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth. She despised the smug looks these people gave, it reminded her of her own parents and how they had reacted to Sophie's "downfall", as they liked to believe it. Sophie had always believed in equality, she agreed with Marx's view of the class system, that such have's, like the interviewers in front of her, used their religious beliefs to oppress the have not's. At the time there was no greater have not in England than Sophie, she was on the point of begging for money.
"I need the money to provide for my little girl, I don't want her first term in school to be one of hand-me-down clothes and rotten egg sandwiches," she said, cursing herself afterwards for her blatant truthfulness.
"I see," said Mr Basford, and Sophie could virtually see the cogs in his brain turning, "Where is the father? I see on your CV that you are unmarried, is he not around anymore?" His tone had turned to a sympathetic one, although Sophie was smart enough to understand its falsity.
"He's, well he's…"
He's in Harvard University and about to graduate to become a highly paid attorney. Sophie harshly reminded herself, but she wasn't going to allow him back into her life. She also wasn't going to resort to ringing him up and asking for money. It had been eighteen months since she'd heard from him; he'd probably managed to get another couple of young women up the junction since then! She had her pride, a little bit too much of it, and she believed that the time when women stayed at home was well and truly over.
"To be truthful it really is just me and Maggie, it's best just the two of us," Sophie said out loud, but more to herself than anyone else.
"Clearly!" the snob said, but Sophie could clearly see the irony.
Looking rather tiresome and unamused the fat lump on the far right leant back on his chair, reached one hand up to scratch his balding head, revealing a rather large sweat patch underarm. Sophie tried to hide her disgust. He noticed and leant forward again, boring his eyes into hers so she could see the red veins that sprinkled them.
"Tell me Miss Immanuartes why we should employ you over the more experienced and more dedicated candidates?" he said.
Sophie knew when a question was best left unanswered.
"Mummy, mummy I need a wee wee"
"Just two minutes darling," Sophie said, trying to stop her daughter from ferociously clinging to her leg. She turned to the nursery assistant at the crèche, "Sorry I am late to pick her up, my interview went on longer than I expected. How much do I owe you?"
The old woman, with spindly legs and a spider neck, came over, her cardigan wrapped around her. She peered at Sophie with a disapproving look. "You are half an hour late madam and I've not been able to close the nursery until you arrived. That will be ten pounds, as you kept her here all day, including lunch." The woman said.
Sophie's heart just stopped! She had barely five pounds. Crèche's back in Yorkshire were not half as expensive.
"Mummy I need a wee wee," Maggie whined once again. She looked down at her daughter's dolly blue eyes and outrageously tangled brown hair, her face had turned pink and she was squatting in a position that Sophie knew very well.
"Can she please just go…"
"The security man has already locked up the toilets, we've had a lot of vandalism in there," The woman lectured, "Now I need my money."
For the first time in this dreadful day Sophie was beginning to feel the tears coming, only she knew this woman would feel no pity. Quick on the mark she grabbed a pen and paper from her bag and scribbled her address down.
"Send me a bill to there, I promise you I'm not winding you up but I need the money in my purse to get me and my daughter home tomorrow morning." For a long ten seconds the nursery assistant looked into Sophie's eyes trying to see if her case was genuine. Slowly she nodded.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed and picked her daughter up into her arms whilst hurling a map of the underground out of her bag.
Just brilliant, she thought to herself, I now have the prospect of a night in a grubby B and B; followed by a mad rush in the morning to find King's Cross station; before the train leaves at eleven.