((Sorry I haven't updated, to the few who have actually read the chapter. I realize the latter update was short, and probably not satisfying, but it's only due to the poor quality of my computer and the problems it has presented. The next update will be more satiating, I promise. ))
Chapter 3
Everything seemed to be going by in a whirring rush of sounds, tastes, and colors. Faxon barely had enough time to sleep, what with the impending apprehension and the ever-present throbbing of his hand. His first appearance at Hogwarts (he later learned) seemed to stir up some curiosity and, oddly, mistrust. He recalled with some confusion the first night he had arrived at the wizarding school.
The train ride, despite some bickering students that had decided to sit in his compartment, had been rather uneventful. Only when he had finally decided to stop trying to sleep and perhaps take a look around, did he find his first jolt of unadulterated panic. A young man of perhaps seventeen walked by his compartment, an awkward smile on his pale face. He had dark messy hair, bright green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses, and a thin if not slightly unhealthy look about him. He was soon followed by a young lady with frizzing brown hair, who seemed to be trying to get his attention with an authoritative and almost panic-stricken manner. Straggling ungracefully behind the latter was a red-haired boy whose height made him gangly and somewhat clumsy.
Faxon knew these three. Knew them better, perhaps, than most of the students in their grade.
He could feel the blood draining from his face. Nay, his whole body. Instinctually he clutched his blackened right hand closer to his body, hiding it in the folds of his plain black robes. The boy with the black messy hair glanced in his direction right before continuing down the hallway, probably in search of someone. When their eyes met, Faxon felt a flash of emotion that he couldn't discern. Something like anxiety, envy and shame rolled up in to an arrow of piercing strength.
The students in the compartment began looking in his direction now. No doubt he looked like something out of an old horror movie, his pale face shining with sweat. He ended by covering the whole thing up with a few violent coughs, hoping the idea of him being sick would explain it away, and if not, then at least clear the compartment.
When he had finally arrived at Hogwarts, he felt almost refreshed. He had seen the goal he had been assigned, and had managed not to make a complete fool of himself. He was powerfully tempted to fall on the bed in his small intimate quarters and take a long night's rest, maybe look over his papers and prepare for his first day. However, the beginning of the year feast was already starting, and so he had little time to look himself over in the mirror before dashing towards the Great Hall.
Being here again reminded him of so many things, so much, in fact, that he could barely focus on just one. It smelled as he remembered; the cold almost metallic scent of the old stones of the walls, the dust on the suits of armor and the sumptuous smell of the food coming from the Hall. How he had loved this school, loved it and hated it, one way or another.
The sorting hat ceremony had been calm enough, except for the fainting of a young girl with blonde braids. She was awakened before long, though, and soon enough Dumbledore had stood up to make his speech.
"Welcome back," He had begun, his clear blue eyes scanning over the staring crowd of students. "My warnings, I fear, must be made once again. The war has gotten worse, as most of us know, and it is difficult to sometimes know in whom to trust. Let it be known, however, that in order to trust others, we must first trust ourselves. Now, as most know, the Forbidden Forest is just as its name suggests, therefore there will be no students allowed to enter it. All Hogsmeade visits have been cancelled-"
There was a loud groan from the crowd, including rather irritated looks from some of the staff. Faxon had been sitting between Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape, neither of whom seemed to find this news worthy of reaction. He had been to school with Snape, who had been a few years above him, but didn't know him well. Professor McGonagall, however, had become somewhat of a new acquaintance. In the few moments that passed the groans had died down, and Dumbledore had begun once again.
"-I realize that it is a disappointment, but in these times they simply cannot be allowed. Now, we have organized for different in-school pleasantries in order to make up for the loss, and hope you will all cooperate. Now, enjoy the feast, and have a good year."
Dumbledore sat down, and soon the Hall was all clanking and chatter. Faxon had felt momentarily bewildered. Was there to be no announcement of his arrival to the Hogwarts staff? No introduction to the newest Professor? He sat there, the food around him hardly enticing him in his distracted state.
"Something wrong, Price?" A cold voice had asked somewhere near the vicinity of Faxon's right ear, making him jump. He had found himself looking directly in to the black liquid eyes of Severus Snape, who was staring at him with such intensity Faxon felt like he had shrunk about two feet.
"Nothing, sir," Faxon replied with an easy smile, helping himself to freshly baked bread. He let his eyes roam the Hall, falling once more on that boy with messy hair, that boy with the honest green eyes, that boy who lived…
"Nervous?" Snape asked, eyebrows rising in a condescending manner. Faxon cleared his throat and looked back over at his colleague.
"More excited, I would say," he replied cheerily, and this seemed to disgust Snape enough that the conversation had ended there.
And then that was when the whirring blur of time had started, and before Faxon knew it, three school days had passed, and he was on his way to teach his seventh class on a cold clear Thursday morning. His first class had gone fairly smoothly, the second years seemed keen to listen, although there were the usual troublemakers. But it was this present morning that he was dreading the most as he walked quickly down the third floor corridor, glancing at his watch, and holding sloppily organized folders under his right arm. It was the seventh years, this morning, and he was hopelessly nervous. The older they got, the bolder, or so he had learned from both professional and personal experience.
Soon enough he had reached his classroom door, and taking a moment to straighten up and take a calming breath, he finally opened it.
