Chapter One

A Callow Man of Fifty-Four

Jove Flitwick sat beside Madam Pomfry as he watched the horde of apprehensive and hushed-voice first-year pupils troop in, their eyes darting around the room in great august or cavalier indifference, depending on their personalities. He'd always been a very congenial little boy, and remembered being astounded when he marched into the Great Hall for the first time with vivid perfection.

"Gina, who's that?" he heard someone inquire of their older sister.

"Who's who?"

"The munchkin sitting next to the woman with the red hair."

Jove's eyes dilated and he ceased harmlessly twiddling his thumbs beneath the table. Munchkin? Well, he was rather diminutive, reaching at only 4'6", and he deduced that, yes, that must be the first impression received when first laying eyes on him. But he continued to beam quite nicely. He'd come to take such talk as utter human chatter and he did not blame or avidly detest students that remarked on his height.

Well, almost.

Craning his small neck and feigning kneading a spasm out of it, he caught a glimpse of Sophie Tote, the thirty-three year-old Muggle Arts professor. A slight wash of crimson swept over his face. Had she been looking at him? He had been almost certain....No, she hadn't. Ah, well, maybe next time. Highly mortified to be even considered being recognized, the fifty-four year-old Jove settled back into his seat and fiddled with the jeweled band on the brim of his goblet.

All through Albus's annual beginning-of-the-year oration, Jove mulled over Sophie. He didn't know what fascinated him so about her. She'd never spoken to him, and the only time she'd ever exhibited that she was informed of his earthly presence was when she delivered a stack of new Charms notebooks and left a tiny note on the spine of one of the books reading:

Professor Jove Flitwick------

They can also get these in blue or green.

Professor Sophie Tote

For days afterwards, he read the note over and over until he had memorized every stroke of her quill. At first, he believed that the fact she'd written in red ink had meant something ("Jove, you old dog," Albus had chuckled when he caught sight of the note. "Red's the color of passion."), but crestfallenly abandoned any such notions when Minerva had squinted at it through her oblongs specs and snipped (rather loudly, too), "You know she only writes in red ink because it's the only color that's cheap."

Minerva was a psychotic hag and Jove quietly wished she'd get a smart kick upside the head.

Anyhow.

Oh, was the speech over so soon? It must be; beside his hands, he saw the table littered with bountiful amounts of food and beverages. Hmm. It'd been so much longer last year. Or was that just his imagination? Ooh, crumpets....

Poppy Pomfry was gaily gabbing with a rather apathetic Sophie, who he observed was nibbling only at a few crisp, dressing-drizzled leaves of lettuce, her ebony eyes sliding about the room in overt ennui. Her skin, blemish-free and creaseless, reminded him fondly of the same tincture and texture of the shell of the chocolate Easter eggs his nephews often sent him. He was so fond of them. Her sweeping African hair was not straightened into a sheet of raven-black, as was the popular fashion, but plaited into back-length twists.

An original! Oh, how fond he was of creativity.

Then...she stood up and left. Oh. The anguish snaked through his spleen like a web of despair, a mesh of disappointment. Don't leave!, he yearned to cry. Let me speak to you! I've been wanting to for seven years. Come back! Come back!

"Sophie!" he exclaimed in a voice he'd attempted to wield and make sound suave but only reached the world as squealing squeak.

DAAAAAAMN!

The call tolled throughout the entire hall like the pealing of a brass bell of Notre Dame, much to his shock. He put his tiny fingers to his lips and nourished himself on his fingernails. He hadn't meant to squeak! It had slipped out. It always did. No matter how he toiled, it forever slipped.

Thankfully, not a soul (not even Sophie) had taken notice. She glided out of the room, a cinnamon-skinned Valhalla in a billowing haze of garnet robes and tasteful copper bangles.

And she was gone.

Oh well.

*I just realized a few days ago how unappreciated Flitwick is. I felt so bad. Tell me what you think. I'll take this down if nobody thinks I should keep it going, but I just wanted to delve into Flitwick's ambiguous and cheerful character. You know, his name (Jove) is a shortened form of the word "jovial" or "happy and kind." Whatever. At least it's not blatant.*