By the end of the week, Ginny's prediction turned true. Professor Summers hadn't been seen at dinner or lunch (or breakfast, for that matter) all week, and Hermione wondered if - despite the successful standoff in his first class - he might be a bit nervous outside the room where magic didn't work. (She still found it astonishing that even a Slytherin would attack a teacher, but suspected that Pucey didn't consider Summers to be a real teacher.)
She was in the library, studying on Friday afternoon - her mind on Ron's Quiddich tryout - when Ginny found her, slipping into the seat next to hers at the table. She slid a piece of paper across. And it was paper, Hermione noticed. Unfolding it, she read the note, penned in a neat, square script:
If your offer to tutor still stands, come up to my classroom, and bring 1-2 other students with you who'll know what to do with a computer.
-Mr. Summers
"He's asking you to tutor, isn't he?" Ginny said. "I warned you we're hopeless."
"Yes, he's asking me to tutor." Hermione refolded the paper and stashed it in a pocket of her robes. "Where's Dean?"
"Common Room, I think."
Hermione closed her book and stood, packed her satchel, and led Ginny out and back to Gryffindor Tower, where she collected Dean Thomas and, on second thought, Colin Creevey, too. Unfortunately, Harry didn't seem to be around, or she'd have snagged him, as well. "We're needed," Hermione told the boys.
"Where're we going?" Dean asked, skeptical, though Colin appeared eager enough.
"To Professor Summers' classroom," she replied.
"He asked us to call him Mr. Summers," Ginny corrected, as she trailed along, apparently having decided that, as she'd delivered the message, she had a right to come with them.
Hermione glanced back. "All right, Mr. Summers, then. He's asked us to come up to see him. He wants us to be tutors."
Dean's eyebrow went up. "It's not as if I don't have enough of my own homework, Hermione!"
"Well, it's not as if you actually study, either, Dean," Hermione retorted, which got giggles from the rest, even Ginny.
It was a long climb and they were all a bit out of breath by the time they reached the far west tower, even if they were used to tramping around the castle. Hermione, first up the ladder, knocked firmly on the trap door, and a moment later, it opened, Mr. Summers framed in it, looking down. "Come on in," he said, standing up so she could climb the rest of the way.
"This is Dean Thomas," Hermione said, gesturing behind her as Dean entered, followed by Colin, "Dean's a sixth year like me, and that's Colin Creevey, a fifth year."
"And Ginny I know," Summers concluded as Ginny poked her head through the doorway, bringing up the rear. He smiled and shook hands with the two boys.
"Ginny said you have an iPod?" Dean half-stated, half-inquired.
"And a PSP and a Nintendo," Summers added, earning twin 'cool's from Colin and Dean. Hermione resisted rolling her eyes. What was it about the Y-chromosome and video games? "If you three are willing to help, you can have permission to come play games in off hours - but only after your homework's done."
Hermione nodded once to herself, pleased by the offer's conditional nature.
"What do you need us to do?" Dean asked. He might not be the best of students, but he was usually ready to help when asked.
"Tutors," Summers explained.
"Like I said," Ginny piped in, "we're hopeless."
Summers grinned. "Not hopeless, but you kids have limited time and opportunity. The best way to learn something is repetition, but none of this equipment functions outside this tower. So I'm going to need to open the room for practice, but I can't be in three places at once to help everyone who might come. A few assistants would be good. I thought we might sit down with your schedules, and see when you could be here. In return, as I said, you're welcome to use the equipment yourselves when my students aren't - and your schoolwork is done."
"Fair enough," Dean replied, and Colin nodded enthusiastically. Half an hour later, they'd worked out a rotating timetable so that at least one of them would spend an hour or three in Mr. Summers' class during weeknights after supper, and on Sundays.
On the way out, Colin turned to Summers and asked, "Why haven't you been coming to supper?"
He shrugged. "I have work to do." It sounded more like an evasion than an answer to Hermione. "I'm still teaching classes - via the internet - back in New York. I have math homework to grade."
Evasion or not, that got Hermione's attention. "You teach maths?"
"Yes."
"Er, since I'm not really interested in playing with the Nintendo - would you be willing to help me with my arithmancy? The maths parts? Tutoring for tutoring?"
His eyebrows went up over the top of the glasses. "I'm not sure how much use I'll be for a magical subject, but I'll try."
On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, Dean and Colin walking ahead and talking animatedly about a game they'd seen in Summers' classroom that they wanted to try, Ginny glanced sidelong at Hermione. "Well, that was a clever way of getting Mr. Summers' undivided attention for an hour."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked, taken aback. "I was completely serious! I need help with arithmancy, all right?"
"I'm sure you do," Ginny replied, lips tipping up. "I wonder what Ron'll think?"
Hermione's ears went red. "Ron isn't taking arithmancy."
"Oh, Hermione - that was just . . . lame," Ginny replied, clearly amused. "You know exactly what I meant. And Mr. Summers is almost thirty. He said so, in class."
"He's also grieving for a fiancée," Hermione added, and at Ginny's startled look, went on, "He told me when I asked. It's not like I expect anything to happen, Ginny. I know he's too old for me, even if he weren't grieving. He's just . . . "
". . . easy on the eyes, yeah?" Ginny finished, her grin turning into a laugh.
Hermione finally relaxed enough to grin, too. "He is that."
"He still hasn't come to dinner," Minerva told Dumbledore as she followed him up to his office upon his return to Hogwarts. She was filling him in on school business, including student responses to the new class on Muggle Studies - and its teacher.
"Mmm," Dumbledore said, opening his door with a distracted wave of his hand. "I shall speak to him about it, but remember, Minerva, he's come to us as much for his own healing-he's grieving deeply - as to fill our need for an interim teacher. It wasn't," he added, turning to look at her with a twinkle in his eye, "as though I couldn't find someone else to take the class."
"I'd wondered," she replied. "It did seem a bit . . . odd - even for you, Albus, and we both know how much you enjoy creating controversy." But this was said fondly. Then she peered up at him. "Why did you bring him here? I don't think it just for his sake."
Dumbledore set down his traveling cloak. "I recall when Charles first took in Scott, thirteen years ago. He was an orphan, bounced around foster homes and largely unwanted. Since then, he has become like a son to Charles, and Charles is worried about him now. When I was told what happened to Charles' school last spring, I was appalled that anyone could attack children as this man Stryker had done. But as part of Charles' tale of the assault, I learned that Scott Summers' fiancée had died - and it put me in mind of another young man, an orphan, who endured great emotional distress growing up, yet survived to become stronger for it, and who also recently lost someone dear to him, someone who'd provided him with a critical emotional center."
Minerva's eyebrow went up. "I can't imagine who that would be."
Dumbledore chuckled. "I asked if we might borrow Scott for a while, and Charles agreed. It would give him distance to heal. And it might give Harry someone to talk to who can truly understand what he's suffered."
"You know if you tell Potter to talk to Professor Summers -"
"Oh, I don't intend to tell him any such thing. Another trait that both Harry and Scott seem to share is a distaste for being . . . herded. I simply made a few suggestions to Scott regarding course methodology that I suspected might bring Miss Granger into his orbit - and with her, Harry. Eventually."
Tucking her chin down, Minerva just stared at him. "It was your idea, that class he's teaching and the rule about no Muggles."
"In part, yes," Dumbledore said, settling down in a wing chair and conjuring tea for himself and her.
"You knew Miss Granger would protest about being barred from a class and go up to talk to him about it."
"Naturally. Miss Granger has no need, or real interest, in continuing with Muggle Studies, but being forbade to take a class . . . "
Minerva sipped her tea to hide her smile. "You manipulative old bastard."
"Why, thank you," Dumbledore replied.
"What if that's not enough to convince Harry to talk to Summers?"
"Then more direct intervention may be called for. But so far, matters seem to be proceeding apace."
Albus Dumbledore showed up at Scott's tower schoolroom after his last class on Friday, three weeks into the first term. When Scott heard the knock on the trap door, he assumed it one of his student tutors, and was startled to find Dumbledore himself on the ladder, grinning up at him. "I came," he said, as he pulled himself up with almost as much ease as one of the kids, "to see how your first few weeks have been - and to apologize for being absent. It isn't usually my policy to abandon my new teachers in their first weeks, but I had other, pressing business."
Scott shrugged. He couldn't say it was 'okay,' but, "It worked out."
"So I was informed." Dumbledore straightened to his full height. "It seems that Charles' confidence in you with regard to students is well-placed." Then he began to circle the room, peering at Scott's equipment with great apparent interest. "If I had more time on my hands, I think I should very much like to sit in on one of your classes myself. This is a . . . computer?"
"That's right," Scott said, coming over. "Would you like to see what -"
"Oh, no, not this evening. Although perhaps later, yes." He shot Scott a twinkling glance and half-smile, and while Scott knew he'd just been politely put off, it was done with such grace, he couldn't mind. Dumbledore straightened again. "Have you had any trouble with students since that first class?"
"No. They haven't always been cooperative, but they haven't been outright rebellious."
"Outside the class, too?"
Scott felt himself blushing a little. "I haven't, ah, been outside the tower much, since my rooms are here, too. Food seems to kinda . . . show up."
"You fear students might be less respectful outside your spelled classroom?"
"Huh?" Scott was genuinely surprised, but then shook his head. "No, no," he said. "I'm not scared of the kids, I just - "
Dumbledore's expression gentled. "Is it harder to be in a place that reminds you of her everywhere you look, but among those you know? Or in a place with no memory triggers, but where you know few?"
Scott felt a gut-punch of grief hit him, then a flash of anger. "You're as bad as Xavier. But to answer your question, they both have advantages and disadvantages. I just . . . I don't really feel like making new friends."
"If I may point out, coming to supper isn't a commitment to a long-term friendship."
Scott nodded, but looked down to where his fingers tapped at the tabletop. "I know," he said. "But some of the other teachers, uh, they, um - "
"Some of my female professors are, I admit, rather taken with you." He smiled gently. "But if you would permit me to tell them about Jean, I can - "
"No. Thank you, but no. I don't want to be a pity party."
"Scott, it is hardly inviting pity to let others know you are a widower and grieving - and not available."
Scott found himself unexpectedly touched that Dumbledore would call him a widower and do so without qualification even though he and Jean hadn't been formally married. Almost - almost - he lost it. But taking a deep breath, he managed to get out, "Thank you, but, I . . . " He trailed off. "I'm not inclined to parade my feelings in public."
"Alerting my staff would be done with all discretion." Dumbledore eyed him over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Trust me, please?"
Scott took another deep breath, then said, "All right. You can tell them, but I don't want a big deal made about it."
"There won't be." He nodded once. "Now, shall we go to dinner?"
Feeling blind-sided, Scott blinked. "Dinner?"
"Yes, I believe an introduction of our newest professor is several weeks overdue."
The old man smiled, almost gently, and what could Scott say to that but, "All right"? Yet the agreement came out tight. Dumbledore had backed him right into that, and he resented it.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said, and gestured towards the ladder as if completely unaware of Scott's irritation (though Scott doubted he actually was). "You first. Youth shouldn't wait on my creaky old joints."
Hermione was sitting between Ron and Harry, helping herself to more potatoes, when she noticed Dumbledore enter the dining hall, followed by Mr. Summers, who took a seat between Dumbledore and McGonagall. Dinner was already in full swing, but when Dumbledore rose from his throne-like seat to clear his throat, chatter in the hall died down. "If I may have your attention, please. I'd like to make a belated introduction, for which I apologize. A number of you have already met our new Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Summers, but for those of you who haven't, may I introduce him?"
Mr. Summers half-rose and nodded to the hall at large, then sat back down, his attention seemingly on his food. There was scattered applause in the hall, some more enthusiastic than others. The Slytherin table's was notably perfunctory, while the Ravenclaws were the loudest.
"So that's the Muggle bloke," Ron said, eyes narrow. "He's ruddy good looking, a bit like Diggory was. No wonder Ginny goes up to 'tutoring' sessions."
"Ginny goes up for tutoring," Hermione fired back, "because she needs the practice. And it's me who's tutoring her."
Ron turned in his seat. "Yeah, and you sure find time to go up there, too. To 'tutor.'"
"Just what is that supposed to mean?"
His jaw hardened. "Never mind." He looked down at his plate, then pushed it away. "I'm not hungry," he said and rose to stalk off.
Hermione sighed. "Ronald . . . " She spoke to the air. Both Harry and Ginny glanced at her. "What?" she demanded.
"Nothing," Harry said, and returned his attention to his food. After supper was over, Hermione headed upstairs to the hallway below Summer's classroom, getting there even before he did. He grinned when he saw her, and asked, "How's arithmancy?" as he climbed the ladder ahead of her to unlock the trap door.
She followed. "Not bad, but I'm wondering if there might be a quicker way to . . . " and she launched into her latest mathematical speculation. Their tutoring was interrupted by two second-years, come for tutoring themselves on the machines, but students tended to spend Friday nights elsewhere (which was why she'd chosen it as her night), so the second years didn't stick around long. "Are maths hard to read in?" Hermione asked him as they sat back down.
"Read in? Oh, major in. That's right. And I have no idea," he replied with a little grin. "I majored in philosophy."
"Philosophy! Then how did you come to teach maths?"
"I like math - Plato used to insist all his students learn geometry - and it was what Xavier's needed at the time. Sometimes you do what you have to do, not necessarily what you want to do." Apparently her face still appeared dubious, as he added, "Actually, I minored in math, and I'm getting a masters in education now from NYU; New York's kinda picky about who they let teach high school long term. I was mostly pulling your leg - but it is true that I'm teaching math, and shop, because teachers willing to come to 'mutant high' aren't exactly thick on the ground. I'd rather teach Epictetus and Kirkegaard, truth be told."
"Oh." She thought about that a moment. "When my magic first manifested, my parents thought I was a mutant. I confess, they weren't terribly happy about it."
"A lot of parents aren't. Some of our kids were kicked out of their homes."
Hermione sucked in breath, surprised. "Kicked out? Who'd do that to their own children?" It was horrible. "Yours didn't, did they?"
"My parents are dead," he said calmly. "It happened before I manifested, so they never knew I was a mutant."
"Oh!" And discomfited, she blurted out, "I'm sorry!"
He smiled. "It happened a long time ago, but thanks."
Frowning, she poked at her parchment with her quill. "One of my best friends is an orphan. He misses his parents a lot."
Summers nodded. "It's something you learn to live with, rather than something you get over. I miss mine, too, and I'm twenty-nine."
She thought about that, and what he'd said just a moment before about doing what one had to do, rather than what one wanted, deciding that Summers and Harry had rather a lot in common. But before she could speak further, he tapped her parchment. "Now, as I was saying before . . . "
When she left half an hour later, he said, "Could you dig up three more Muggle-borns - older students? I don't want to take you, Dean, and Colin away from your work even more, but I need to add extra time."
So Hermione tagged Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, as Ravenclaws seemed to like Summers, and these two had been in the D.A. Anthony was a half-blood, but his parents had stayed together and were living in the Muggle world, so he knew as much about it all as Muggle-born Terry did. Given what Summers had told her about himself, and playing a hunch, she also specifically invited Harry - who proved unexpectedly reluctant. "I may know what that stuff is," he told her, "but my aunt and uncle wouldn't let me touch most of it at their house. I'd likely need tutoring myself. Besides, I've got Quidditch practice. Find somebody else."
Hermione tsked. "Don't be ridiculous. At this point, if you can tell the difference between the telly and a computer monitor, you're ahead of some of them." That wasn't strictly true any longer, but she had ulterior motives, and pestered him until he finally gave in. The following Tuesday evening, after supper, she led Terry, Anthony and Harry upstairs to meet with Summers. When they saw the room full of electronic toys, they oohed and ahhed and spread out to look things over while Summers watched, fists on hips, and Hermione introduced each of them. When she got to Harry, Summers said, "So you're Harry Potter."
Hermione could see Harry brace himself for the usual reaction, but Summers just said, "Hermione tells me you're a good friend of hers. And pretty decent at flying a broom."
Harry blinked in surprise as he shook Summers' hand. "Uh, yeah, well, I captain the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Do you know what Quidditch is?"
"It's been explained to me - briefly. Sounds complicated, and dangerous. I'm partial to baseball, myself."
Harry shrugged. "I like it. The flying."
"I like flying, too."
"You can fly?" Hermione asked, surprised. "Your mutation lets you fly?"
Hands in pockets, Summers grinned. "My best friend has a pair of sixteen-foot wings." That got wows from the boys. "And another teacher at Xavier's can manipulate air currents to lift her up. She doesn't exactly fly, but she can get around in the air. Me - I have to use a plane."
"You're a pilot?" Terry sounded impressed.
"A flyboy from a family of them, yep. Hydraulic fluid runs in our veins. My father was a test pilot in the air force." Summers said this with evident pride, the same way Harry often talked about James Potter.
"Are you in the air force?" Terry asked.
Summers shook his head. "No. They don't take mutants - not declared ones, anyway. My mutation is a matter of public record. I'm just a high school teacher."
"Is your dad upset about that?"
"My dad's dead," Summer replied. That got shocked looks from Terry and Anthony, and a surprised glance from Harry. Summers just shook his head, lifting a hand. "It's okay - happened a long time ago. Plane accident. I was only eight; I barely remember it." But Hermione thought he was lying - and Harry had narrowed his eyes as if skeptical, too.
"Are you going to come and see us play?" Harry asked, to change the subject. "We just finished tryouts, and our first game is in October, against Slytherin. I'll loan you a Gryffindor scarf." He grinned.
Summers snorted. "I've gathered there's a little House rivalry around here."
"A bit," Harry agreed. "But Slytherin's in a special category."
"They're the ones who gave you trouble in your first class," Hermione explained. "Adrian Pucey is from Slytherin. They don't like Muggles much - or Muggle-born wizards. Well, some of them." She was thinking of Professor Slughorn, who didn't seem to share the distaste for Muggles. She wasn't too sure what to make of Slughorn, actually.
Summers had dragged over a stool and now sat down on it, hands gripped loosely between his knees. "There always have been and always will be people who have to build themselves up by tearing down others, no matter who the others are - Muggles, mutants, blacks, gays, Jews, gypsies, Indians. Take your pick."
"Why?" Harry blurted out. "I've always wondered about that, you know? It's not like it makes any sense. My uncle and aunt are like that, bloody prejudiced."
"Fear," Summers replied. "Or at least, that's my theory. They're afraid of some perceived power the other group has that they don't, or afraid of differences generally. Humans are pack animals by nature, and seek belonging, but it's always seemed to me that some find differences interesting - people who have enough belief in themselves not to feel threatened. Others are frightened by anything not like them, and see differences as somehow potentially dangerous."
Harry was nodding, as if that confirmed something he thought, too, and Hermione asked, "People are afraid of mutants for their powers? They think mutants are dangerous?" Summers nodded, and she went on, "That's why people once persecuted witches and wizards too. We seemed threatening, and not just religiously."
"Exactly," Summers agreed. "And the fear isn't always irrational. Some mutants have hurt others - either deliberately or by accident when their powers manifested. But a criminal with a gun is just as deadly, or a criminal with a wand. As I understand it, there are wizarding laws, and wizard police who pursue and arrest magical wrong-doers - "
"Aurors," Harry broke in. "Dark-wizard catchers."
"Having power of any kind brings with it - I think - a certain responsibility. Whether that power is magic or something you get from your DNA - or wealth or special talent or extra intelligence . . . whatever it is, it brings responsibility. We may not ask for it, but that doesn't absolve us. I realize not everyone would agree, but then, I also tend to think we have a certain responsibility to each other as members of the human race, and to the rest of the planet, since we live here."
He shot Hermione a grin. "That's my philosophy degree showing, I guess. It's a common belief in various world religions and philosophies. Taoists say, 'Heaven and earth and I live together, and all things and I are one.' And American Indians believe we're all relatives - human, animal, and plant, and even the earth itself. That notion works against group superiority. Martin Luther King said that what's important about a man isn't his skin color or the texture of his hair, but 'the texture and quality of his soul.' I think we could add magical ability or the X-gene to the list of things that don't matter. It's the texture and quality of our souls that make us who we are."
"Our choices," Harry said. "Dumbledore told me that once - it's not what we can do, but the choices we make."
"Exactly right."
True to his word, Harry brought Scott his own house scarf to wear to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. "I won't be needing it," Harry said. "We've got uniforms."
"I guess I'll have to go to the match then."
"Oh - only if you want to," the boy qualified quickly, and Scott smiled.
"I was kidding. I'll go. I'm curious about this flying game."
So on a clear autumn day he found himself in the packed stands along with - near as he could tell - every person from the castle, come to see the game. School Quidditch apparently occupied the same status in the Wizarding World as college football in the US. As he watched, he vacillated between amazement at the skill of the teenaged players, and astonishment at the danger.
On the way out of the stadium later amid the cheering, ecstatic Gryffindor crowd, he ran into Hermione who was walking together with Luna Lovegood. Scott had Luna in his third period class, made up of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. She was, perhaps, the strangest student he'd ever taught - which was saying something. But he also found it difficult not to like her; it was her forthrightness, however peculiar the ideas she might espouse.
"So what did you think?" Hermione asked him now.
"That I'm astonished the school hasn't had the pants sued off them - multiple times. How many kids get hurt in this game? Or commentators, for that matter?" He was thinking of the kid in the announcer box who'd essentially been attacked by Ginny Weasley at the end of the match.
"Oh," Luna replied, "I think at least three or four a year go to hospital for injuries, but no one's died since the 1970s. At least, not at Hogwarts. Professional Quidditch is another matter."
Died? Scott tried not to gape.
Hermione was rolling her eyes. "The Wizarding World isn't quite as . . . litigious as the Muggle world. And Quidditch isn't that dangerous."
There was only one other person Scott knew who'd have used 'litigious' in normal sentence at her age, and Scott found himself smiling despite the subject matter. "I wish I could introduce you to an old friend of mine. I suspect the two of you would get along famously - if you didn't mind the fact he tends to hang around. Upside down. From the ceiling."
"From the ceiling?" Luna asked, befuddled.
"He's a mutant, too," Scott explained. "His gift is agility and reflexes. He also happens to be a genius."
"That would be Hermione," Luna agreed with complete seriousness as Hermione blushed. "Well, perhaps not the hanging from the ceiling part."
Scott laughed, and Hermione stepped away from him and Luna. "I've got to go. I need to speak to Harry and Ron - Ginny's brother."
"Congratulate Ginny and Harry for me when you see them," Scott said, then headed back up to the castle, Luna trailing along at his heels, yattering about some creature her father was trying to prove the existence of. He kept silent. The poor girl (and her dad) were plain cracked, in his opinion.
On the path up, a few students said hello to him but none tried to talk to him besides Luna. He hadn't earned a rep as easy to approach. He kept to himself about the castle, and as unflattering as he knew it to be, part of his motive in soliciting student tutors had been to avoid dealing overmuch with students himself, even while keeping the room open for their use, because he was a good enough teacher to know it necessary regardless of how he felt about it. Six months had passed since Jean's death, yet he continued to feel as if a part of him were missing. If he found it easier to get out of bed in the mornings now - didn't live in a constant state of numbness, anger, or depression - he also didn't have the energy to invest in being friendly. Though to be honest, he'd never been the life of the party, so this wasn't precisely new, just exaggerated.
Focused inward as he was, trying to tune out Luna, he passed through the courtyard gates with the crowd, unaware of the pack of students walking along behind him, or of the fact that they weren't very cheerful about the match. He dimly noted a student, who'd apparently been waiting, leap down out of a tree's lower branches to join them. Then, before he realized what was up, he felt the weight lift from the bridge of his nose - and his glasses were flying off his face. He jerked his head upward as his optic blasts erupted skyward, the beams scraping an upper gable and turning it to rubble. Kids screamed, and he shouted for everyone to get down while his hands covered his eyes. Then kneeling, eyes squeezed shut, he groped about for his missing glasses.
Amid the students' fearful shouting and questions, he heard derisive laughter - girls and boys. "They're not down there, Muggle," said a boy just to his right. "Why don't you stand up and reach? We can have you dance for us."
More laughter, but Scott had a position now, and he stood slowly, swiveling just a little to be sure of his balance, even as the student voices around him turned from fear to anger. "You can't attack a teacher, Malfoy!" someone shouted - Luna, he thought. "Especially behind his back!"
"I'm not attacking. Do you see me attacking? I'm just standing here."
Eyes still shut, Scott faced the boy in question - Malfoy - and held out his hand. "Give me my glasses."
"I don't have them, Muggle. They seem to be . . . floating." Scott could imagine the gesture in the air that went with that. "Can't imagine why. Besides, if I don't give them back, what are you going to do? Poor little, helpless Muggle. Just like you made Adrian feel in class, isn't it?"
Before the boy understood what was happening, Scott grabbed and put him in the same headlock he'd used on Adrian Pucey - albeit a good deal less gently. The kid was groaning in exaggerated pain. "Argh! Gerroff, you're hurting me! My mother will hear about this!"
"I'm sure she will," Scott hissed in his ear. "I'm sure Mommy hears about everything; you sound like a terminal whiner." That got giggles from the kids watching, though not from the boy's friends. "Now you listen to me. You may have found taking my glasses hilarious, but that's only because you have no idea just how colossally stupid it was, or how powerful my beams are. We're standing in a courtyard packed with people. If my beams had hit the front of the castle, they could have blasted out the support struts and brought down the stone on top of everyone, not to mention blasting to bits anyone standing in front of me. Trying to yank the glasses off my face is not a funny joke. Now you're going to put them back in my hand, and I'll let you go." He made it an 'and' not an 'or,' as this wasn't a stand-off. It was an order from teacher to student.
"It was actually Pansy Parkinson who Levitated them," came a familiar male voice just to Scott's left, though he couldn't place who it was. Then he felt someone slip the cool metal frames into the hand braced around the Malfoy boy's front. "I've got my wand on them; you can let him go."
"What's going on here?" came a sharp, deep voice from behind them both - an adult voice Scott did recognize. Professor Snape.
Releasing Malfoy, Scott put his glasses back on and turned to face the other teacher, who wore his 'stern and disapproving' expression. "It's taken care of," he said.
"Were you manhandling a student, Professor Summers? One from my house?" Reaching out, he plucked at the Gryffindor scarf, as if to suggest House prejudice as the cause.
"Malfoy had Parkinson Levitate Mr. Summers' glasses off his face." It was the boy beside Summers, the one who'd given him back his glasses - Harry Potter, he could see now, dressed in house robes rather than his Quidditch uniform, but still toting his broom.
"I didn't ask you, Potter." Snape managed to make the boy's name sound like a curse, and Scott wondered what that was about.
"But what Harry says is true," Luna confirmed. "One of them" - she nodded towards the small pack of Slytherins standing under the tree to their right - "did Levitate the glasses off Mr. Summers' face."
Even more annoyed, Snape seemed ready to jump down her throat, too, so Scott stepped in. "The kids aren't lying. Fortunately, I felt the glasses shift - long practice - and jerked my head up to avoid turning the castle entrance to rubble, but I'm afraid I still caught the edge of the roof." He pointed to the partly destroyed gable. "When I asked for the glasses back, this one" - he thumbed at Malfoy - "seemed more interested in seeing me 'dance' for them. His words."
Snape's expression appeared torn between exasperation and a certain bitter amusement; Scott suspected he'd have liked to see the Muggle teacher incapacitated. Snape didn't like Scott much, though Scott hadn't exchanged twenty words with the man, total. "How did Potter get involved?" Snape asked now.
Scott's eyebrows went up. "He just returned my glasses." Then he glanced at Malfoy, who'd backed up into the center of the five Slytherins. It was clear he was the ringleader, whether or not he'd performed the actual spell. Other students had crowded about, too, whispering. "Go," Scott told them, "this isn't a show." They hesitated. "Go!" he repeated, and the kids dispersed, including Luna, until only the Slytherins and Potter remained. Scott had the impression that Harry, perhaps as Quidditch captain, was used to hanging around the adults, so he removed the loaned scarf and handed it over. "Here, and thanks. Now you go on, too."
Harry hesitated, shot a glance at Snape, but walked away. Snape seemed . . . surprised. "No backup on your side?" he muttered softly.
"Do I need it?" Scott asked, turning to meet the other man's dark eyes, or meet them as well as he could from behind ruby quartz. As with most people, Snape didn't seem sure where to focus. "I'm not in the habit of punishing students in the hearing of other students. Are you?"
Snape's lips thinned, but he nodded to Malfoy and his clique, and asked, still sotto voce, "What do you plan to do? Attacking an instructor is an expellable offense."
"What lesson would that teach?" Scott replied, but rhetorically as he moved in closer to Malfoy and the pug-faced girl on Malfoy's arm - apparently the one who'd performed the spell. "Given the potential for massive and severe harm both to the castle itself and the students in it, I'd say Parkinson should get Slytherin docked 50 points, as she's the one credited with the charm."
He'd heard other teachers award and subtract points, though he'd never actually done so himself. The girl now appeared taken aback, and set to protest, but nothing came out of her mouth. Instead, she looked to Malfoy, as if in appeal, but he wasn't looking at her. "Unless someone else wants to take responsibility?" Scott asked, looking the blond kid in the eyes.
But Malfoy remained silent. "Well, Miss Parkinson," Scott said, "It looks like he's going to let you take the fall."
"I didn't cast the spell," Malfoy said.
"Of course not," Summers replied. "But I'm quite sure you were the inspiration. Nonetheless -" he turned his attention back to Parkinson. "Unlike other teachers here, perhaps, I'm not inclined to cut you slack just because I am virtually certain he put the idea in your head, and you wanted to impress him. You chose to cast that spell, so I'm going to let you take full credit - and full punishment. I've seen plenty of guys like him - he'll agitate and instigate, but avoid incriminating himself. He'll use the rest of you" - he let his glance slide from the girl to the other kids hanging about - "to do his dirty work, and take the blame. You're not his friends; you're his cannon fodder - even you." He turned back to the girl.
She stirred, as if waking. "Draco has important things to do - "
"I'm sure that's what he tells you." Malfoy was smirking, as if completely certain of his insulation from consequences. "But you need to make a decision, Pansy. You can let him keep using you, getting you in trouble in order to avoid it himself, or you can wise up and take back control of your own life."
Beside Scott, Snape broke in, "Draco, I will see you and Miss Parkinson in my office in ten minutes." And he turned his back on the lot of them to face Scott. Malfoy and his posse scattered, looking sulky. When the kids were out of hearing range, Snape said, "An inspiring little speech. I suppose you feel cleverly psychological in your attempt to 'save' Miss Parkinson from Mr. Malfoy?"
"I don't like seeing one kid use another as a scapegoat."
"Did it never occur to you that she may have been a willing participant?"
Scott resisted rolling his eyes. "She participated just like battered wives participate in their abuse. It's the same damn thing, and she'll stick with the manipulative son of a bitch till he kills her - unless someone wakes her up the fact he doesn't give a damn about her except as a way to buck up his own ego and keep himself out of trouble. That means not protecting her from the consequences of doing what he says."
"You think you have all the answers," Snape sneered. "Don't judge so hastily, Summers. Draco hasn't had an easy life, whatever it may appear."
"I'm not judging hastily; I'm judging based on what I've seen, and so far, I've seen Malfoy encourage, or at least inspire, an attack on a teacher based entirely on the fact that teacher's a Muggle. God knows it's not personal; I've not spoken to any of those kids since I got here. That's irrational prejudice - something that, as a mutant, I'm pretty damn familiar with. Muggle . . . mutie. What's the difference? If I were black, would it be 'nigger,' or 'fag,' if I were gay, or 'kike' if I were Jewish? Or maybe I should call him 'flatscan' because he's not a mutant? It doesn't matter what group takes the fall, prejudice is ugly. And yeah, maybe the kid learned it at home - no one's born prejudiced - but I don't have any patience with the attitude. When I see Malfoy show a little kindness and tolerance, then I'll reevaluate, based on new evidence. Fair enough?"
Snape's sneer only grew more pronounced. "You might learn more tolerance yourself."
"Tolerance of what? Bad behavior? It seems to me that your defense against anyone with an idea you don't like is to belittle their intelligence. That's not a sign of superior smarts; it's a sign you doubt yours. Oh" - he said, raising a finger before Snape could reply - "don't bother telling me I don't know what I'm talking about. More defense. Maybe you should try taking a good, hard look at what your behavior is telegraphing to everyone around you, regardless of what you say? Your justifications aren't convincing any more than the Malfoy kid's rationalizations."
And Scott stalked off.
