A/N: Quite a few of the five people who've read this story have asked about the pairing. It's Harry/Fleur. And thank you to the four people who reviewed! Reviews are great and I feed off 'em.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or associated characters, which all belong to J K Rowling. This work is not intended for profit. And thank you, once again, to the original author of this story.
The Death of All Magic
An expose that uncovers a startling and horrific truth about our world
By Rita Skeeter
Three generations from now, we shall all be Squibs.
Depending on who you are, the previous sentence is either a chilling pronouncement, or a hilariously sensationalist joke. It is hard enough convincing your everyday wizard or witch that that doxies are not quite the same as fairies; try convincing them about the notion of vanishing magic and they are as likely to laugh in your face and call you crazy as they are to believe you.
And yet, here it is - the unvarnished truth.
Perhaps we should start at the beginning. In November 1973, a few years after the muggles had landed a man on the moon, the magical world surmised that we could enter the space race, so to speak, with far fewer resources expended. Space exploration was never quite a particularly persistent desire for the magical world, but a few French and Chinese Arithmancers banded together and snuck a paired magical scope (linked to another scope that would remain on Earth) on board a muggle mission to Mercury - the Mariner Ten.
The scope on Earth, linked as it was, with powerful charms, to the scope on board the muggle spacecraft, provided the Arithmancers with periodic readings of magical potential in space. And they discovered a startling fact about the universe - magic grew weaker the further the linked scope travelled from Earth. And eventually, just after the Mariner Ten flew past Venus - a pit-stop that the muggles called a "fly-by" on its way to Mercury - the signal failed entirely. Note that the time between the launch, when the scopes were linked, to its fly-by of Venus was about four months. A charm that links two magical scopes typically lasts decades.
In simpler terms, magic is limited to Earth. At some point away from Earth, magic ceases to exist.
This was not the only magical mission of its kind. The same group of Chinese and French Arithmancers gave the experiment yet another go - in August 1975, another linked scope, this time with several failsafes, and even more powerful charms, was smuggled onto the Viking One, a muggle craft to Mars. This time, the magical scope was travelling in the other direction, away from the sun.
It failed again, just as the Viking One landed on Mars. Once may be an error, but twice was too much of a coincidence. Earth was special. Magic was limited to Earth.
The lead Arithmancer within the group that carried out these missions - Alain Berger - was the originator of a quote that is quite often used in Arithmantic circles, "The numbers don't lie, and the magic associated with such numbers is immense - but not as immense as the ability of human beings to tumble happily towards their own doom."
The statement was an aphorism, but its strength was further proved with subsequent experiments by Arithmancers around the world. Viking Two, Phobos One, Phobos Two, Pioneer One, Pioneer Two, Venera Eleven, Venera Thirteen, Vega One, Vega Two, all the way to Galileo. These were not mere innocuous, if highly ambitious, muggle space missions. All of the muggle craft carried scopes, affixed in place by various Arithmancers around the world. Some individual, some with local Ministry backing.
All came back with the same answer. At some point away from Earth, magic failed.
And to be fair, this would hardly be a bad thing - wizards and witches had shown no inclination to flee into space, not when there were such magnificent wonders to be had here. If magic was localised around Earth, then so be it - if the Earth were some nexus that spawned magic, then so be it. The universe, however, was not so obliging.
The first scope aboard the Mariner Ten failed nearly sixty million kilometres from Earth - a reassuringly phenomenal distance. The second scope aboard the Viking One failed fifty million kilometres from Earth - a few Arithmancers surmised that the reach of magic around the Earth was perhaps asymmetrical; it extended further in one direction than the other. It was a truth that several others accepted - a reassuring truth.
The scope on board the Viking Two - which followed a similar path to Viking One - failed forty-nine million kilometres from Viking One. While the reduction from fifty to forty nine does not seem like much, one should not forget to multiply by a million - one million kilometres is a phenomenal distance by itself, and the shrinking reach of magic was slightly alarming. The Pioneer One scope failed at forty-two million kilometres from Earth, and Pioneer Two failed at forty million kilometres. The last such scope, inserted on board the Galileo, a muggle craft to Jupiter, sixteen years after the Mariner Ten, failed ten million kilometres from Earth.
Magic is retreating from the universe. There was no denying that particular truth.
And yet, ten million kilometres seemed like a long distance - there's still a large radius for magic to retreat into. Fifty million kilometres, though, is an even longer distance - and that retreat has taken sixteen years; the reach of magic beyond Earth has fallen at at the rate of three million kilometres a year over the last two decades.
Last year, a group of researchers at the Indian equivalent of our Department of Mysteries finally seemed to break free of the need to smuggle magical scopes onto muggle craft. They enchanted a sturdy Comet Two-Sixty with several protective charms, affixed a modern equivalent of the magical scope, albeit with several additional diagnostic charms, protections and wards, and sent it rocketing away from Earth.
Every single component failed eight hundred thousand kilometres away from Earth. There is now no question in any educated Arithmancer's mind - only the marching drumbeats of doom.
Fortunately for us, though, there is some respite from a bleak future without magic - the rate of descent for magic has slowed. We still have time.
And even if magic disappears from the world, and ley lines vanish entirely, Arithmancers predict that we may have just enough latent magic on Earth, trapped in runic artefacts, in ancient tombs and monuments, to sustain one more generation.
At the current rate of attrition, three generations from now, we shall all be Squibs.
The worst part is that after all this time, after all these experiments, after all these observations by the foremost minds of our age, the Ministries have done absolutely nothing about it. No concerted attempts have been made to stem this implosion of magic itself. No effort has been made towards finding out the why, the how, and methods of prevention.
All our Ministries have done with alacrity is campaign for the next vote. We would rather march toward our own doom, oblivious and naive, than do something about it. If Alain Berger were still alive, he would be both satisfied and saddened at how true his aphorism turned out to be.'
Beginning of Semester, Hogwarts Express
Harry carefully smoothed over the copy of the Daily Prophet he had read through and handed it back to Hermione, who was watching him with a frown on her face. The familiar rumble of the Hogwarts Express, barreling underneath them, was strangely soothing.
"That's… a disquieting article," he said, searching for the right words to describe his thoughts.
Hermione merely nodded. "I'm barely into my fourth year," she said, "I'm barely discovering this world. I'd hate to see it go so soon."
Ron, who had been giving Neville a play-by-play breakdown of the Quidditch World Cup, paused in his conversation to stare at them. He glanced at the Daily Prophet in Hermione's hands and groaned.
"Oh, don't tell me you believe her," Ron said, "She's Rita Skeeter. All she writes is poison. You saw how she turned Dad into the wrong sort of bloke after the Cup."
"Yes, well," Hermione said haughtily, "She's provided proof, Ron. Hard-to-deny evidence."
"Yeah, but how believable is her so-called proof?" the gangly redhead asked, "She's Rita Skeeter. Give her a gnome and she'll make it grow wings, call it a fairy and try and pin it on the Ministry."
"Is that a real saying?" Harry asked skeptically.
"No, it's not," Hermione said, just as Ron nodded. They glared at each other.
Harry leaned back in his seat, bracing himself against the inevitable argument, only for the compartment door to slam open.
"Sorry," Ginny said brightly, stepping into the compartment and glancing around at the empty space, "Eloise Midgen's making out with some bloke from Ravenclaw… in our compartment. So… er… we wanted to sit somewhere else for a bit."
Ron shuddered. "Yeah," he said darkly, "I would not want to see Eloise Midgen making out either."
"Ron," Hermione said indignantly and slapped the redhead across the arm.
Ginny shook her head. "What I meant, Ronald, was that we decided to move compartments in order to give the couple a bit of privacy. As opposed to being juvenile twits who think kissing a girl will give you cooties."
"Oi!" Ron protested, "I don't have anything against snogging. It's just that… y'know… Eloise Midgen and that weird mole on her nose that makes me want to retch."
Hermione smacked him on the arm again.
"Anyway," Ginny said loudly, trying and failing to mask her embarrassment, "I told Luna she could tag along."
"Oh, that's just brilliant," Ron mumbled as Hermione scooted over to make space for the new arrivals.
"Hello," floated a dreamy voice as a pretty girl with protuberant eyes and dirty blonde hair walked into the compartment and seated herself down beside Harry, much to the disappointment of Ginny Weasley, who was forced to make do with a seat next to Neville.
Harry glanced at Luna and gave her the barest of smiles.
"You're Harry Potter," she said, her voice bereft of all emotion. An awkward pause followed and Harry felt like he had to say something to break it.
"I… er… am?" he said, "And you're… er… Luna."
"Luna Lovegood," the girl said brightly.
Harry kept his face straight with great effort, though a pinch from Hermione helped tremendously as his lips threatened to break out into a smile. He held out his hand to the girl, who stared at it for a while. Harry shrugged and dropped his arm. He looked to the side to see how the others in the compartment were taking to the new girl; Neville and Hermione looked as confused as he was. Ron, on the other hand, just looked like he was bracing himself for an onslaught of… something. Ginny was shaking with what Harry could only assume was silent laughter.
Fortunately for him, Luna turned to her next victim. "You're Hermione Granger," she told the bushy-haired girl sitting opposite her. Hermione looked nonplussed.
"Hello Ronald," Luna continued, still oblivious to the stares she was receiving - Harry was beginning to suspect that 'oblivious' may just be Luna's default mode.
"Hey, Loony," Ron said with false cheer, and winced as Ginny kicked his leg. "Uh… Luna," Ron quickly corrected.
Harry raised an eyebrow at Ron, who shrugged and said in a dull voice, "Loon… er… Luna used to come over to our place all the time when we were kids. Her father lives right on top of that little hill… y'know, the one next to the apple orchard."
"The Rook's Nest," Luna chirped, her voice bright as she turned to face Harry again. And worse, she proceeded to stare at him as he squirmed uncomfortably.
"Er…" Harry said, desperately fishing for a topic. He noticed the magazine clutched in the blonde girl's right hand and asked, "Is that an interesting magazine?"
Luna looked at the magazine in her arm and then held it out to show it to Harry.
The Quibbler, the magazine read.
"Interesting isn't quite the right word," Hermione interjected with a snort, even as Ron and Ginny shook their heads frantically at her, "It's trash. Full of ridiculous conspiracy theories, written by idiots."
Ron palmed his face. "Excuse me," Luna said coolly, clutching the magazine to her chest, "My father is the editor."
Hermione stared at the blonde girl for a moment and flushed. "I… er…" she said, frantically trying to erase the last two seconds, "It's… still an… interesting magazine though."
Harry grimaced at the weak attempt to backtrack.
"The Quibbler is a perfectly serious magazine that collates articles from various persons of outstanding reputation. Gilderoy Lockhart once wrote in our magazine before he was impregnated by a snottlewurt."
A peal of laughter burst forth from Ginny before the redhead stifled it with her fist. Hermione seemed to shrink into her seat and Ron groaned into his palm, which was still draped over his face.
Harry, on the other hand, tried really hard to ignore the idea that Gilderoy Lockhart was apparently a person of outstanding reputation.
"Impregnated by a… er… what?" he asked blankly.
"A snottlewurt," Luna repeated with a perfectly serious lilt to her voice, "The only animals in the magical world capable of impregnating male wizards with these long, thick, tubular…"
"Okay," Ron cut in sharply, "We do not want to know."
Luna halted her explanation abruptly and turned to stare at Ron, who promptly grumbled and looked away. Harry had no idea if that was his cue to laugh, or thump his head against the window.
Before he could come to a conclusion, however, the door to the compartment slammed open once more. Harry looked towards the door dully and groaned as he saw an annoyingly familiar face present itself, flanked by two more highly unwelcome faces.
"Oh for the love of…" Hermione muttered.
"What are you three idiots doing here?" Ron asked loudly, "Is the Hogwarts Express Douche Patrol part of the regular Hogwarts Express iterinary?"
"Very clever, Weasel," Malfoy said snootily. He looked around the compartment imperiously. "Potty, mudblood," he said cheerily, nodding at Harry and Hermione while ignoring Neville and the third years. Hermione flinched, but straightened up in her seat and glared at Malfoy.
"The only reason I… deigned to grace this filthy compartment with my presence," the blonde boy said, ignoring Ron's incredulous snort, "... is because I feel sorry for all of you. So incredibly, entirely sorry to see you all fall flat on your faces this year when you realise how pathetic you three really are."
"Uh huh," Harry said dully.
"Because this year, we'll have a real contest of magic and you all shall know what true power means," Malfoy said with a flourish of his hands.
"Er… what?" Harry asked, bewildered at Malfoy's incomprehensible bluster. They glared at each other for a moment.
"You don't know?" Malfoy breathed, breaking the silence. His voice then pulsed with delight. "You don't know?" he asked again, his eyes lighting up at the idea that he had access to information that was undisclosed to the Golden Trio, "The Boy-Who-Lived, the Know-It-All and the idiot with a father at the Ministry. And you three don't know?"
"Either tell us what we don't know, Malfoy," Ron snarled, "Or get the hell out of our compartment."
"You three don't know," Malfoy crowed, "This is fantastic. Weasel, your father is in the Ministry. Oh, wait, he must not be high enough on the social ladder to be informed."
"As opposed to your Dad who has his lips attached to the Minister's pucker?" Ginny snarled, startling all of them.
"Oh great," Malfoy said, "The Weasels have a little girl too. Though she's not bad-looking, is she, boys?"
Crabbe and Goyle leered at Ginny, who glared back at them. Harry, however, leapt up to restrain Ron, who had exploded out of his sea, only to grasp at thin air. Ron rushed Draco, who tumbled back out the door and into the aisle outside. Crabbe made a sudden movement towards Ron, but Ginny's wand whipped out and the burly boy fell onto the carpeted floor, howling as he clutched at his nose. Goyle pounced upon the redheaded girl, but Harry caught the ogre-like teen around his shoulder and pushed, slamming him into the compartment wall next to Neville.
"Don't," Harry snarled, pulling out his wand and pointing it at Goyle. He glanced at Ron and Draco, who were trading punches as they rolled in the aisle outside, but was forced to duck as Goyle recovered and swung at him. Harry lashed out with his leg and Goyle tumbled towards the door, clutching at his midsection. Harry then burst upward, slamming his elbow into Goyle's nose and the boy reeled, stumbling back into the aisle. Harry stepped outside, his wand tip blazing as he looked at a scuffling Ron and Malfoy, intending to separate the two and stop the fight.
"Enough," came a soft, yet strangely powerful female voice from his right.
The two boys on the floor paused and rolled away from each other, panting indignantly. Goyle stumbled away from the wall he had been using to stand upright, while Crabbe crawled into the aisle, still clutching at his nose and away from a very smug-looking Ginny Weasley.
Harry pivoted around, only to witness a tall, blonde woman with sharp features glaring imperiously down at all of them.
"Care to explain the sequence of events that led to this… incident?" the woman asked, an open palm gesturing with simultaneous grace and disdain at the young men sprawled in the aisle. Harry merely shrugged; the woman looked very familiar, though Harry could not quite bring himself to place her at the moment.
"Mother," Draco wheezed, rubbing at a bruise on his jaw, "Er… I mean, Professor Malfoy, I was just…"
He trailed away as the woman took a step towards them. It took a moment for Harry to register what Malfoy had said, but when the words did impress themselves upon his brain, he gaped at the woman. He sensed rather than saw Ron draw up to him and glare at the imposing witch. And then, Harry remembered where he had seen her before - the Top Box during the Quidditch World Cup. She was Malfoy's mother.
She stalked towards the group, raised her wand daintily and pointed it at a whimpering Crabbe. The boy finally stopped clutching at his nose as whatever Ginny had inflicted upon him subsided with a pulse of the pureblood woman's magic. She then cast healing spells at both Malfoy and Goyle, whose bruises and minor cuts healed up immediately.
"Mister Goyle," Malfoy's mother said steadily, "That broken nose needs looking at. I've set the bone back, but I'd like Madam Pomfrey to take a look at it nonetheless. You will show yourself to her office once we reach the school."
Goyle nodded meekly and Harry was surprised to note that Crabbe, too, looked downright demure in front of the woman, while Malfoy merely gave them all a smug look. Harry grit his teeth, but strove to maintain his composure until he found out what the woman was doing here.
"Mrs Malfoy?" Hermione asked, stepping out from the compartment, and continued, as if she had read his mind, "What… are you doing on the train?"
"Going to Hogwarts. Because I shall be teaching Defence against the Dark Arts this year," Malfoy's mother said primly. Both Ron and Harry gaped at her, incredulous at the idea that the woman who raised Draco Malfoy would be allowed to teach Defence against the Dark Arts to a bunch of young students.
"Now," the woman said, "It is my first day as a Professor at this… prestigious institution, so I shall desist from handing out punishments to those of you that were involved in this foolishness. Do not mistake this act of mercy for weakness. The next time I see any of you in an unauthorised duel of any sort, I shall personally make sure that you are assigned a detention for the rest of your year.
"Are we clear?" she asked, looking around the aisle with a cold glare.
All of them nodded, though Harry found himself a bit stiff-necked as he glared at the woman. She met his gaze evenly for a moment, before she turned on her heel and marched away. Malfoy and his goons walked in the other direction, though Malfoy paused long enough to smirk at them.
Harry and Ron crossed over the aisle back into their cozy compartment; both Ginny and Neville appeared a bit shocked at the brazen display of aggressiveness on their parts, while Hermione merely appeared blase and disenchanted. She cast a charm of some sort at Ron, whose bruises cleared up ever so slightly. Hermione frowned and said, "You need to see Madam Pomfrey."
"Yeah, yeah," Ron mumbled and slumped onto the seat next to Neville. Harry walked over to the window and sat himself down in front of Luna, who stared at him in an expectant manner.
"Sorry about that," he mumbled. The girl merely shrugged and resumed perusing her magazine, which was held upside down in her dainty hands.
"Morgana's tits!" Ron snarled, provoking an indignant "Ron!" from Hermione, "Malfoy's mum is a Professor at Hogwarts! Worse, she's a Defence Professor. And we thought we had the worst of it with Quirrell."
Harry shrugged; he did not think he would be too surprised if there were a former Dark Lord sticking out of the back of her immaculately coiffured head.
"I'm… not sure we should be judging her before she's even started teaching us," Hermione said, though her heart clearly wasn't in her statement.
Ron scoffed. "Right," he said sarcastically, "Because the Malfoys being out in force may be a good thing. Totally on the side of the angels, that family." His eyes widened as he struck upon an epiphany, and he groaned, "We're never going to win the Cup again!"
Harry could not quite suppress his snicker as Hermione said hotly, "Because that's totally what matters. The Cup."
"Just saying," Ron said, holding his hands up, "It's bad enough with Snape docking points off us with every second class; add Malfoy's mum to the mix… and, well… we'll be lucky if we don't dip into negative points."
"You can't get negative points," Hermione sniffed, "Besides, I'm far more concerned about the fact that we usually find ourselves in certain… situations every year at Hogwarts - and the Defence Professor is usually right there in the middle of it all."
The bushy-haired girl glanced at Ginny and Neville uncertainly, who seemed to be hanging on to her every word at the moment, though Ginny looked a bit pale at her last pronouncement.
Ron seemed to notice his sister's apprehension. "And the Malfoys, sure as hell, were in the middle of that whole… business in Second Year."
Ginny let out a shuddering breath.
"We'll keep an eye on her," Ron told his sister, though his voice was far from reassuring.
"Personally," Hermione said quietly, "I'm wondering how Dumbledore even agreed to this whole… thing."
The First Day of Class, Hogwarts
'When the world's on the brink, when good goes down the kitchen sink, when evil is near, the man for the job is Wendel the Weird,' or so the silly refrain went - part of a theme song for a singing comic book series in the eighteen sixties that Albus Dumbledore had once been a fan of.
Although, Albus Dumbledore wished the silly refrain would not apply to him as often as it did these days. The ancient wizard eyed the mantlepiece clock and watched the seconds tick by as he waited to chair a meeting he had prayed he would never attend again. He sighed and shook his head, reflecting upon mundane, lighter matters, such as the events of the previous night.
The Sorting Feast had been a pleasant affair, though the two primary announcements seemed to have caught the students off guard - Narcissa Malfoy's appointment as Defence Professor had raised quite a few eyebrows and hushed whispers. And the Triwizard Tournament had sent an electric buzz storming through the student body - though the disappointment on the faces of most Third Years and below had been disheartening, to say the least. Albus had quite a few candidates in mind for the Tournament - Cedric Diggory was a powerful wizard in his own right, far surpassing his father, Amos. The Weasley twins were gifted wizards as well, capable of weaving magic in devious and inventive ways, though he suspected they would probably fritter away their time in the tournament on frivolous showmanship. Slytherin, too, had a powerful witch or two in their midst - such as the Head Girl, Gemma Farley. The Head Boy, Roger Davies, was a force to be reckoned with and would do quite well in a tournament of this stature.
The Goblet, though, had a mind of its own.
The fire to his office blazed green, waking Albus from his reverie, and a man with scraggly brown hair stepped right through, smiling as he saw Albus. "Remus," Albus greeted the man, who looked at him with a nervous gesture, rubbing at his chin with his left hand.
"Albus," the man greeted hesitantly, "Er… I tried to shake him off, but he insisted on coming anyway."
The fire blazed green once more and Sirius Black stepped out, looking slightly healthier than he had been at the end of the previous academic year.
"Sirius," Albus said, frowning at the man, "I had sincerely hoped you would stay low and away from the British Isles. I had no idea you were back in England again."
"Home's home," Sirius said with a shrug, looking around at the office, only to start as he stared into the eyes of Minerva McGonagall and Severus Snape. "Er…" Sirius said nervously, quailing under Minerva's level gaze, "Albus, you have told them…?" Sirius made a vague gesture with his palm.
Albus peered at the shaggy-haired ex-convict from atop his spectacles. "Indeed," he said, "You should count yourself lucky that I deigned to tell these two about your incarceration on false pretences. Were it not so, I doubt you would have done well at the tail end of their wands."
Sirius relaxed and shook his head. "Tail end of their wands?" he asked incredulously, "Not sure those could legitimately be called tail ends, Albus. And I agree with the idea of not being able to go toe to toe with Minerva."
"A fact you'd do well to remember," Minerva murmured, much to Albus' amusement.
"But this git," Sirius said without missing a beat, "I'd be able to take him with one hand tied behind my back."
"Oh please," Severus snarled with a roll of his eyes, "The only thing you'd do well with one hand tied behind your back…"
"Gentlemen," Albus interrupted quickly, "I would like to commence this meeting with no infighting; I'd rather save that for the after-parties."
Remus chuckled as both the new arrivals sat down; Sirius seated himself at the far end of Albus' table, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Severus.
"What's this about, Albus?" Remus asked curiously.
"Rumours, hearsay and the account of a paranoid old man," Albus said mildly, "But first, we shall start with a concrete statement. Lord Voldemort is not dead."
Minerva, Sirius and Remus gaped at him. Severus flinched, but looked defiant, with beetle-black eyes glimmering in the torch-light. Fawkes crooned softly from his perch next to the desk.
"Severus," Albus asked gently, "If you'd be so kind…"
The Potions Professor grimaced and turned to face the three on his right. Gingerly, he clasped a hand around his left sleeve and drew it up to expose his forearm.
"Books away, wands in hand," Narcissa Malfoy told them, her voice stiff and her heels clicking with inordinate authority as she swept into the Defence Classroom. Her students scrambled to obey her; a profound sense of satisfaction swept through her at the notion of how her command was obeyed immediately, with nary an attempt at resistance.
She surveyed the room with a steely gaze, evaluating her students and gauging them for signs of potential. She was disappointed when she found none - then again, these were Fourth Years. And Gryffindors at that.
The Longbottom heir practically quailed before her gaze, withdrawing into himself in a manner that did not befit a wizard of his stature and ancestry. There was a girl from the Patil family, but the manner in which she fumbled for a wand indicated that she had no experience in duelling at all. Her friend - another pureblood from the Brown Family - was equally disappointing; she seemed more intent on scribbling notes for make-up and home remedies than spellcasting. As for the Finnegan boy, she had never known that family to have produced an upstanding wizard. Dean Thomas - a gangly, if handsome boy - looked fairly alert and vaguely familiar to Narcissa. And she gave him credit for his effort at magic, but none for execution; he tried to clear his desk with his wand, but failed miserably, scattering his ink jar all over the floor, Dunbar seemed far too interested in staring at Thomas dreamily to sustain her interest.
And right at the back of the class were the trio who her son thought were the worst students in Hogwarts: Hermione Granger, the muggleborn. Ron Weasley, the youngest male child of the Weasley Family. And Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.
Granger was perhaps the only child of the lot that looked eager to learn. Ron Weasley was glaring darkly at her, and Potter merely seemed tense.
"I suppose a brief introduction is in order," she said tersely, "I am Narcissa Malfoy. My credentials are irrelevant - as of this moment, I am the most powerful magical being in this room."
Her smirk grew more pronounced as she witnessed her last statement send indignant ripples reverberating through the classroom.
"As for my teaching style, I'm afraid you shall all find me very demanding," she said, walking across the floor and towards the Patil-Brown duo, "And that means no 'Top Ten at Hogwarts' list, Miss Brown."
The girl she had addressed turned a very interesting shade of red. "One point from Gryffindor," she said coldly, as the two looked abashed, and the Brown girl frantically crumpled her list.
"Now," she said, "Onto the curriculum. I received quite a few notes from the… being… who taught you last year."
She glanced at the trio at the back, and saw them all stiffen at the evident lack of respect in her voice for the werewolf who had masqueraded as a Professor and been so presumptuous as to send his pathetic notes to her. At Dumbledore's request, no less.
Interesting reaction, she thought, looking right at a suddenly mutinous-looking Harry Potter in particular.
"Nonetheless," she continued, "The notes were adequate for my purposes. If I understand your history in this subject correctly, so far, you've largely tackled magical creatures and a few basic jinxes and hexes. Am I correct?"
Granger nodded firmly.
"We shall be taking a bit of a leap this year," she said, "To curses, counters and the use of spells in duelling."
While the rest of the class paled at her words, she noticed Potter's eyes light up, though he suppressed it almost immediately.
"However," she said, "Before tackling so complex a curriculum, I have devised a… test of sorts to gauge where you stand as far as the magical arts are concerned. As Mister Thomas demonstrated so ably, the willingness to use magic is not quite the same as the ability to wield it. A Banishing Charm, tweaked just so, may send an ink jar zooming neatly into your case, or it may cause the jar to flail and make a mess all over the floor."
Thomas flushed a dark red, much to her amusement.
"Therefore, we shall start with the simplest charm of them all," she said, "Levitation."
She waved her wand and conjured nine golden balls from thin air. The balls floated over to her students, presenting each student with a heavy golden sphere.
Narcissa withdrew her magic into herself ever so slowly, letting the balls thump lightly onto each student's desk.
"Mister Finnegan, Mister Thomas," she said, and the two boys practically stood to attention, "Lift those up, would you?" She inclined her head towards the spheres on their desks.
The two boys stared at her for a moment before they followed her instruction. Not quite the brightest lot, Narcissa thought to herself.
She watched with mild amusement as the two boys strove to lift the spheres, only to fail miserably.
"As you can all see," she said, waving a hand at them, "The specific gravity of these spheres is so large that they simply cannot be lifted by an ordinary human being. You shall use the levitation charm to lift them. Then, you shall shoot them right into this target, with the same charm. If I so much as hear a Waddiwasi or a similar spell, I shall be incredibly disappointed."
She conjured nine sets of heavy wooden boards, with a bullseye drawn on each.
"I do not want your spheres bouncing off the boards," she said, "I want them to pierce the wood and stay lodged."
She surveyed the class once more and Granger raised her arm.
"Professor?" she asked, "I've… never heard of the Levitation Charm being used in such a manner."
Narcissa smirked. "How does one cast a spell, Miss Granger?" she asked sharply.
The girl frowned in thought, then answered carefully, "Through a wand. Specifically, magic is channeled in a certain manner when a magical being inscribes relevant runes with her wand."
"An astute answer," Narcissa said, "One point to Gryffindor."
Granger preened and the rest of the class stared at Narcissa, wide-eyed - it was evident that they did not expect her to be so impartial as to grant Gryffindor any points at all.
"But an answer that demonstrates merely a rudimentary understanding of magic," Narcissa said sharply, and watched Granger deflate with mild amusement. She continued, "Casting a spell involves much more than simply pushing a rune into the ley lines that surround us. By that logic, all a muggle would need is a wand with a magical core and a basic understanding of runes to cast spells.
"What makes us so different from them, is our affinity towards magic," she said, "We can take the magic that lies around us and channel it through a rune to have a specific effect upon the world and the environment around us. The difference between a jinx, and a curse, and a charm lies in the manner in which we channel magic… but that topic is not quite something we're concerned with at the moment.
"The key takeaway here is this - runes enable beings with an affinity for magic to cast magic in a specific manner. Essentially, a rune tells the magic that pervades the world around us what to do, and how to act. Now, Miss Granger, if you would be so kind as to demonstrate the Levitation Spell on an object other than the sphere - perhaps, on the book lying near your desk?"
Granger nodded at her and went through the requisite wand motions to cast the spell. "Wingardium Leviosa," the girl chanted with perfect enunciation and the ratty book lying next to her, perhaps from the previous class, rose into the air with barely a shudder.
"A fine demonstration," Narcissa said. She raised her own wand. "Now, observe my attempt to use the Levitation Charm."
She flicked her wand at the book and it was snatched from Granger's grasp with barely any effort.
"Now," she said, "What did you all observe?"
Granger looked like she wanted to answer, but Narcissa cut her off. "Someone other than Miss Granger, please," she said, "When I teach a class, I expect whole-hearted participation. And there really is no need to raise your hand unless you're planning to ask a question of me."
"You did not use runes," Potter said tersely, "You simply flicked your wand and the spell just… happened."
"Indeed," Narcissa said.
"And you didn't use words either," Dean Thomas said.
"Absolutely," she agreed, "But the silent casting wasn't quite the point of that demonstration. Mister Potter is correct - I did not use the requisite wand motions to cast the spell.
"Which ultimately means that runes are not necessary to wield magic. Our affinity to wield magic also gives us an instinctive ability to sense its flow through our wands, our very body. Practise a spell enough, and you can cast it with barely a word and a thought.
"Modifying a spell, tweaking it so that it exceeds its original intention, is no different. Ultimately, Hogwarts is merely an institution that teaches us instinct though discipline."
Some of the students looked mystified, but Narcissa pressed on, "However, for the purpose of our lesson, all you have to know is this - modifying the levitation charm just so, requires you to truly sense the flow of magic through your wands as you cast them; ultimately, if you try hard enough, you shall be able to put that sphere on your desks right through the boards at the far end of the classroom.
"Now, begin."
Sirius leaned forward in his chair, his gaunt face made even paler in light of the revelation that had just been foisted upon them all.
"Bellatrix Lestrange… a woman who was declared deceased by the Ministry… is alive and attacked Alastor Moody?" Sirius asked, "Alastor Moody?"
Albus nodded grimly.
"I don't get it," Sirius said, shaking his head, "Not that ol' Mad-Eye hasn't created a large pool of extremely dangerous enemies, but why would she attack him, of all people? Wouldn't someone like Crouch be higher up her bump-him-off list?"
Albus steepled his fingers together atop the oak table and looked off into the distance.
"I'm afraid I'm as in the dark, as it were, as you are," he sighed, "But perhaps this is a point worthy of consideration - Alastor Moody was the first choice to teach Defence against the Dark Arts this year."
An annoyed huff escaped Minerva and she interjected in her characteristic sharp tone, "Until Lucius Malfoy got that appointment overturned for his wife."
"Indeed," Albus said. He inclined his head and continued, "But lest we forget, we must remember Narcissa Malfoy not as the woman who married Lucius Malfoy, but as the phenomenally ambitious pureblood that once graced these walls. More often than not, she was overshadowed by the prowess of her elder sister, but I have always believed Mrs Malfoy to be more talented in the art of manipulation and diplomacy than her sister could ever dream of being."
"Sure," Sirius said with a shrug, "She may not have been a prodigy along the lines of Bellatrix, but I remember her being lethal with a wand in hand."
"I can attest to that," Severus said dully, "She's not an ordinary witch, by any means."
"She does have depth to her potential that she may not have had much chance to display to great effect," Albus agreed, "I do not believe we should underestimate her importance to the state of our world. More importantly, her sudden appointment at Hogwarts is too blunt a show of force on Lucius' part to be mere facilitation of his wife's lifelong passion of teaching budding young witches and wizards."
"There must be an ulterior motive," Remus finished. Albus nodded.
Sirius shook his head. "I'm not even going to try and get inside dear Cousin 'Cissa's head," he said, "That woman was always too clever for her own good. Luckily for us though, she spent most of Hogwarts trying to climb up the social ladder to bother with such trivialities as dark lords and wizarding wars."
"I wouldn't make light of her abilities," Albus said mildly, "She may have been unduly influenced by certain primeval notions of pureblood culture and a woman's role in such a culture, due, in no small parts, to the late Mrs Black, but I do not ever recall her struggling to keep up with her lessons. Moreover, she has written papers on magical theory that boggle even my mind with her ability to dissect a topic with exceedingly astute deductive abilities."
Sirius shrugged. "I'm not worried about Narcissa," he said firmly, "She's been on the sidelines for too long to be an effective player in any game. I'd be more far more freaked out by the idea that Bellatrix is alive. And that she attacked Alastor Moody."
"Is Alastor doing well?" Remus asked gently.
"He is recovering from his injuries," Albus said, "The Ministry refused to entertain his claims…"
"No surprises there," Sirius muttered ruefully.
"... But yes," Albus continued, "Bellatrix always was too powerful a witch for her own good. If she truly is free and working towards the return of Lord Voldemort, I fear our time of peace shall soon come to an end."
Harry had snorted, along with Ron, when their new Defence Professor had asked them to feel out their magic, as if it were some mystical, flimsy Divination-influenced Inner Eye. He had joined Ron in making snide comments about how Malfoy's mum was handling the class, at least until Hermione snapped at them for not making an effort.
Then, both he and Ron had proceeded to make half-hearted attempts at influencing the Leviosa spell "just so."
"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry chanted dully. His ball rolled to the edge of the table, and he looked askance at Hermione, who seemed to be muttering the spell under her breath with her eyes closed. Her sphere was floating inches of the table, but it continued to hover in place. He sighed.
"Pathetic," came the snide voice of Narcissa Malfoy, making Harry grit his teeth in annoyance, "Our resident celebrity is apparently incapable of performing a charm taught to first years."
Harry merely glared at the vile woman, who had now come to a halt beside him and was looking at him with narrowed eyes that seemed to spew condescension.
Great, he thought, We've got another Snape.
"So pathetic," the woman said with a patronising shake of her head, "That he does not even realise the fact that emotions and zeal have much to do with the ability to perform magic. Flop your hand about in an effeminate manner, barely even applying your mind to the magic you are about to perform, and your ball shall be as limp as your… personality, Mister Potter."
The class seemed to gasp as Harry seethed in humiliation.
He continued to glare defiantly at the woman, who merely smirked, leaned towards him and said in a whisper that carried across the room, "For all her failings, Lily Potter was, much like Miss Granger here, a zealous witch who applied herself to every spell she came across with an intensity that belied her otherwise mild persona. Of all the people in the world you hold dear, she, I believe would be most disappointed in you if she ever saw you laze your way through learning magic - something she thought was the most wonderful thing in the world."
And that hurt. Harry smarted from the figurative blow as Narcissa turned away with a disgusted frown and moved towards the rest of the class. He dared not look at this friends, as the burning pit of humiliation in his stomach churned with guilt, anger and not an insignificant amount of self-loathing.
"Oh, Harry," came Hermione's sympathetic voice.
And that was the last straw. At Hermione's voice - which he knew she had uttered with genuine sympathy, but what he perceived, in that heated moment, as patronising - his rage won out. Magic bubbled up within him, his fist curled and his wand curved upwards. His hand flexed and uncurled and a rush of force whipped right through him. The air rippled ahead of him and the metal sphere on the desk ricocheted away from his desk and towards the wooden board.
A wrenching crack later, the entire class was staring at a massive, jagged hole punched right through the heavy wooden board in front of his desk.
He then turned, panting, to look at the Defence Professor, who was staring, wide-eyed, at him.
After a long, tense moment, Professor Malfoy pursed her lips.
"Detention, Mister Potter," she said.
"So why us, Albus?" Sirius asked, "Where are all the others? The main men? Sturgis, Emmeline, Andromeda, Hestia, Kingsley… and the others?"
"They are all, I believe, ensconced in day jobs, and perhaps, a fair amount of indolence," Albus replied, "Though I assure you that I shall have similar conversations with the old crowd. And quite a few new faces.
"Nonetheless," he continued, "I called you two here for the other large problem that has long plagued our world - a problem that shall have ramifications far beyond the existence of a mere Dark Lord..."
Albus peered at the worried faces arrayed before him and said, "... The ebb of all magic. And a prophecy that has not seen the light of day for fourteen long and painful years."
Narcissa looked up from the book she had been perusing, only to see Harry Potter enter her office with a frown plastered to his face. The boy trudged across to her desk and stood before her, not looking the slightest bit abashed. Narcissa looked askance at him for a moment, taking great pleasure in drawing out the boy's discomfort. She could not bring herself to form an opinion of the boy, but at that moment, he was the single greatest example of all of her students' failings - a magical being, actively encouraged to be incapable, going through the motions in a school that had fallen under the sway of a doddering old fool who knew no better.
All of Draco's warnings, his critiques of Harry Potter were proving to be true. The Boy-Who-Lived was no hero; merely an idiot who stumbled into foxhole after foxhole and then escaped with the Headmaster's help.
Finally, Narcissa relented and asked, "Why are you here, Mister Potter?"
He looked up at her incredulously, before he schooled his expression to appear more sedate. "For my detention," he said simply.
Narcissa waved his explanation aside. "Not quite what I meant," she said mildly, "I meant to ask you why you're here. At Hogwarts."
He stared at her for a moment and his face seemed to radiate a sudden, surprising intensity as he placed his palms on her desk and leaned forward. "Just because I'm a so-called half-blood…" he started, before Narcissa stopped him with an open palm.
"Again," she said, exasperated, "Not quite what I meant." She cast around for a different way to get her meaning through to him, before saying, "I never really liked Lily Potter."
Potter's eyebrows shot up, but she continued before he could retort, "I'm not implying that Lily was a bad person, so to speak; I merely mean to say that I never really got along with her. I thought she was a bit prissy, a bit stuck up, a bit too eager-to-please, but I never really begrudged her for the fact that she belonged at Hogwarts just as much as I did.
"Simply put, I'm not a firm believer in the superiority of blood," she said with a frown.
That seemed to bring Potter up cold - his face, which had been heating up with every word she said about Lily, had gone slack, betraying his surprise at her declaration.
Narcissa wiggled her fingers and tiny, arcing streams of light shot forth from her fingertips. She smirked at Potter's gasp.
"I'm no ordinary witch myself," she admitted, "But your mother and I shared one other common trait, much as I'm loath to admit it - we both were highly taken by the sheer wonder of magic. An extraordinary force that pervades the entire world, a force that only a select few may wield to great effect, a state of being that is so wonderfully weird and capricious…
"And then I come here, only to find that the students I teach think magic is such a chore. There are a few exceptions, of course, like your friend - Miss Granger… but I'm not entirely convinced her thirst for knowledge trumps her need for self-validation most of the time."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Potter asked indignantly.
"She knew answers to at least half of the questions she posed to me in class," Narcissa replied, "Her questions weren't intended to test me, or to enrich her own knowledge of magic, but to prove that she'd read ahead in class.
"Anyway," Narcissa continued, ignoring Potter's glare, "We are not discussing Miss Granger. We are elucidating the idea of magic."
"Magic?" the boy asked, as his glare fell away and his eyes glimmered with mild curiosity, "What is this about… Professor?" The last word dripped with disdain and Narcissa grimaced.
"Why do you think we can perform magic, but muggles cannot?" she asked rhetorically and continued, "Magic is a force that permeates the world, and only some beings on this planet have enough affinity towards it to actually use it, let alone wield it.
"This… affinity… is what makes us - you, me and everyone else at Hogwarts - unique. But not all witches and wizards are gifted with the same level of affinity towards magic. Some have more affinity than most - and such wizards are few and far in between."
"Like the Headmaster," Potter said, smiling triumphantly at her.
"And the Dark Lord," she replied, and his smile turned into a scowl.
"Truth be told," she continued, "I did not expect any of you to be able to perform a spell by instinct alone; runic motions and wands are bequeathed to all witches and wizards for a particular reason - to be able to channel magic appropriately, and to be able to use their affinity towards magic in a structured, forthright manner. I, myself, have practised the Leviosa spell countless times before - my affinity for it stems from my intimate knowledge of all the pathways such a spell entails, of the feeling it engenders as magic flows through my body, and a host of other things that I simply cannot fashion into descriptive sentences.
"But you had none of that. And yet, you performed the spell towards the end," Narcissa stated. She raised an eyebrow at Potter expectantly.
The boy squirmed for another moment, and then replied, "I was… angry."
"At me?" she asked. When he did not speak, she sighed and said, "You have my permission to speak freely, Mister Potter."
"Yes," he grit out, "Angry at you."
Narcissa smiled smugly at him. "So it was accidental magic," she said, "Not quite a prodigal performance by an otherwise mediocre wizard. Just a temper tantrum that manifested itself as magic. Pathetic."
Potter flinched, and her smile widened significantly as she observed the slump of his shoulders.
"There is no shame in aspiring to a life of graceful humility and judicious frugality," she said, "But I see no reason why any wizard would be proud of striving towards mediocrity. And yet, here you are, with a chip on your shoulder - the son of a muggleborn witch who was worth ten of you."
Potter seemed to sag before her and she took great pleasure in seeing his pathetic self-righteousness vanish.
"In fact," Narcissa said, standing up from her seat and rolling her shoulders, "I'm going to prove it to you. This shall be a very different sort of detention, I'm afraid; you shall duel me, and I shall demonstrate what magic truly means."
Schooled.
It was a common enough expression, but only now did Harry know the sheer depth of humiliation the term attempted to convey.
He had been schooled in duelling by Draco Malfoy's mother. This was not a feeling he would cherish, but one he was not likely to forget - it burned in the pit of his stomach as he got up morosely from the cold stone floor, again.
He had fought the vile Professor three times so far, and his fights were barely worthy of being called duels. For duelling implied a competition that pitted like against like, foe against foe, skill against skill.
He had been massacred.
The first time, all it had taken was a single, powerful, unidentifiable spell from the Professor that barreled into his side and left him gasping upon the floor, powerless to wipe her smug smirk off her face.
The second fight could barely even be called a fight. He managed to dodge the first volley of spells and managed to get off a hasty Body-Bind that missed her by a country mile. Then he was sent sailing through the air by a simple, but powerful Disarming Spell.
The third time, his Disarming Spell fizzled out against the wall four feet to her left as he missed entirely, and Narcissa conjured a bloody lion that charged and pinned him down, slobbering all over his face. He could practically feel the smug superiority flowing from Narcissa at that display - a Gryffindor, pinned down by his House mascot, which in turn was conjured by a former Slytherin. McGonagall would have had a conniption.
But he simply could not bring himself to give up.
"Pathetic," Narcissa snarled, "All those legends woven around your birth, around your vanquishing of the Dark Lord, all those myths about your prowess, and here you are - a worm writhing upon the ground before me. This is the magic you've learnt at Hogwarts? A Body-Bind and a Disarming Spell are all that four years of education have taught you?"
Potter got up gingerly, glaring at her, though his previously malignant glare was almost comical in Narcissa's eyes - he was not potent, and therefore, his glare was merely for show.
"Again," he snarled, brandishing his wand.
Narcissa smirked and raised her own wand. "A glutton for punishment, I see," she crowed. Her wand whipped forward with alacrity and a crackle of lightning burst forth. Potter rolled to the side, panting visibly, but barely managed to dodge it. Narcissa jabbed her wand at him, compensating for his re-positioning, and the chain of lightning whipped to the side.
"Aguamenti," Potter roared, but his spell was far off the mark. He jumped back, and Narcissa smirked again as she wove her lightning forward. Her eyes met his, and she knew hers were shining with triumph.
And then, her breath caught in her throat as his eyes blazed green. He whipped his wand outward, carving frantic runes into the air. And just as her chain lightning touched his left arm, it sizzled out and she was caught off-guard as a fiery ball of bluebell flames exploded out from his wand, tearing right through her conjured lightning. She quickly slashed her wand down, calling forth a silvery, translucent shield.
His powerful, fiery sphere shuddered against her advanced shield, and her shield shattered as it was pit against the sheer strength of his conjuration. Narcissa was forced to step aside as the ball of fire slammed into a lone chair, reducing it to kindling. Potter panted and whipped his wand out tiredly, but she was faster - she sent a flurry of ropes at him, which promptly bound him before he could get his spell off and summoned his wand from his hand.
He had lost another duel.
Narcissa's hand trembled as she was made aware of the tingle of magic that had swept the entire room.
She looked into his glimmering green eyes as he lay bound on the floor and realised that she had misread his call for a fourth duel - he was no masochist; his eyes shone not with hatred, but with defiance borne of an unanticipated intensity, a spirit so profound that she found it startling.
And his magic sang when he truly wielded it. The incident in Defence Class was not an isolated anomaly. Her shield, by all rights, should have rendered Narcissa invulnerable to the common cold fire spell. But the sheer power of his conjuration had overwhelmed her shield and torn it apart as if it were made of brittle foil.
Behind those simmering green eyes hid a well of immense, primal power.
Narcissa smirked inwardly as her expression softened. She vanished the ropes, only to extend a hand towards the prone young man. The boy looked up at her, appearing surprised at her gesture of kindness, but shrugged and grasped her hand as she helped him up.
"Well done," she said, "That... was a display your mother would have been proud of."
His shoulders straightened just a tiny bit, though his glare had yet to be tempered.
"Nonetheless," she said, pointing at the chair, "For destroying the property of the school, despite the fact that I specifically asked you to avoid using lethal spells… that would amount to two further detentions, Mister Potter."
His lips curled downwards, but halted as she smiled at him benignly. "You could consider these sessions detentions, or Remedial Defence lessons, but I assure you I won't have you engage in such mundane chores as writing lines or standing in a corner.
"Instead, I shall attempt to teach you how to duel. My skills have become rusty after years of complacency, and I shall enjoy a chance to use them. And in time, you may prove to be an opponent worthy of me. Until then, though, you shall have to make do with my tutelage. Is that acceptable?"
Narcissa smiled at him. He nodded back tentatively and left the room, though his countenance seemed guarded.
Her smile became more pronounced. Narcissa had discovered the tribute the Malfoy family would pay to the Dark Lord. All she had to do now, was win his trust and lead him to oblivion.