AN: This is my first attempt at fan fiction. Here's to my favourite character, Sirius, who will show up in the next chapter. He's the other main character. I have the second chapter written and ready to upload, but I want to get some feedback on this one first. I welcome praise and constructive criticism. If you notice any errors, grammatical or factual, let me know. I am writing this to be consistent with the canon, but I don't own any of the books for reference. So, my memory might fail me once in a while. Just give a poke! Thanks to all for reading. :o)
Here's the requisite disclaimer (totally unnecessary if you ask me – even my Pakistani grandmother knows who wrote Harry Potter): I own the parts that I made up, and unfortunately have no claim whatsoever on Sirius. Sigh.
1one
She sat alone in her office long after the other professors had retired to their rooms for the night, marking essays from her second-year students. Sighing, she put her quill aside and took off her rectangular glasses, rubbing her hand over her eyes in a weary gesture. In the dim light, she contemplated the change that had come over her old alma mater, seemingly so quickly. It had crept upon them on silent feet, sneakily, just like the man who had caused it. If one could call him a man.
Voldemort. She leaned back in her chair, a frown creasing her smooth brow. The name did not intimidate her like it did her colleagues. To be honest, she found it rather ridiculous. She refused to call him He-Who-Must- Not-Be-Named like her colleagues. It was a foolish habit, and it was psychologically damaging. It showed fear, and allowed him a certain amount of control, however small. Admittedly, they had much worse things to worry about from the Dark Lord these days; but it seemed even more important then that they milk their advantages as much as possible. Things were getting bleaker with the passage of every day.
She shivered, though the room was warm, glancing outside at the ice and snow glittering on the trees in the moonlight. Her tower window looked out onto the reaching bare branches that crowned the vast forest. At one time it had possessed a name, though she no longer remembered it; now it was just known as la Foret Mechant. The Mean Forest. It sounded almost comical in English, but it was a dark place, especially at this time of year, when the skeletal black trees were not even softened by foliage. La Foret Mechant was forbidden for a reason. She grimaced. Something else that had changed over the last few years at Beauxbatons.
When she had been a student, there was nothing more sinister about it than some slightly malicious faeries that liked to play tricks on unsuspecting teenagers who ventured into the woods for the thrill of the prohibited. She grinned as she recalled a particular incident from her third year. Emile Bruneau had been en l'hopital for a week with ivy growing out of his ears. The poor man had never lived it down.
She sobered, coming back to the matter that had interrupted her work. Things were getting worse. She no longer knew which of the other professors could be trusted. The darkness was rising faster than she had expected it to. Lately her Sight had been failing too; perhaps she was losing her gift as she got older? It was not an unknown occurrence, though it was rare. The only thing she had seen in the last few weeks was a recurring vague dream that was oddly confusing and distressing. For once she had no idea what it meant, although she had the strong feeling it was important.
She returned her gaze to the papers on her desk and bent over her marking again, stopping only when the words began to blur before her eyes. She got up, exhausted, and put everything away. Teaching was beginning to seem like an endless Mount Everest of paperwork, devoid of the joys for which she had chosen her profession in her idealistic days – the look on a student's face when he finally understood an idea, the inquisitive energy in a child's eyes that always increased her own enthusiasm for learning, the happy chatter of young voices in the morning as they talked about trivial issues that gave her a break from her own troubles, of which there were many.
But in the last year, even the children had lost their innocence. Their previously carefree expressions had become grave and uncertain. Her classes were more often than not quiet and subdued; she could not remember the last time she had shushed them.
A sudden ire rose in her as she contemplated her children, as she thought of them. What has he done to mes enfants? She thought angrily. Batarde. She felt like seeking him out and giving that Voldemerde a piece of her mind that he would not forget. She smiled wryly at herself. You're losing it, Genvieve, finalement. Shaking her head, she extinguished the lights with a wave of her wand and left for her chambers.