The Fire Waltz Chapter 10: I Had A Talk

I.

Dumbledore's Office was glamorous and inviting. Still clad in our football jerseys, myself, Cho and Alfie were sat in front of him at 11:30 am. The Old Man looked at us, and offered, "Would you care for a Sherbet Lemon? I must admit, I'm rather enjoying these sweets. I know they're bad for the tongue, but I think we can all indulge in one guilty pleasure every once in a while."

Alfie and I took the sweet that was presented to us (sure, there was fanfics out there about Dumbledore lacing Sherbet Lemons with truth potions, but this wasn't a fanfiction as far as I was aware). He said to me, "I must applaud the team-work involved in the nature of your sport. I'll admit, I was wrong, I wasn't entirely sure a new sport could be introduced at Hogwarts."

"Neither would those who created Rugby," I said, chiming in, and then added, "The sport was derived from football. A pupil at Rugby School called William Webb Ellis was involved in a football match. Of course, you can't pick up the ball and run with it in football. So naturally, one day, he decided to pick up the ball and run with it. And thus, the sport of Rugby was born."

Dumbledore looked at me. His expressions were calm, betraying no sense of emotion. I sensed how The Old Man commanded so much respect, how he was on another level from pretty much everyone in the entire wizarding world. "Very well," said the Headmaster after a pause. "I will have to discuss this with Madam Hooch, but I will do my best to try and work in football as a new sport at Hogwarts. I do not know if we will be able to get it onto the curriculum, it will be rather hard to find someone who has graduated from Hogwarts who has experience playing or teaching the sport. But as a student organized tournament? That might be possible. I know plenty of muggleborns in the older years who would be open to such an idea. Our own Head Boy, Aaron Smith, of Gryffindor House, tried to get something started in the past but has never been able to break tradition. I will sure to notify him of the good news."

I looked at Alfie, who shared that same excited look. "It will have to be held on weekends for now," said Dumbledore. "And I request that you at least attend Quidditch practises to watch if not to participate, I know you are afraid of heights. But trust me, the school-issued broomsticks are designed to prevent major falls, even from hits with bludgers. And training is perfectly safe…"

"Training is perfectly safe?" I couldn't help myself, and I slipped up a bit. "In Harry Potter's fit year, in his very first training session, Neville Longbottom ended up in the Hospital Wing!"

I realised what I'd said too late, but for some reason, Dumbledore feel alarmed by the situation. Neither did Cho or Alfie. Instead, he said, "I understand your concerns about there not being any safety protection in sight, but just because you do not see something does not mean that there is something there."

I had a theory developing in my mind, so I tried to test it as bluntly as I possibly could, "In a few years, Snape kills you and you die falling off a tower."

"Thank you for informing me about your fear of heights," said Dumbledore. "But I must insist - it is perfectly safe. And even if the worse comes to worse, Madam Pomfrey will have you healed and ready to go in hardly any time at all."

That was hardly comforting, but it also meant that I had hit a major roadblock. I couldn't tell Dumbledore about what happened in the books, and if I couldn't tell Dumbledore about what happened in the books then I couldn't tell anyone. Just to be on the safe side, I turned to Alfie and said in a whisper, "Psst. Snape kills Dumbledore."

Alfie rolled his eyes. "Dude. Look. They got this covered. You don't have to worry, you got this, right?

I couldn't help but groan. I got to play football, but I had hoped to play football instead of Quidditch. I guess it was more than whatever I could have hoped for at all, with my expectations going into the meeting with Dumbledore fully in the mind of getting nothing more than an extended detention and a slap on the wrist and told to be on my way. But if anything, the creation of a football society was something, if it stuck around in Harry's year, was proof that actions that I could take would have knock on effects on the books. It would certainly be a coup if I could convince Harry to end up playing football instead of Quidditch, but at what cost would that effect? I had to be careful. I was living a real life here, not a make believe one.

My actions had honest-to-god consequences. Every time I interacted with a canon character, I had to tread carefully. Interactions with people like Alfie and Professor Torrance were fine, I never recalled seeing their names crop up in the books. Which begged the question, what happened to them in the next seven years that I would remain at Hogwarts for? And given that Professor Torrance was only at Hogwarts for one year, what would happen to him?

By the time our meeting with Dumbledore had finished it meant that we couldn't re-join the Quidditch/Football Lesson, so instead I decided to make my way to Defence Against the Dark Arts early. "I think that went well," I said, as we left, and told them about my plan.

"That seems like a good idea," said Cho. "I'm going to head to Herbology. I've got it with the Slytherins. Unfortunately."

"Well that should be fun," I said, and she nodded.

"I'll trade, the Gryffindors aren't that bad. The Slytherins are acting like they've won the House Cup and the Quidditch Tournament already."

"I'm alright, thanks," I said. "Plus, there's one thing that they won't be able to win this year."

"What's that?"

"Football. No self-respecting Slytherin is going to take part in a muggle game," I said. "But that's not the point. We're not going to organize the tournament by houses. It's going to be by different teams, starting off with four. If we get enough people to join we can even do it by years."

"I like your optimism," said Cho. "But believe me, I'm not entirely sure we'll get enough interest. From my experience, most of our kind doesn't like change."

I shared that particular experience, it seemed.

As Alfie had elected not to follow me to Defence Against the Dark Arts early, I found myself alone, even beating Professor Torrance to the classroom as evidently, he had a free period from 9-10. I was doubtful that Professor Torrance would show up again given that the last lesson that we had was taught by Professor Callahan, the Irish substitute teacher, but it gave me a chance to look around his classroom, which had been moved from the room that used to belong to Professor Mallory.

The classroom was empty and was not unlike the more traditional room that was used for lessons, which was partly why I was so startled when I saw two little girls in blue dresses standing across from me. They couldn't have been more than eight years old, and they looked virtually identical. Something was seriously off about this, yet for some reason, it couldn't shake off that familiar feeling like I had seen all of this before. But where? It was bugging me. Like, really bugging me. "Are you girls okay?" I couldn't help but ask, cautiously.

"Come and play with us, Danny," the girls said, hauntingly, before turning to run. "Come and play with us, Danny."

Who was Danny? They turned, and ran, and I followed them down the classroom. It didn't take me long to realise that they ran on some kind of hologram on a loop when they disappeared and reappeared in the same place, or at least some kind of magical version, and quickly pulled a lever that switched it off, wondering why Professor Torrance would leave something like that out there in the open just before a lesson. Was it some kind of defence? To stop people from entering his classroom? I felt the hairs on the back of my neck had gone down again.

I advanced towards the desk, and found a photograph waiting there for me, carefully balanced. It was an old-timey black and white style photograph, and a muggle one that resembled more of a portrait. Set in a ballroom in 1921, the photograph played host to a whole gathering of men and woman dressed up for a formal event. There was some writing on it, faded with the passing of time, but one man caught my eye right in the centre, one man who looked very familiar, like a younger version of Professor Torrance. I had described him as a man who looked like an older version of 80s Jack Nicholson, so maybe this was 80s Jack Nicholson? Was Professor Torrance somehow related to the celebrity? This was where Google would come in handy, but it was 1990, it was Hogwarts, and I was out of luck.

And also out of time. A man approached me from behind, and I turned to find out that Professor Torrance was not in fact standing next to me. Instead, it was Professor Callahan, who looked tired and weary. "G'morning, Mr. Kennedy. Did I startle you with the projections?"

"You did, Sir. What are they?"

Professor Callahan said in his thick Irish brogue, "They are leftover from Professor Torrance. He had to leave on such a short notice and he asked me to take a look at the Overlook Hotel case. Those two girls were earlier victims of the Hotel, you know. According to the survivor, a muggle named Danny, he saw them."

"This guy in the photograph looks awfully like Jack Nicholson."

"Yes, I remember reading up on this," said Professor Callahan. "In the muggle media, apparently the horrors of the Overlook Hotel were to be adapted into a true-story inspired movie retelling from director Stanley Kubrick. You may have heard of him."

"Yeah, he's one of my favourites," I said. "Dr. Strangelove is a masterpiece."

"I'm more of a fan of A Clockwork Orange, myself," said Professor Callahan, thankfully taking no notice that an eleven-year-old had been able to sit through Dr. Strangelove. Good job I mentioned that and not A Clockwork Orange. "But the director decided to make something about World War Two and the muggle Holocaust instead. I believe it was called the Aryan Papers? It was nominated for an Oscar that year."

"What year?"

"1980. I still thing Raging Bull should have beaten it though," said Professor Callahan. "Dear god, that was a good film. Probably my favourite Scorsese yet. But enough about films. He's been trying to find an explanation as to why his cousin lost his mind. These are bits he's been able to salvage or reconstruct, remarkably, the photograph survived intact. I was asked to step in, but I'm really not having any luck so far. It's unexplainable what happened, it really is."

"Maybe the simplest answer is often the correct one?" I offered. "He could have just lost his mind."

II.

After a long day of working, Professor Callahan found himself returning to the incident where the young girl had been found. The old classroom had been sealed off but not for a Professor, so he quickly unlocked the door and made his way inside, heading down the trap door to look at the cage to determine what he could find. Professor Torrance had gone to try and find some cure for the poor boy in the hospital, whose condition was only worsening, but that didn't mean that the mystery of the girl could go unanswered. It would be a good career boost, Callahan believed, he didn't plan to stay at Hogwarts long after all. Why waste time as a cover teacher when you could be out there exploring the world?

It was at least a step up from the school in Cork, dear god, he thought, reflecting on past schools as he made his way down and came face to face with the cage. That place was a shithole. The Cage itself wasn't anything more glamorous than what he had been told, it was run down, derelict and ancient. Bars prevented anyone from getting in or out without a key to a door, and there was no key anywhere. He didn't need one, and cast alohomora on the door. It swung open.

He stepped inside, and saw a piece of paper on the floor that Professor Torrance had somehow missed. It had been just out of the corner of his eye. He picked it up and observed what looked like a little girl's handwriting, and it was a diary entry. On it, contained a date marked September 3 1971.

He read the page. For a little girl's handwriting, it was remarkably neat and well-read. "Dear Father. I don't know if I'm ever going to get out of here. Help me, Father, please. He has me in a locked room. He's an evil man. I get meals and am well fed and he reads me novels from time to time, but that is all. It is merely a façade. We just finished Moby Dick and are about to read Treasure Island.

I am writing down my words because I am starting to forget who I am. I have already forgotten my name. I have forgotten Mother; how could I have forgotten Mother? Help me, Father, please. I hear him coming now… he tells me stories of people who I am to meet. He tells me of these great plans. They are horrible, too horrible to write down. I fear this will be my final entry."

And then, one final sentence that was perhaps the most interesting of them all. "And If one day I ever meet this Robin Kennedy, I want to ask him why."