Author's Note:
The Professor: Hello, and welcome to the third chapter of our story, "A Gifted Syllable". Anyone reading this? 17 visitors, no reviews . . .
Ambrose: Quick, do a new chapter (again)! We must attract readers! Oh yeah, disclaimer - Harry Potter and all other people, places, concepts, species', etc that are affiliated with the Harry Potter universe are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling, and of course all those guys at Warner Bros. who do the movies probably own a bit too . . . Any and all other references to outside TV shows, movies, cartoons, books, etc, are not in any way inclined toward encroaching copyright. Done, done, done! Now quick - chapter!
The Professor: Here we go! Enjoy the chapter, and read and review, guys!
(Chapter 3 - Start)
Some time ago, around 887 A.D, Hogwarts castle was built by the four greatest wizards of the age: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. The castle was then set up as a school to educate witches and wizards all over the British Isles. As such a hothouse for magical energy and teenage aggression, it has inevitably had quite a few bloody incidents in its thousand year history.
The murder of Kingsley M. Shacklebolt, while the latest in a long line of deaths that had taken place at Hogwarts, was certainly not like any of these other 'incidents'. It was not an accident, unlike most of the deaths; it had not been a spur of the moment action, either, and so it was a doubly interesting event for Harry James Potter - who did so enjoy a good old-fashioned murder plot, especially if it had a certain newness to it. ("Think of it as a resurrection of an old tradition!" The words sprung into his head)
This interest had a most unexpected effect on Mr Potter - for the first time in seven months, he did not trip out of the Floo and onto a carpet. Instead, he heaved himself out of the sooty, vertical fire tunnel that most people called a fireplace, and proceeded to brush himself off, noting Ron was doing the same in front of him. As he became tired of ruffling his clothes, he drew his wand and cast another cleaning spell upon himself (absently reflecting on the pro's and con's of casting a cleaning charm that would stay and keep him clean all day).
Fenrir Greyback, the duty office for the Auror morning shift, noted this all with an expression on his face that closely resembled that of a police constable who looked after the holding cells on a Saturday night anywhere in England; carefully schooled impatience and acceptance of various quirks of his charges. He had his arms folded as he inspected the two men who had just stumbled out of the Floo; so far he was less than impressed with the specialist help Amelia had sent (though the shorter one sent his inner wolf pacing, for a reason he couldn't quite identify) and conveyed as much with the tapping of his foot.
He was very tall man, taller than both of the men in front of him, with mellow brown, streaked with silver, hair that fell about his face like a mane. His face was rough and edgy, not what one would call conventionally handsome, and his skin was the color of pale cinnamon, with a smattering of similarly colored stubble upon his chin and around his mouth, in the faint outline of a goatee. This, combined with the swirling amber and yellow that made up his eyes, gave him almost the look of a tamed animal. He was attired in the basic Auror uniform; a simple, so-dark-as-to-be-black purple robe and trousers, which had a beaten brown belt going through the loops and which ended in a shabbily done up buckle. He also wore over-used Vans trainers, which were quite large so as to accommodate his size eleven-and-a-half feet.
He had been in the B.A.F for some two years now, after having been captured and sequestered in a werewolf rehabilitation centre for having bitten seven separate people from 1985 to 1993. He had gone in a slavering feral, and come out a grumpy but functional member of society (but only if he took those bloody mood pills - they messed up his head, those things did, he was sure, and not in the way they were supposed to). By grumpy, one meant that he fell into a bad mood at the slightest provocation, and only found his way out after a stiff drink. This had led to some of the Ministry desk-jockeys nicknaming him 'I'll huff and puff, and then I'll fall down' or the Huffer for short. Of course, he had never been called this to his face.
"You two the detectives Bones sent?" he asked gruffly - his vocal chords alternated between gruff, rumbly, growling and coughing, as the result of having howled at the moon for thirty of his thirty three years - and Harry nodded, sending him a polite smile, while Ron seemed to be sizing him up and coming up short. "Are you the Auror captain?" he asked, with a note of incredulity in his barely mature voice. Fenrir began to get agitated.
"Do I look like the bloody Auror captain?" he said, sending an unimpressed glance at Ron. "I'm the duty officer; I'm supposed to make sure you get set up in here, then escort you to the castle - escort, I ask you, got better things to do than look after a little twit barely outta the cradle -" He trailed off as he said the last bit, sending a scornful glance in the general direction of the castle, then turning back to the pair.
The shorter one (Fenrir peeled back the sleeve on his left wrist, where he had scribbled their last names and hair color in case he forgot) who was called Potter had wandered over to the bar counter, where Madam Rosemerta was serving an elderly gentleman with the smell of burnt candyfloss around him a glass of Firewhiskey. He was chatting to her, seemingly quite amiably if one was judging by the ease with which the two were gesturing with their hands, and Fenrir gave a satisfied huff. Why should he have to set up the newbies peanut tab? Good.
The other one, Weasley according to his wrist, was staring over into the corner of the inn. Fenrir craned his neck to follow his line of sight, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The idiot was looking like a lovestruck puppy at Gabrielle Delacour - who, according to the others in the small group of Aurors who had been left behind, was more haughty than Notre Dame bell tower. That'd be a fun one to watch; he'd taken an instant disliking to the carrot-top.
The other one twisted his upper body around from the counter-top and indicated to Fenrir he was wrapping it up. He gave a brisk nod, and tapped the redhead on the shoulder. He spun around so fast that Fenrir thought he might be motion sick, and had a vaguely abashed look on his face, which soon turned to realization as Potter came back over. "We ready to go then?" he asked, and as Potter opened his mouth, Fenrir cut in.
"Damn straight we are, now let's move." he said, starting to clear a path to the exit, an objective easily achieved by his formidable girth. The other two followed in his wake, and they just caught the door as it was about to close, Fenrir already out on the High street. They left the door to close, and began the walk up to Hogwarts castle.
(Chapter 3 - End)
The Professor: And that's that. Chapter three - done.
Ambrose: Yep. That's all from us this update. Make sure you leave some feedback - we really do need it, and it's very much appreciated. Read and review, guys!