DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO JKR AND/OR WARNER BROS.
A/N: Please review!
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Smeltings School was a vast concrete building network constructed on the site of the old Smeltings Boys' Grammar which was built on the site of a very successful steel works. The original school had burned down, its building razed to the ground in the 1960s by departing students having an end-of-year lark. That had been the official canon, duly recorded in the prospectus at any rate, although it had long been suspected that it had been an insurance job carried out by the headmaster and the extensive facilities added during the construction of the replacement school did nothing to dispel this rumour.
These days the school was independent and, as long as you were male and your parents could afford the tuition fees the school would bend over backwards to accommodate you. As far as modern thinking was concerned, Smeltings strove as hard as it could be to be inclusive by isolating vast swathes of the local population.
These were the thoughts that passed through the head of Philip McFarlane as he scanned the boys sitting before him in his English lesson, heads bent in supplication, or at least mock-supplication (many could feign work where necessary, one even citing it as a specialised skill upon his curriculum vitae). He had joined the school two years ago with the lure of a large pension and better working conditions, but the latter was in fact a fallacy. A larger wage and prospects were balanced unequally with numerous duties: those of his house; during prep and homework, meals and rest-time. In addition lessons extended to a Saturday and though only until 1 o'clock Saturday afternoons and Sundays were the realm of extra-curricular activities to which each student was expected to contribute (and which Mr. McFarlane had deftly managed to avoid for most of the year.)
Three weeks' Easter break had been a marvellous incentive, Philip could not deny this and that would have been a wonderful break had it not been filled with a week of Easter school, preparing year 9 students for their forthcoming GCSE exams, and the year 11s with their A-levels. In fact, mused Philip McFarlane grimly with the maintenance he had to pay his ex wife he had very little spare money. In fact, he would be better off working in a supermarket for what little he did have.
Shattering his jaded thoughts the raised hand of a lad near the back row brought McFarlane back to the here and now.
"Yes, Michaels? Finished that already?"
"Yes, sir."
"There should be some questions on the back, extending your understanding by – "
"Finished those too," Joseph Michaels, a slightly-built fifteen-year-old interrupted, following Philip's gaze to the filing cabinet of additional worksheets. "And those," he added, unabashed.
"What, all of them?" Philip asked, knowing what the answer was going to be. Michaels nodded as Mr. McFarlane sighed inwardly.
That was another thing. For each of the lessons, lasting an hour and a half each, you were expected to fill with one hour and twenty nine minutes of material. The boys would file in, sit themselves down and lay out their equipment in silence waiting for him to begin the lesson. Even with his problem-solving device of a well-stocked cabinet filled with every conceivable pedagogical worksheet suitable for every level and interest Philip had to concede that on occasion the situation to being in a pit that was filling with water: despite his efforts in bailing out to keep his head above the water more replaced it.
"Swap with Spargo and work together on marking each others' work," concluded McFarlane, holding out two mark schemes. "Check what you've got against these and write some recommendations for improvements for each other." Michaels and Spargo exchanged glances as McFarlane held out the sheets of paper firmly. It had taken most of the year to instil these workaday state-school practices in his own classroom and the lads still were reluctant to use them.
McFarlane's mind flicked back to his last school, a local comprehensive whose intake consisted of those which Smeltings could not (or would not) accommodate, a situation which caused not least a moderate level of mutual intolerance. He'd chosen his bed, so to speak and as such had been out of the comprehensive system too long. The discipline alone now would probably be enough to kill him.
Putting aside his thoughts as more and more of the lads came to the end of the work Mr. McFarlane began a class discussion, the topic being an analysis of the two Shakespeare comedies that they were studying. Discussions were one practice that all of his classes had taken to relatively quickly; they had debating lessons and as such were always ready to practise within a different context and it was something of which Philip was proud, that each lad could be included and progress could clearly be seen. OfSTED would indeed be impressed.
Ten minutes later, as the debate drew to a close satisfaction sat well with Philip McFarlane as he looked with teacherly pride around his classroom. Each student was integrating with his teaching strategy and gaining a great deal. Who said that he could not adapt his style to suit their learning needs? One hundred percent succ –
It wasn't completely successful. Not all of the lads had participated in the debate, in fact the boy in question rarely participated in much. Vain comfort, McFarlane concluded; the new lad was not fitting in well round school as it was. He was aware of Darren Malloy's odd behaviour, weird mannerisms and the clear lack of general knowledge about, well, anything. As the rest of the lads in his class busied themselves with a written discourse each based on the earlier debate Malloy returned to staring out of the window.
Leaving the boy be, Philip recalled his initial thoughts of the new Smeltings student. At first he believed Darren Malloy to be from abroad (he had found out his old notes about strategies for including students to whom English was a second language) and it had surprised him when the lad had spoken to him in a crystal cut upper crust accent. But there was something he couldn't quite put his finger on…
…the way the teenager looked at him, sometimes…the way he would catch his eye. It was true that most of the lads here thought you were lower than them; as a fee-paying body they believed that you worked for them or for their parents. But…with Malloy, there was something more…it was as if he was not only below him, but of a different species…
…as his head of house, Philip McFarlane knew enough that he should keep an eye on him.
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The bright sunny midweek day had incited Cecilia into handwashing the laundry in order to take advantage of the warmth and gentle breeze that was ideal drying weather. A basket of washing beside her with another soaking in the sink, Cecilia had located a large length of twine from the cellar, winding some out so that the outer, dusty twill and discarding it before stringing it between the handle of the outside kitchen door and a small hawthorn tree that stood twenty feet away. This gave her enough drop for the garments, towels and bedding to be off the floor but with enough surface area exposed.
Yes, of course she could leave it for Remus, she often did: it would be nothing to him to transform a heap of washing into an ironed and folded pile. But there was a base satisfaction in doing this domestic task today; what could be more heavenly than to see sheets, hand washed she hastened to add, blowing in the breeze? It reminded of her of an idyll, like the line of clothing in washing powder advertisements that enticed you into recreating the dream with a box of "Ultra Dazzle" or similar.
The clothes line was no problem, Cecilia thought as she folded her first sheet over it, spreading it out carefully. It was all very well dreaming about clean washing blowing on a line; it was how she was to secure what she had put on it when she had no pegs.
Well, perhaps she could leave the drying of the peg-essentials to Remus when he returned, and risk the larger things blowing off. That could work, she concluded as she pulled out a second sheet. He'd been back to his usual self that morning, explaining that, despite everything, Dumbledore still required his skill for the Order work he had been doing before his reprimand from the ministry. Cecilia's heart had soared when he told her this, not least because of the information. That he had told her meant…he trusted her, and wasn't pushing her away. It also meant she'd done the right thing in refusing to pursue her new theory, even if it had resulted in a disagreement with Snape.
Bending down to the laundry basket as a mischievous zephyr whipped about, fluttering the hung sheets as if they were sails on an eighteenth century tall ship. As she watched them quiver a thought crossed her mind: she still had some money, muggle money. A walk to Ambleside on a wonderful day like this and back before she knew it: a good stretch of the legs. And she could get hold of a newspaper…find out what was going on in the world…
Cecilia pulled the last sheet over her makeshift line, collecting the basket of peg-requiring laundry as she made her way back inside the cottage. Yes, a walk to Ambleside would be lovely…
…five minutes later Cecilia had made a list of other items of shopping which would also be useful, including another notebook and a visit to a chemist to buy paracetamol, shampoo, deodorant, pegs and so on. Batteries for the radio as it was on their last pair. As it was a Wednesday the local farmer's market would be on and she could look through some things which might be on sale in Bloom's…
…and some gas canisters for the burner wouldn't go amiss.
Drawing a full stop at the end of the word "canister", Cecilia idly enlarged it as she pondered her last foray into the gas canister world. She hadn't mentioned anything to Remus about her floo powder find, nor about Caelius, his murdered brother, and so consequentially she had not talked about her need for more fuel. What did he know of his older brother? Did he know at all?
…when the time was right, Cecilia thought, she would mention it...she would broach the subject soon and reveal her find…this week…otherwise her concealment of her discovery would make her what she had worried Remus would become by keeping the truth from her…
Cecilia made her way over to the sink, three-quarters full with used washing water which was now losing its heat to the surrounding air and plunged in her hands, grasping the first article that she came to and twisting out the water firmly as the thought of her impending shopping trip.
A sputter of green in the living room grate stopped Cecilia Frobisher in mid-wring. Had a photographer been at hand, sneaking in for a stolen shot of domesticity, he might well have been confused on catching his unwitting subject already frozen with the only betrayal that time was still in progress being the residual droplets of water yielding to gravity. What, or who, was attempting to contact her via floo?
She didn't have to wait long. As Cecilia stared, watching the sporadic sparks spray from the centre and to her amazement the head of someone she least expected appeared ghoulish green in the grate.
"Tonks!" she exclaimed, dropping the well-wrung washing back into the sink as she rushed into the living room, the water dripping down her still-held-up arms. "What are you doing here?"
There was a pause. As Cecilia waited for the witch to fill it, a disconcerting thought filled her mind: she doesn't want me…
…but her gloomy thoughts were repelled when Tonks grinned her characteristic grin.
"Wotcher! How are you, Cec?" Tonks began her hair, even in the fiery floolight managing to change hue.
"Fine, absolutely fine," she replied truthfully as the image of her best friend fleeted over her cerebellum. "Yourself?"
"What are you up to?" asked the witch, "are you working? If you are, I could come over and help."
"Actually," said Cecilia, feeling the washing water drizzle down her arms and pool in her armpits, "I was just about to go to town – I need some more fuel before I can do any more of that."
"Great!" exclaimed Tonks, "fancy some company? I'll be over in two shakes!"
They floo'd to the waterfall about half a mile back from the Salutation Hotel which lay at the top of the main street of Ambleside. Tonks had somehow ascertained a safe appearance place using the portable floo network, however it was close: a trickle of tourists ran along the main path that allowed the full view of the trickle of water falling over the rocky outcrop high above them and they had to dodge round the back of the hydropotential attraction before incorporating themselves into the throng.
The weather, though changeable in this part of England, was just as glorious as ten miles away and the pair of women made their way on foot towards the small lakeside town. As they walked they made polite conversation, the sort that ancient adversaries made when a feud had long since been settled. In a way, they had been adversaries, inadvertent rivals for the affection of a man. Now, that had been settled and both were happy.
"Remus said he'd invited you and Nick," Cecilia began conversationally as they made their way down towards the town. "It was lovely seeing you last time."
"He did," Tonks agreed, her hair glinting golden in the sunlight. "We'd be delighted to come, but we can't make it just yet – Cecilia, are you okay?" Tonks's voice changed from easy conversation to concerned alarm as Mrs Frobisher came to an abrupt halt, holding her stomach.
Waiting for the nausea to pass Cecilia nodded as best as she could but Tonks was having none of it and she took her arm with one hand, holding her up.
"I'm all right Tonks, really," Cecilia managed, defending her original stance against the younger woman's doubtful look. "It's been happening on and off for the last week or so and I know what it is."
"What is it?" echoed Tonks, still looking at her with concern.
"Magic," Cecilia revealed, beginning her walk again. "Because I've been out of a magical environment for so long. It's like, when I was at Hogwarts I built up a tolerance but now because I'm out of it, I'm affected by small amounts."
"Wow," said Tonks, who continued to walk too. "Yeah. I mean, I've heard about something similar. Dad suffers from it, sometimes. He still can't floo without getting really ill. It's not worth it, he says."
"But your dad's a wizard though, isn't he?" Tonks nodded, kicking a small pebble out of her path.
"Muggle born. Came to it late. Didn't get his letter till he was fifteen. I mean, imagine that – finding out that you're able to do something as fantastic as magic so late. He attended Hogwarts too, you know. He'd left muggle school at that age, and then got his letter. Went, too. Joined the fifth years and was given remedial lessons. Did his OWLs in his NEWT years, but didn't get very far."
"Does that happen often?" asked Cecilia as the back of the Ambleside Salutation hoved into view. "Wizards getting letters so late in life?" Tonks shook her magenta head.
"Dad's the only one I know of. I think he wouldn't have so many muggle tendencies if he'd got his letter earli – sorry, Cec," she added when Cecilia stopped abruptly.
"Sorry?" repeated Cecilia blankly, staring into a concerned face. "No, I was just thinking…no." She shook her head, resisting the strong urge to pry further. "Why are you sorry?"
"Just…well, I implied that muggle tendencies were inferior…" It was Tonks's turn to look confused when Cecilia began to laugh.
"Tracy Tonks, I would never have assumed you'd meant that." Cecilia grinned as Tonks did the same. "Especially now you're getting friendly with Nick. How's he doing?"
"Really well," replied Tonks, looking right at the zebra crossing and hoping that the blush on her cheeks had subsided by the time she had to check the traffic to the left. "He's getting a lot of work done at the…where is it? Unclear plant?"
"Nuclear plant," corrected Cecilia, chuckling. "Although a great deal of it is indeed unclear. I think – "
" – he's one of your oldest friends, Cecilia – " declared Tonks, pausing to put an arm in front of Cecilia as Mrs Frobisher almost made the last road crossing of her life. A Ford Mondeo blared out its horn as Cecilia jumped in fright.
"Thanks." She turned to Tonks and hugged her. In surprise, the younger woman hugged her back. Later, Cecilia would realise why Nymphadora Tonks had hung on momentarily longer than she needed.
"How's the work going?" asked Tonks, once they had safely crossed the road. They were now heading down the high street of the town, every other shop dedicated to mountaineering, climbing, Kendal Mint Cake or selling souvenirs. Cecilia paused in her retrieval of her shopping list and, noting the first shop she needed (for her vital gas canisters).
"I'm doing what I can, but I can't say it's easy." She looked at Tonks, whose hair seemed to be flickering between an unusual gold shade and magenta, giving the effect of her whole head being aglow. She looked from the younger woman's hair to her face. "All that I'm doing I'm doing by hand. Severus is in charge of the rest." Not that he'd let her just get on with it, she thought uncharitably.
"And he's letting you?" asked Tonks. Immediately her expression told Cecilia that she'd said something she shouldn't have.
"All I mean is, he's not putting pressure on you?"
"He understands that I need to be with Remus," Cecilia said firmly. Tonks snorted.
"If you say so!"
"You're saying he doesn't?"
"He must," conceded Tonks softly. "I don't know, I just get the feeling he wants you back at Hogwarts." Cecilia looked at her quickly before surrendering her cover and she nodded in agreement.
"He told me you'd asked him to contact Nick."
"I told him I wasn't the only person who knew science," Cecilia clarified, as she recalled the previous day's row. "I didn't realise he actually would…I told him if he wanted to know about science he could ask anyone, for example, Nick." She stopped, and exhaled. "Look, I don't want to go back to Hogwarts, or anywhere with Severus Snape: my life is with Remus now," she continued and, as she did so, Tonks's expression changed, ever so slightly, as if a mental barrier had been removed.
"I'm just…"
"…you needn't be…"
"…I…"
"…me too," said Cecilia. "We're both defensive about the people we care about in our lives. We've got to lean to trust each other with them."
"Exactly," said Tonks, touching her on the arm. "You need to go in here?" Cecilia nodded.
"Otherwise I wouldn't be able to continue at all," she replied, pushing open the glass door. "Now, what other news is there that I need to know about?"
Following her acquisition of gas canisters, a newspaper and double-A batteries from the store-come-junk shop that Cecilia had bought her radio from two months ago, she was more the wiser regarding a couple of her ex-students. By the time they had stepped onto the main street of Ambleside she knew that her mother, sister and god-daughter were safe and well and as they passed the rough cast buildings that housed clothes, mountaineering equipment, postcards and other tourist ephemera Mrs Cecilia Frobisher was fully aware that the Order meeting yesterday had been a huge success. It was just a pity that, since she had given in her resignation, she couldn't ask of Tonks the specifics. Just as well, Cecilia told herself, otherwise that'd be one more step towards temptation.
A small branch of HMV was Cecilia's next port of call and she spent a good ten minutes perusing the small stock of cassette albums that she could buy to play in her technologically ancient radio. It had fascinated Tonks who, though had little interest in music was attracted to the shape and form of the tapes and compact discs. Prising the witch from the latest hits stand where her investigation was drawing interest from the shop's manager they went next door to a chemist where both women perused the perfumes, body sprays, deodorants, moisturisers and other goods of a girly nature for what seemed like five minutes but was in fact almost an hour.
"I've never been shopping in a muggle town before," Tonks confided in Cecilia as she took a small selection of items (strictly those on her shopping list) to the woman on the till. "I love it here," she continued as the woman bagged her purchases. "It's like Diagonalley, only…only…" Tonks broke off as they left the chemist and walked back onto the street.
"What is it?" asked Cecilia as the young woman seemed to sag at the shoulder.
"I've never tried fish and chips."
Cecilia took Tonks the long way round to "The Plaice to Be", passing the house over the stream. She explained it had been built like that in order to avoid the land tax and Tonks had laughed, commenting on the ingenuity. They sat on a bench near the shore of Windermere, each holding a bag of warm lunch and a wooden fork, eating them as the glorious day's sunlight reflected off the lake's sheer surface.
"Why didn't you ask me about talking to Nick? Why did you ask Snape to do it?" Tonks's question came out of the blue and Cecilia looked at her sharply.
"I would have...Snape – " Cecilia swallowed as she looked into Tonks's sombre face. "We had an argument, which isn't unusual for us, but I had to make it clear to him that I wasn't coming back but we'd need access to science, one way or another. He needed to know about genetics; that's Nick's field. Our paths have diverged, there's more to it than just this. We need to get it right and fast – "
Realising that she was becoming defensive Cecilia broke off and waited for Tonks to respond. Eventually the witch nodded slowly. In a few moments' time Cecilia would be able to guess the reason for her apparent mistrust, the same mistrust that the witch had expressed when Lupin had given her "Mysterious Mythology".
"You know that Remus is going to need your commitment now things are looking to get tough," Tonks continued, reiterating Cecilia's point. The muggle who was sitting next to her nodded docilely, ignoring the potential interpretation of the witch's comment as being patronising. And then both women, continuing to sit next to one another with the gleaming body of water before them felt the metaphorical barrier evaporate and a friendship was, if not soundly restored, in the process of repair.
Their conversation began a few minutes' later and stopped at various indicator-points on the circuit of discussion, Sirius Black being one of them. They laughed at Tonks's cousin's masculine naivety, his idiocy at Christmas and Cecilia's own that Sirius could have been more than a friend and that she could have been so taken in (though she was careful not to discuss the events directly prior to the "misborn" incident). She told Tonks that it was necessary for him to be in her life now for Remus's sake, that she was happy that he could give her intended the support he needed and Tonks commented that it was strange how they'd both found happiness in each others' worlds. Cecilia felt her heart gladden; there the opportunity lay, she knew, where they could support one another.
Then the conversation turned to weddings and marriage, and Cecilia asked Tonks how it was wizards married. She gave the same answer that Remus had done, all those months ago when she had first mentioned it and she felt herself reaching for her neck where her locket hung, made from their hair entwined and transformed.
"I just don't know what the situation is," Cecilia continued as she took the empty wrapping paper from Tonks and combined it with her own as the younger woman leaned forward to listen. "I think that he's very uneasy about what's going on at the ministry, that's why he's not arranged anything."
"Mm," murmured Tonks as Cecilia got to her feet and binned the rubbish.
A few moments later and they had returned to the junk shop where Cecilia rummaged through the metal scraps in search of a halfway decent piece of zinc that she needed for the next stage of no. 30 as well as a used solution of photographic developer, the residue of which, the chemist in her knew, would contain sufficient quantities of silver nitrate.
Their journey back towards the waterfall was relatively uneventful, with the exception of the sensation of queasiness rising in Cecilia's stomach. Putting it out of her mind, she listened as Tonks spoke about the reforming of the Order and their meeting a few nights ago as they walked amongst tourists again who were also in search of the waterfall, though presumably not for the same reason as they were.
"…there were plenty of cheers when Dumbledore read out your letter," Tonks continued, swinging the canvas bag containing Cecilia's gas cylinders onto her shoulder, almost dropping them out of the top. Deftly catching them in their transit between the bag and ground Cecilia put them back in and pulled the straps onto the young woman's shoulder.
"At last they're rid of me," concluded Cecilia, smiling as Tonks frowned.
"No. That's not what they – "
"Do you mean to say that no-one said anything about my leaving being a betrayal to the Order?" Tonks looked at her, blankly.
"Not in my hearing – "
" – not even Snape?" Tonks shook her head. At Cecilia's expression of disbelief she continued.
"No, he didn't," she repeated, shaking her head. "He actually said that it was best for you, and the potion."
"Did he really…" Cecilia said the words softly, more in commentary to her own memory than in reply. But Tonks nodded in agreement.
"He also said that because of the work we're doing. Kingsley is concerned about the situation in the ministry…"
The look of horror on Tonks's face as she broke off was enough to tell Cecilia that the witch had given away something. She stopped and Tonks stopped too, looking at her open-mouthed.
"And you mean, of course, the situation with Remus," murmured Cecilia generously as Tonks nodded in relief. "Look, I've resigned…I'm not involved with the Order. It was a mistake to join it in the first place and have a say, and quite a relief to leave it all behind me. I don't need to know he details and there's no way that I'll be tempted by curiosity." She smiled at Tonks who looked as if she was about to burst into tears. "It's time I took a leaf out of your book," she added.
To her surprise the young witch was hugging her, holding her arms with her hands and pulling her closer. A swell of relief passed through Cecilia as she realised how big a relief it was to admit it. But…she and Nick had got married…?
"I know you weren't horrible, it seemed horrible at the time, but deep down I knew…" Cecilia took a step back and this time, she looked confused as Tonks's conversation became panicky and disjointed, her face beginning to redden and her hair a muddy white as if every colour of her hair was showing itself simultaneously.
"There's been a change in the law…it's meant that he would have to be befuddled and unless we were married, he would forget me…I love him, Cecilia…mum nearly killed me because of the rush…"
"…it's for keeps," she finished as Cecilia reached out her arm as Tonks implored her not to tell anyone. "Can we keep this just between us? For now?" Cecilia nodded as she curled her arm into that of her friend.
"Well actually," conceded Tonks as they walked on, "could you tell Remus? I want him to know, and it would be best coming from you." Cecilia felt herself nodding again and this time took her hand. They began to walk again up the hill to the waterfall and for a moment they looked like two school children, best of friends.
"I…I'll always love him," Tonks continued wistfully as they neared the top of the waterfall. "I don't think I couldn't, but it's not love in a romantic sense. He's been part of my life for such a long time and there's – " she paused, looking at the freshwater stream below the bridge before back to Cecilia. "I love Nick. I've made my choice and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him…and we're going to be happy…"
That was the part of the conversation that remained with Cecilia as they made their way at speed towards the safe point from which Tonks could floo (she was late, she explained to Cecilia, and if she didn't get her back soon she wouldn't have time to get back to St Bees before she had to be at the ministry).
Ten minutes later they had got to the spot where they had floo'd in and Tonks apologised to Cecilia for not being able to stop for some tea as she discreetly pulled out her wand. Cecilia stepped towards the greenish glow and said that was quite all right and she and her husband and would have to come back to the cottage for some Remus-cooked dinner.
And then, as the familiar floo-induced lurch of her stomach bolted through her Cecilia felt that the past had been put behind them, replacing it with a happy, if unexpected future.
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Closing the door to his father's study, on the second floor of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Sirius hurried across the carpets that festooned the floorboards and knelt in front of the hearth. Holding a handful of floo dust, he threw his hand forward. Opening his palm, he looked at it as the dim firelight reflected off its facets and second thoughts fought off his first thoughts.
His first thoughts had compelled him to hastily extract himself from the conversation that was continuing below, with Order members continually replacing one another as they were wont to do in times of urgency when they were required to share information quickly, to race upstairs and hide himself away to pursue his hobby. His first thoughts had brought him to his knees before the fireplace that was the main focal point of the study after grabbing a handful of green sand-like powder from the basket on the left. His first thoughts had raced ahead, speculating on the likely scene in which his quarry would be playing. Those were his first thoughts, which had stood firm for a good year and had not yet failed him.
Sirius had begun to duck in and out of random fireplaces when he was a young wizard (with interesting results and more than a few near-misses) and it was a habit which he had resumed, though tentatively at first, when he had returned to his family home. When he was bored…when he was feeling low…for some chance entertainment…one quick handful and he could summon scenes of other people…of their lives…it did no harm…
…but then there was Cecilia Frobisher…
The first time he had spied on her using the floo network had been after his first drunken attempt on her life when she had returned to Hogwarts: he had been fascinated with her. From her restless pacing, dressed in worn-all-day clothing and her hair tangled and knotted as she wrestled with a mental puzzle…her waking and thanking an absent house elf for clean towels and a filled bath and a tantalising appearance minutes later…her tears of frustration when she had known she was right in the face of an immovable Snape…her glorious form in her Emaness dress…she was only a muggle…but she fascinated him nonetheless…
No.
His second thoughts were holding out an impressive defensive block as his first thoughts had prompted him to almost drop the floo powder and continue with his espionage, preventing his first thoughts from urging Sirius past the point of no return.
No. It was wrong, plain and simple: he knew he shouldn't be doing it. The woman had been a paradigm of integrity with regard to Harry's potion against profound provocation…she needed to be protected…one little look wouldn't hurt…
No!
Closing his hand around the floo powder Sirius leaned back on his knees. He could hardly fool himself that he was looking out for her wellbeing by covert means – that type of thinking would drive him crazy.
Leaning forward again Sirius opened his hand, uttering his destination and a few moments later the stone of the fireplace transformed into that of a study, one which he recognised (he and James had visited it many, many times) and he took in the chairs and table legs. Almost as soon as his eyes got used to the scene the door opened and the McGonagall's feet and robe hem swept into view.
Whispering hastily the scene changed to that of the Gryffindor common room, sunlight beaming through the Three Knights stained glass and illuminating the absence of students. Of course Harry wouldn't be there…he would be in lessons or studying or, if he was anything like his father, avoiding work and bunking off with Ron.
Sighing, Sirius reached for some more floo powder and uttered the words and the secret password which Dumbledore had himself set to access this part of the network that would bring him into the fireplace in the living room of Lupin's cottage and he wondered what task or activity Mrs Frobisher would be undertaking in her muggle, non-magical manner.
And now she sat, he could see, in the kitchen at the table poring over books and parchments lost in abstract thoughts no doubt. Sirius felt the floo flames flicker around him as he watched her rest her face on her hand as she glanced between page and what it was she was writing. Like so many times before, Sirius mused grimly, so many times when she was there alone, or working, clearly working, where he wanted to stop her, talk to her…find out what she was thinking, or why she'd decided to do what she did at a particular moment…
…he knew how to annoy her, and get her defensive but she could not be held down for long. He could equal her by challenging her at every step, it took a good deal of effort to match her. But if she wasn't the enemy any more why did he still feel the need to win? Why did she bother him so?
He shook the thought from his mind as if it were a recalcitrant insect, as he watched her cross the kitchen through the living room-kitchen doorway and then cross back. Something was on her mind; he had seen her pace back and forth like that in her room and in Hogwarts' muggle studies classroom several times before…Sirius knew she was wrestling with something vital to her…whether to her work or whether to something else in her life. No witch would behave the way she did and no muggle he had ever met either…
…what if she were a witch…?
Forcing out the thought, Sirius watched Cecilia re-cross the kitchen and sit back down, fumbling through a large, wide-spined book before looking at her notes again.
Why could his mind not let of her? Why had he told her his silly, stupid ideas? With any luck she would have forgotten all about it in her quest of perfection for the potion that his godson was to take...
But then again, how likely was that with her? Sirius watched Cecilia pull her hands through her hair in frustration as she scribbled through something on the sheet of paper next to her. She remembered everything including, more annoyingly, things that he said and did; especially his mistakes…
Still, he shouldn't be doing this. But what harm was there in watching her, making sure she was safe for Moony? You can't keep a good dog down…
A knock at the door caused Sirius to jump and he pulled his face from the grate. It was Arthur Weasley, who smiled as Sirius hauled himself to his feet, attempting to look impassive as the wizard approached him.
"Sturgis has just left," he began, handing Sirius sheaf of parchments, "and then Benjamin left us with some new Azkaban reports before shooting off too. I thought you'd like to see them before Minerva had them." Sirius nodded, glancing into the fireplace. Mr. Weasley watched him turn his head, noting the trail of floo powder on the Wilton carpet before taking a step towards him.
"If you don't mind me saying so Sirius, you seem to be stuck up here an awful lot." Arthur touched Sirius on the shoulder and the wizard turned. "I can understand how frustrating it must be that Harry is at Hogwarts, especially with his involvement."
"There's not much else I can be doing I was declared free, but the ministry still want me for questioning and I know their brand of questioning." Mr Weasley watched Sirius visibly sag at the shoulders and he pitied him.
"Well," said Arthur, patting him again on the shoulder, "here's a task, then. We rescued the reports: all of them. They need filing and shelving, and relevant information collecting." Sirius felt the weight of responsibility press down on him as he relieved Arthur Weasley of the papers.
"Excellent, that'll keep me busy." He smiled briefly at Arthur who waved his wand and shelved Sirius's burden onto the empty dusty shelves behind him that had previously housed his family's books before making his way to the door and Sirius nodded to the wizard as he read the title of the first Order report as he put the thought of what was denied him at the back of his mind.
"Oh, by the way," added Arthur Weasley as Sirius began the gargantuan task of sorting the reports, "a letter arrived downstairs in the hallway hearth. Was yours occupied?" Sirius jerked his head towards the study's door as Arthur made his way back over to Sirius, letter in hand.
"I must have left it switched on," said Sirius vaguely as he took it, all hope of returning to observing Cecilia Frobisher evaporating around him. "Thanks Arthur."
"You're welcome. By the way, Molly says it's nearly time for tea."
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In a cold, dank cellar below a Georgian terraced house a few hundred miles from the most unsecret of secret Orders a mere flicker of life revealed its grotesque form in the darkness. Even though it was bright sunshine outside down here the even the solar energy feared to enter. The voice emanating from its body reeked of age and frailty but the words evoked dormant power
The figure that had the fortune (or possibly the misfortune) to stand before the contemptible body stood silently; that had been the mode of their arrival but the monstrosity that had once been the most powerful wizard in the world knew that the figure was there.
"Of my enemies, what have you to report?" Voldermort's voice rasped out the words that were quickly absorbed by the dense atmosphere.
"My Lord," replied the figure lightly, "I was under the impression that the movements of those particular – people – were of little consequence to you." Their words provoked sharp intake of breath to the figure's right and, at once, the obvious dawned. Wormtail. Of course he would be there, at his Lord's beck and call.
"Anti-muggle laws have been tightened, my Lord," continued the figure, divulging the required information. "The ministry believe, as you intended, that muggles are deemed to be a security risk and as such are barred from wizard premises." The figure remained stock still as the voice glided slowly to their left.
"Good…good! They are closing in on themselves…and…by the time the incompetent law enforcers have sorted it out I will have regained my strength. You are to be congratulated." The rasping was growing stronger with the satisfaction that Voldermort's voice betrayed and the figure breathed lightly.
"And the muggle? The one which we have engaged to carry out our bidding? He has been sufficiently motivated by money, I trust?"
The figure's mental field scrolled back to the man's face in the car at Brighton. The deed was foul, no question. Yet the search for the ideal muggle for the job could not have been simpler.
"Indeed, my Lord. He would be more than willing to do away with his entire family, I am certain, were there enough used muggle banknotes in exchanged for it."
"Good…"
"But my Lord," countered the figure, turning swiftly in the direction of the rasping – which the figure was almost sure had turned to a soft hissing – voice, "surely muggles are our enemies. Many of your followers are indeed shocked at your move."
There was a silence. Nothing, except for a rustle behind the figure that, if they had been asked to swear to, they would have described as a slither.
"This muggle whom you have engaged, he is nothing to us but a mercenary. He is a mere stepping stone upon whose deeds I will thrive. Not only will I regain my full strength and defeat Harry Potter but I will gain full understanding of the Universal Link before destroying the muggle Cecilia Frobisher."
"And how will you do that, my Lord?" Another moment of silence filled the dankness and the figure had to use all of their strength not to recoil at the sudden stench.
"My enemy's enemy is my friend…"
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Reports, more reports. Sirius had catalogued by date more than a score of them in the last two hours. Evening was on the rise; the dimming light shimmered off the rim of the dish in which Molly Weasley had brought up a hearty bowl of summer vegetable soup when he had not gone down himself to partake in any and she had tutted at her husband's thoughtlessness in bringing the reports to him, congratulating Sirius in equal measure in taking up the burden.
But now, even her soothing words had bolstered his ego so much and now, as the evening drew in his urge to revisit the fireplace of his friend's cottage had become now irresistible. Leaving the other half of reports on the table near the window Sirius made his way back over to the fireplace, watching the cinders glowing in temptation.
And then before he knew it, his hand reached towards the floo powder pot and he was kneeling in the hearth. He was about to stick his head into the hearth when a voice, crackly and weak, made him stop.
"Yes, Great Grandfather Phineas?" Sirius got back to his feet and made his way, floo-powder still in his fist, over to the portrait of his ancestor. Phineas Nigellus looked down at his descendant as he addressed him, using the same sing-song voice that he remembered his great grandson using when he was a child.
"I said, I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"And why not?" Between Sirius's fingers the green sand-like powder began to fall and he opened his other palm and tipped some of the escaping grains into it. "Remus Lupin is my friend, my only friend now."
"You take a deal of interest in that muggle, far more, I believe, than you can excuse on your friend's behalf. What is your real reason?" He stopped in his pigmented movement as Sirius allowed the floo powder to fall through his fingers and onto his prize Persian carpet.
"I already lost a friend to a redhead twenty years ago, I'm just being cautious for him." Sirius turned quickly and made his way across to the table on which the Order reports lay and picked up the letter that had arrived for him that afternoon.
"She is interesting," conceded Sirius, unfolding the letter. "Besides, she has sought my help, and who would I be to refuse?"
"To aid a muggle? Indeed!" Phineas Nigellus sniffed, a great feat for a long-painted portrait, and a flake or two of pigment floated off down towards the floor.
"I believe you assisted her, did you not?" Sirius goaded, reading through the list of questions with which Cecilia Frobisher had asked for his help.
"And I aided you in her downfall, something you never quite managed to pull off," replied Phineas stiffly. "If I were still alive I would be dead before a muggle entered my house!" But Sirius was not listening to his antecedent. Instead, he was reading through the letter again, before reading out the list of questions to Phineas.
"…all these…sound barmy to me," commented Sirius to Phineas. "She seems to think that wizards have access to different amounts of magic." He shook his head as he looked back at the portrait of Nigellus, watching the pursed lips of his great grandfather break into a smirk.
"Of course there is, stupid boy." Evening sunlight bounced off the whites of Phineas's eyes as his know-it-all great grandson stared back at him in confusion. "Of course there are different levels. It all depends on the blood, like I've always told you."
"The blood…!" Sirius rolled his eyes at his family's stock answer for everything, but this time Phineas Nigellus didn't bite back. Instead the portrait waited for Sirius to either ask him or remain silent enough for him to explain.
"Of course in the blood. Does anything the muggle seek have even the remotest connection to pure blood wizards? Of course not. Does she speak of a change in magical ability on behalf of people whose parents are pureblood? No! This is what you should report back to her, my lad, that none of these questions are relevant to pure blood wizards! Curor in potentia!"
He was about to continue when he realised Sirius wasn't listening any more. Instead he was walking away from his portrait and was making his way back over to the study's table.
"We need her..." He walked back to Phineas and looked up at him before gesturing towards the fireplace. "Lupin believes she loves him and she's holed in at his cottage. But for all we know she could disappear back to her own world and – "
" – and you wouldn't be able to control her any more," finished Phineas stiffly. "Here we are again: the young thinking they know better than the elderly. You are on a path to destruction if you try to control muggles, young Sirius. Co-operation, that seems to be the key.
Sirius stopped. For a moment he thought he had heard the magical portrait of his great grandfather tell him that persecuting muggles wasn't the way forward and that "cruor in potentia" had reverted back to its original meaning.
"How goes the revolution, great grandson?"
"Do you mean yours or mine?"
"Same thing," said Phineas evenly.
"Very poor, from what I am given to understand." Sirius exhaled. "Voldermort has gone into hiding; he's badly injured and we are trying to locate him in order to defeat him."
"Hm, I see. Well from the Blacks long past, good luck with that one." His portrait faded. Sirius waited a moment in case Phineas came back before turning and looking at the fireplace again. Then, before he knew it he was standing in front of the fireplace again.
So checking in his friend's soon-to-be-wife for her own safety was trying to control her, was it? Hm…
Reaching for the floo pot again he cast some of the greenish dust into it, watching it flare and knelt before it…
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"It was an oversight, a large oversight on my part for which everyone will eventually pay the price." Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore pushed up his half-moon spectacles as he rose from his seat in his own office and addressed his own ex-double agent. The wizard in question, though free from the will of Lord Voldermort, had now crippled their cause somewhat. That was not the oversight however, and Dumbledore was quick to point this out to Snape.
"How likely is it that he will attempt to harness muggle power for his own Severus, as you described to me?" He made his way across to the potions master whose usually granite-like appearance had flickered momentarily in his presumption. It returned in a heartbeat, and he shifted infinitesimally taller in his stature as he looked back at Dumbledore silently.
"He has spoken of it, Headmaster," he conceded eventually, "though more during his darkest times. His Call has been more frequent of late and I believe he has spurred many of his followers into action, though none have yet been detected."
"Hm." Dumbledore began to pace towards the pictures of his predecessors, occasionally looking up at their faces in turn, before looking back at Snape.
"As to whether he would actually employ a muggle in the same way that you did, I hardly think that's likely. However improbable, it is not impossible."
"That is what I am most worried about." Dumbledore continued to pace across his office glancing across to Snape. He stopped.
"I believe that very soon our ability to converse securely within the walls of this school will be greatly restricted. This night Tabitha Penwright is seeing off Dolores Umbridge, but she will return, as will many requirements from the ministry. I overlooked this possibility the last time and now, with no trace of his whereabouts I must admit, I have to consider the improbable." He saw Snape sag at the shoulders and his left arm flinch involuntarily. The wizard had offered on more than half a dozen occasions to attempt to restore the cruel and tortuous connection between himself and Voldermort – on each occasion Dumbledore refused his offer, claiming the miraculous cure could be used as an incentive to any Death Eater who wished to free themselves from the Dark Lord's grip.
"We are running out of time. There is no need to suppose that Voldermort knows how to restore his soul fully when the time is right, but we must suppose it. There is no need to suppose that he knows how to achieve this, but again, we must suppose such a situation. My premise is this:
"He is planning to cause havoc with his terrorism in the muggle world, Severus, because he can…he needs the links to the wizard world where he can get it and there were still enough Death Eaters. He is hidden and obscured from view..." Dumbledore trailed off as he concluded his circuit back round to his desk and sat on the chair behind it and sank into it. Beside him, Fawkes squawked noisily.
"And Mrs Frobisher? Cecilia's still safe where she is? She is immovable in herself, that is for certain."
"The trail I have thrown the ministry of the misleading befuddled memories will not lead her to harm. She is quite safe as long as she remains in Lupin's cottage and under no circumstances communicates with anyone. By happy chance Lupin's own mode of magical transport being strictly limited has made for an entirely safe environment for Mrs Frobisher as the ministry do not check Shacklebolt. Your belief that previous correspondence allowed the ministry to gain a rough location for her was, indeed true. However whence this correspondence came I suppose we'll never know."
"We must assume then that the Dark Lord may indeed have access to anything. As we have no direct link to his whereabouts or any hint of his plans – "
"I recall our conversation just at the end of the battle. Voldermort was powerless but some of his followers were powerful still. We will do what we must. And if the news I have come across just now is true – " Dumbledore put down a Slytherin robe, " – come in, Harry."
Snape turned jerkily towards the door, waiting at least a minute before the door was pushed open slowly by Harry Potter, who looked past him deliberately and directly at Dumbledore. He stood aside as the teenager strode past him and looked at the headmaster, before watching him turn and throw him a disdainful look. Snape knew what it was about, and he could barely contain his glee at the boy's unhappiness. A smile played about his lips momentarily before Harry looked back at Dumbledore in desperation.
"Yes, Harry. How may I be of assistance to you?" Dumbledore rose to his feet and instantaneously appeared at the other side of it. "Are you settling back in to school?" Harry nodded, looking back at Snape with sheer hatred in his eye.
"Mrs Frobisher is not to be our muggle studies teacher, Professor. And Professor Snape tells me that I must work with the new one? She's from the ministry…"
"Yes indeed, Harry. She is from the Department of Mysteries."
"And I must work with her? Why is she here?" Before Dumbledore could answer Snape smirked briefly again before interceding.
"There is nothing more dearly we require than for Mrs Frobisher to be amongst us all again however…this is not to be. She is in hiding, as I explained to you not half an hour ago, because of correspondence irresponsibly sent. The ministry have a trace on her and any owls sent are tracked. It is her misfortune and ours that they have found her." Harry looked at Snape earnestly.
"Where is she?"
"I don't think that is any of your concern, Potter."
"It is, if the potion is to do with me; if it's for me – "
"So you believe the secret location of Mrs Frobisher should be made known to you, despite the precariousness of her, and your, situation…you think I am irresponsible enough to just tell you?"
" – my safety – "
" – has always been our utmost concern, do our actions of last term tell you nothing? I am refining the potion based on her science in order for you to face the Dark Lord again. If you wish to waste your time with the trivialities of the subject on top of your OWL examinations, then be my guest."
"She taught me science," continued Harry unabashed. "It was interesting – "
" – how happy I am for you – "
"I understood it…I've been continuing it…she's been teaching me."
"Mrs Frobisher has been teaching you science?" Even Dumbledore was looking at him in astonishment.
"Hermione," Harry conceded. "She's the one who's continued to learn it from – " Harry stopped, but too late: he realised he had given away his friend.
"Mrs Frobisher? Aha! And to think, headmaster, that we have been taking every precaution available." Harry said nothing. Nor did Snape. The potions master remained stock still and emotionless, save only to stare back at the young wizard with an expression of pure malevolence.
"Then it would appear your friend has put her, and indeed yourself, in danger for, as of the start of this new term I am no in longer in contact with Mrs Frobisher for the reason I have just outlined to you. Should the potion not go entirely as expected then be sure to spare a thought for your thoughtless friend. Now," Snape turned and looked in the direction of Dumbledore's office door, "you should contact with Professor Penwright; the ministry require you to give account of your work with Mrs Frobisher in terms of the science so perhaps your love of the muggle art will come in handy after all."
With a snort, Snape finished his tirade and he watched as Harry turned for a last ditch reprieve from Dumbledore. As the teenager made to go, Snape turned to watch him.
"Potter." Harry turned and stared back at Snape.
"What?"
"Do yourself a favour. Try to mislead Professor Penwright as much as possible. Goodbye."
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"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The chant echoed into the evening air around the local park as the day borders at Smeltings and the local comprehensive Stonewall High squared up to one another. It was the former school's first day back (and the latter's sixth) and thus their first opportunity in three weeks to have a right good barney.
Dudley Dursley, bereft of the constricting and humiliating uniform that he was compelled to wear at Smeltings donned combat trousers and a heavy metal t-shirt stretched awkwardly across his large torso, began squaring up to a short stocky boy who looked like a human bulldog in a tracksuit, Adidas trainers and a hoodie which he had down in order to gain full view of his shaven head
Around them upper class boys from Smeltings and on the Stonewall side working-class girls stood together in ragged groups looking on in a "not looking on" way, as if trying not to observe and observe as closely as possible at the same time.
The inner circle around the lads roared with the names of the contenders, the latest in a forty-odd year opposition that had began when Smeltings was rebuilt, the two of them now, sweating and trying to look 'ard being the latest in a long line of representatives.
"Fight! Fight! Fight!"
The chant reverberated again around the local park as both boys held up their arms, fists raised, one a school's boxing champion and the other a school's prime reprobate.
Who would make the first swing? As the onlookers looked on, and the inner circle closed in further pushing them in closer proximity than before, their minds were silently made up as the opponents eyed each other with pure hatred.
"I'm going to get 'im," snarled the lad from Stonewall, wrinkling his nose and exposing a line of nicotine-stained teeth. "Our Mark 'asn't been able to walk straight since you "sorted 'im out, Dursley," he growled, making a mock swing in Dudley Dursley's direction and laughing contemptuously as the larger boy swerved out of the pre-empted trajectory of his fist. "I don't like your sort, iron-boy; you don't play by the r – "
But the lad didn't have a chance to finish as he was hurled to the floor, his rotund frame engulfed by Dudley's huge stature. In his fall to the ground though, the Stonewall hard-nut had managed to floor Dudley. Around them the inner circle, eyes fixed on each other's opponent in undisguised delight at the sport before them, cheered madly, one half screaming for "Azzer" and the other for "Duds".
A group of onlookers, girl clones for want of a better description, screamedin disgust as the fighting boys rolled past the group and out, the fight taking place feet from them, and they moved back in disgust, but not too far back that they couldn't see exactly what was going on so they could recount it in all its glory to other girl clones later that evening.
And then one of the girls, brushing her bleached blonde hair behind her ears, noticed another figure homing into view and, ignoring the now increasing landing of punches, kicks and thumps that was the fight before them. She nudged another clone, who zipped up her tracksuit jacket and elbowed a third. Beside them, a Stonewall lad looked in the direction that they were looking and a few moments later more were looking at the emerging stranger than at the fight that was still going. Then one of the boys spoke.
"Oh look, it's another iron-boy!" The Stonewall school faction roared in laughter, pointing at the uniform as the teenager approached. In return Darren Malloy shot them a well-practiced look of pure venom which silenced them immediately, and uncertain whispers began to circulate as Duds broke off from the fighting and looked at Malloy and Azzer ceased too, appraised him with contempt.
By now, even the Smeltings side began to whisper: what was he doing here…Malloy, who spoke to no-one, who sat alone and apart…? The unanswered questions turned into answers in a second as Malloy raised his hand into a flat palm. Dudley Dursley hauled himself up onto his feet, staring doubtfully at the newcomer. Then, in a fraction of a second, Malloy had turned to Azzer.
The whole crowd in the park was silent and still. Ask any of them later, and each of them would be able to tell you that Malloy then spoke to Azzer. Ask any of them and they would have told you that his voice was cold and calm, as if he was addressing a child. Ask any one of the spectators what Darren Malloy actually said to Azzer and they would all have been at a loss.
And within moments, Azzer, the hardest boy at Stonewall was flat on his back, laid out cold within seconds as Malloy took a step back. Though so different a streak of similarity bonded two of Smelting's two most interesting characters and the start of an unusual association began.
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A/N: Do you like? Please review!