Chapter 9: Messages
Disclaimer: The holidays are just around the corner (actually, one of them is already here, I do believe – Happy Chanukah if that's your shpiel!) and you know what that means for all the little boys and girls who have been good this year – presents! Yes, call it commercialized, complain that the meaning and the reason have been taken out of the season, complain that they start playing Christmas music on the radio waaayyyyy too early (which they do); you cannot deny that you like presents. Everyone likes presents, especially when you don't have to do anything – you get them just because! Presents are great; gratuitous presents are magnificent. They become more wonderful the more grown up you get, in fact. I get so much more excited when I get fuzzy socks at my age than I ever did getting a new stuffed animal at the age of five. And you know why? Because fuzzy socks are awesome, that's why.
But do you all know what happens when one person takes another's work, and doesn't give them any credit? Do you? I bet you don't. Here's what happens: every time somebody plagiarizes, a present somewhere explodes. Yes, it's true. Tragic, scientifically implausible, a little bit hilarious, and true.
So I'm going to let you all off the hook right now, so that none of you end up with gift wrapping blown to smithereens all over your nice carpeting: Harry Potter and Co. do not belong to me. They belong to J.K. Rowling, and she doesn't like it when presents explode either.
Also, quick note: if you haven't read the previous chapter in a while, it might behoove you to go back and reread just the last part. For context and all.
Happy Holidays everyone, and enjoy!
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"That I know where you sleep; your cousin and you. That's what it said on the ribbon. Or, well, that's what Scorpius says it probably said. The rabbit ate part of the ribbon, so it really said 'Hat I know ere you leep; your cousin and y.' I was very confused at first, because we don't have a cousin Andy. And also because somebody had put a hat on top of a live rabbit and left it on my pillow, of course."
"Roses are red
Would your family be blue?
That I know where you sleep
Your cousin and you." Rose recited, repeating the odd quatrain once again. It was long after-hours in the Gryffindor Common Room, and the room was filled with the half-remembered glow of the dying fire. Licks of flame still spurted from the glowing embers, lengthening the shadows of tables, chairs, and forlorn-looking streamers left over from the post-Quidditch victory party.
Upon finding the mysterious message on her pillow, Rose had done the first thing she could think of – that is, she had snuck into Al's room. Or, at least, she had started to walk up the stairs, only to have Al himself barrel into her on his way down, clutching a shredded-looking ribbon and an oddly frantic rabbit to his chest. Scorpius had followed only a short way behind, apparently drawn to the quietly chaotic commotion.
As she sat against the legs of one of the many chairs and repeated the verse, trying to find some hidden meaning, Rose's hushed tones seemed to rise and fall with the firelight. She shivered.
"That's rather ominous," Scorpius said off-handedly.
"Thanks for the insight," Rose said grimly, her mouth set.
"It's from the same person who sent the letters to our parents, isn't it?" Al asked, trying to balance both top hats on his head at the same time.
"That does seem likely," Rose agreed.
"We should probably show this to a Professor or something," Al said. The hats wobbled querulously.
"We should," Rose agreed.
"We should," Scorpius echoed. There was a momentary silence in their little corner as all three exchanged looks.
"We're not going to, are we?" Scorpius sighed, sounding resigned.
"Probably not," said Rose.
"Under no circumstances," Al said. The hats fell off as though to emphasize his point.
"We can figure it out ourselves," Rose continued stubbornly. "We just have to consider – "
"Is there a particular reason," Scorpius broke in, "That your entire family is affected by an exceptionally virulent strain of Hero Complex? Is it a heritable trait?"
"Mum calls it a 'Saving People Thing,'" Rose said, smiling fondly. "Usually right after Dad's come back with his eyebrows singed off or half a toe missing again. He usually turns out fine in the end."
"It's just something we have to do. It's a Weasley-Potter-Lupin thing," Al explained.
"Wonderful. Now give me a moment to counter your argument of 'I have to do this, because I'm genetically predisposed towards courageous displays of stupidity.' Let me begin by pointing out that your father is an Auror, Rose, while Al's father is the Head of the Auror Department. Let me further continue to state the obvious by asserting that we are eleven-year-olds with less than a year's worth of magical training between us. Our skills extend as far as the ability to float feathers through the air and brew exceptional apple cider. On the other hand, whoever delivered those lines to you broke into a one thousand year old magical fortress – which, mind you, was last breached during a full-on attack by all of You-Know-Who's forces combined – hoodwinked the magical guardian of Gryffindor Tower, and to top it all off, managed to get into both the boys' and girls' dormitories and find your beds among everyone else's. This same person then delivered a message that says in no uncertain terms that they can get to you while you're asleep. And your master plan is to figure it out for yourselves? Are you mad?"
"I'm not mad," Rose said huffily. "I just don't think we have anything to show anyone. We've got no proof."
"What do you mean, no proof?" Scorpius exclaimed, grabbing the half-chewed ribbon and waving it in Rose's face.
"Look at what we've got, Scorpius: two ribbon fragments with some vaguely strange, half-chewed children's poem, two black top hats, a rabbit that's since escaped, and a bundle of paper flowers. This could have been a prank pulled by another Gryffindor just as easily as it could be a message from Stone."
"It wasn't, though."
"How do you know that? We haven't even considered the option."
"But you think it was Stone," Al put in. "Right?"
"Of course I do. But if we show this to a professor, we're more likely to get Melisenda Wilkes in trouble than we are to get any useful results." Rose stopped and thought for a moment. "Actually, that might not be a bad thing. She did tell me I looked like a blast-ended skrewt got a hold of my hair the other day in Herbology . . ."
"A what?" Al's face was contorted as he mouthed the words 'blast-ended' to himself.
"This is neither the time nor the place for a vendetta against Melisenda," said Scorpius. "No matter how much she may deserve it. And you may be right; without knowing about the initial letters, this doesn't seem nearly as worrying." He picked up one of the hats from where it had fallen and began twirling it in his hands idly.
"And I was just starting to think it might be a good idea to get Uncle Neville involved." Rose sighed dramatically and grinned, feeling that she may have won on this point. She wanted to drive the message home. "But, after all, we've got no real proof that this was our mysterious Stone, so –"
"Actually," said Scorpius quietly. "I rather think we do." He had stopped twirling the hat with a somewhat shell-shocked expression on his pointed face. His hair swung forward into his eyes as he tipped the hat close to the light from the dying fire. Rose and Al crept closer to see what he was indicating. It took Rose a moment to find it; once she did, it was the only thing she could see. Written around the ribbon lining, repeated over and over again in handwriting that was at once childish and somehow elegant, were the words, "Hey diddle diddle."
Al looked at the hat for a long time, his hands stilled for once in his lap. He looked at Rose, who seemed, for once, at a loss for words, and at Scorpius, who looked expectant. Al understood that it might not be the best idea to tell a professor, or even Headmistress Sprout, but . . .
"I think it's time we talked to our parents," he said. Rose hesitated, then nodded once in agreement.
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It was certainly easier said than done – the tangled web this year had woven had left them in a logistical labyrinth. Their best option, as far as Rose could see, would have to be a Floo call with her father.
They had a fire – that part was easy. The fireplace in Gryffindor Tower was kept aflame at all hours by the not-so-famous House Elves who kept the entire castle running. The most obvious time to talk would be during the day, when most students were in classes or holding impromptu snowball fights on the grounds; however, the fact that Rose, Al, and Scorpius were among said students rather complicated things. So it would have to be nighttime. But what guarantee would they have that they would be alone, undisturbed, long enough to hold an unobserved conversation with a fireplace? The only possible solution, as Rose saw it, was to hold the rendezvous late enough that the likelihood of their being interrupted approached zero. And so, by process of elimination, the trio decided upon the next Thursday night after Professor Sinistra's late-night lesson. Most of their peers would trundle off to bed immediately afterwards, rubbing gummed eyes and complaining about having to get up early for Defense the following day, which would leave the Common Room conveniently deserted. A hastily scrawled letter to Rose's father set the date, and then all there was to do was wait.
So they did.
"If I fall asleep before it's time, just pinch me, ok?" Al grumbled, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Rose reached over and obliged; Al yelped. "I said if! If I fall asleep!"
"I was taking preventative measures," Rose said, folding her hands in a saintly manner.
"Was hiding me behind the sofa a preventative measure?" Scorpius asked, his voice muffled by several layers of chintz and upholstery.
"Yes," said Rose, "It's so that my father doesn't lose focus and ramble on about how I'm not to marry a pureblood again."
"I see. Does he do that a lot?"
"Only when you're around, Malfoy."
"I'm honored."
"Hush! I think that's him!" Rose leaned forward, almost crouching over her knees. Next to her, Al shook his head vigorously back and forth before seemingly regaining his focus. The cousins stared intently at the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room, from whence emanated a slight popping noise. Ron Weasley's head appeared in the midst of the flames, his hair almost blending with the tongues of fire that appeared to be on the verge of singeing his face.
"Hi Rosie, Al," he said quietly. "I can only talk for a few moments – I told your mother I'd be up to bed before two."
"This shouldn't take long," Rose said. "We just thought we should show you something that we found in our rooms this past Saturday."
"It seemed like something you and my Dad would like to know," Al put in. "Only I can't really tell him, because . . . well, you'll see."
Rose pulled out the ribbons, the top hats, and the bunch of paper flowers, which were looking sadly crumpled at this point. The rabbit had, of course, escaped somewhere within Gryffindor Tower. Al claimed to have heard it snuffling at his curtains a few times over the last several nights, but all of their attempts to find the poor creature had, thus far, been resoundingly unsuccessful.
Rose and Al began to explain how they had returned to their respective dormitories after the post-Quidditch victory party, only to find these objects adorning their pillows. How the messages, separated as they had been, had seemed innocuous – nonsensical almost. And yet, when they were united, the meaning became sinister. How they had noticed the "Hey diddle diddle," scrolling around the edges of both hats (though they conveniently left out Scorpius's role in all of this).
Rose was ever conscious of the fact that the blond boy was crouched behind the very sofa she was sitting on. He had, of course, not insisted on being present – that wasn't his modus operendi. He had remained silent as she and Al planned their rendezvous with Rose's father. He had made no comment as they had discussed whether or not to tell Al's father, before ultimately deciding that talking to Rose's father alone would cause the fewest problems for everyone involved. After all, none of them were even supposed to know about the 'Hey Diddle Diddle' Letters in the first place. And Scorpius had held his tongue as they planned the meeting for a school night, though, to be fair, Rose probably had more of an issue with the scheduling than he. And though he had not made a sound throughout the entire planning process, he was always, always there. Rose, Al, and Scorpius seemed to be an inseparable trio now, whether Rose liked it or not. And so it had apparently been taken for granted that Scorpius needed to hear Rose and Al's conversation with Rose's father. Rose had never taken it for granted, of course, but somebody must have, because here they were on a Thursday night at nearly two o'clock in the morning – she and Al, hunkered on the large sofa, talking to the fireplace, and Scorpius, crouched uncomfortably behind said sofa. And Ron Weasley's head, talking from the fireplace. They would have looked a strange sight indeed, had anyone else been there to see them.
Rose's father listened, not impassively, because that would have been impossible, but at least silently, as Rose and Al pieced together their entire story. It didn't take too much time – aside from when Ron asked Al to repeat the story of Gryffindor's Quidditch victory just once more, smiling beatifically. When they had finished, his usually cheerful face was solemn, his mouth a thin line, and his brows almost – almost – furrowed. His mobile features managed to look disapproving, worried, and slightly singed, all at once. No one spoke for a long moment. Rose could almost hear Scorpius's steady breathing behind her, and thought for a moment that he might have fallen asleep. That is, until she felt him elbow her (accidentally, of course) through the back of the sofa.
"What do you think, Dad?" Rose asked. Scorpius may not have intended it, but the sharp poke to her back galvanized her into speech.
"I think," Ron began, then almost immediately stopped. He puffed his cheeks and let out a long sigh. "I think this is all very strange."
"You think it's the same person too, though, right?" Al asked, as if he needed one more confirmation.
"I think, given what you found, that's probably so."
"But who? And what do they want?" Rose asked, her voice wobbling for the first time in a betrayal of the trepidation she actually felt. Somehow, having her father here made it much easier to realize that she was actually afraid.
"We're still not sure," said Ron wearily. "And not for lack of trying."
"What I don't understand," Al said loudly before Rose shushed him frantically. "What I don't understand," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, "Is if this person is trying to hurt us, why give us a warning?"
"What do you mean?" Rose asked, confused. "A warning? It's more like a threat."
"Well, yes," said Al, "But if you really wanted to kidnap or harm someone while they're in a place as safe as Hogwarts, wouldn't you just . . . do it? Why would this Stone person go through all the trouble of breaking into the school just to plant another weird letter? What's the point?"
"My thoughts exactly," Ron responded grimly. His expression quickly turned to shock, though. "Hold on, I think that's your mother. I'll write you –" and he was gone. The fire died rapidly in his absence, and Rose and Al were left staring at a bed of glimmering, inanimate coals.
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Dear Rosie,
Don't worry, your mother didn't catch me. I told her I had dropped my wedding ring, and it rolled into the fireplace, and of course I was willing to risk life, limb (or head, rather), and all the soot in Ottery-St.-Catchpole to get it back. You might imagine that that story put to rest any suspicions Mum might have had upon finding me with my head in the fireplace. Who says that she always has to be the smart one?
More importantly, though, thank you for telling me about the note you and Al got. You've already proven to be much, much smarter than your Uncle Harry and I were at your age. Speaking of Uncle Harry, would you be able to send us a few of the things you and Al found? We think some of the know-it-alls over in the Forensis Magice Department might be able to look at them and work their magic. That was kind of funny, wasn't it?
But maybe this isn't the right time for joking. You and Al must be pretty worried, but I think Al brought up a very good point. Clearly there is someone out there who, for a reason we've not been able to find yet, has some less-than-noble intentions towards the two of you. I think that's pretty obvious. But what's also obvious is that this person is having some difficulty getting to you. Or else, as Al said, why isn't he doing something instead of just sending strange letters? Maybe once we're able to look at the new message, we'll be able to figure something out. In the meantime, though, I still think you'll be safe at Hogwarts. Just remember: keep safe, and don't do anything I wouldn't do. Actually, don't do a lot of things I would do. Just be smart, Rosie. We'll figure this out.
And speaking of, Al said something over the Floo about "this Stone person," right? Which leads me to believe that you and your cousin have been getting into some investigation, or at least speculation, on your own. I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm just going to say that, right now, we're probably looking down the same path as you two are. So keep me posted about anything interesting, all right, Rosie?
I love you, your mother loves you, and I'm certain your brother loves you, even though he continues to deny it under oath. We'll see you soon for Christmas!
Love,
Dad
"So what this means," Scorpius said, putting the parchment down with a flick of his wrist and a shake of his head, "Is that they don't know anything, either."
"No – " Al began defensively.
"Yes." Rose said definitively.
"Well – " said Al.
"As far as we're concerned," Rose said in a distinctly declarative tone, "That means it's still up to us."
"Not really," Scorpius said dismissively. Rose glared. Al looked skeptical. "But I suppose we should still keep looking."
"Speaking of," Rose replied. "Found anything new on Peter Travers?"
"My research is still in progress," said Scorpius, and refused to elaborate.
Rose didn't press, reasoning that Scorpius's research was probably of a somewhat sensitive nature. She also knew that he owed it to her to share whatever information he did manage to find, given what she'd shared with him. And she fully intended to play her quid pro quo card if it became necessary. Al, on the other hand, seemed to have been well and truly jarred by this latest message. Perhaps he hadn't fully realized the gravity of the situation before. Perhaps he was tweaked by the ease with which their mysterious correspondent had bypassed all the security measures present at Hogwarts. Or perhaps the fact that this message had been delivered directly to him, as opposed to his parents, made the incident more concrete – more personal. Whatever the case, Al became obsessed with finding out more.
Albus Potter was many things, but "born researcher" was not one of them. His preferred method of investigation, once his fixation started, was asking Rose and Scorpius what they had found. Rose was still reluctant to share her hypothesis about the Resurrection Stone; the evidence was tenuous, at best. However, this latest message had enforced in her mind the idea that the "Stone" in the letters was not a person. After all, neither message had any sort of signature indicating a "Stone" in any way, and this last message mentioned no Stone at all. When pressed, she told Al that she thought Scorpius was flying the wrong way down the pitch – the evidence pointed to Stone being some sort of object or place, not a person. Al listened as she spoke, didn't retain a word of what she had said, and went straight to Scorpius to ask him if there was anything new about Peter Travers. Scorpius, in turn, was rather too busy being screamed at by Azalea Selwyn to pay attention ("How dare you be seen around those . . . those . . . them!" "We're in the same House, Azalea. How could I not be seen around them?" "But you're around them all the time!" "And your insufferable inanity is around you all the time." "What?" "Never mind, Azalea, never mind. Just keep yelling if it will make you feel better.")
In the meantime, Rose redoubled her efforts at researching the Resurrection Stone. Since she hadn't had much success in tracking it through the somewhat sordid history of the Gaunt family, she began searching deeper into the Peverells. She reasoned that, whatever power the Stone might possess, the supposed inventor – or original owner, if you believed all that poppycock about a meeting with Death – had surely discovered. Where better to start than at the source? So it was Cadmus Peverell she next set her sights on. Unfortunately, he was turning out to be almost as slippery as his brother Ignotus, who had, at least according to legend, managed to evade Death itself. Rose's thorough searches of the Very Long Ago section of the library turned up next to nothing. Cadmus had not kept a diary, or a journal, or whatever men from several centuries ago preferred to call them. Small matter, Rose had hardly expected to be so lucky. She found most of the information she could glean in the footnotes of the two history books dedicated to the brief but blazing career of his elder brother, Antioch.
Cadmus had married young, but Rose knew how that story ended: Harmonia Peverell had died, tragically, in childbirth, leaving hardly any record of her passage through the medieval world. Cadmus had joined her in death not many years later, and their son was practically a nonentity as far as history was concerned. Rose didn't pursue his story too actively, poor thing, as he'd probably not known more of the Resurrection Stone than his father. His name wasn't even recorded; Ernesettle's Storie of a Wizard Moste Feered, page 526, footnote 4 simply read, "As for the sonne, not long it was after his noble fathers demise ere he founde a new abode with a familie dedicated to the arte of magicallie fashioning faience," whatever that meant. Nowhere was there mention of the Resurrection Stone. Presumably it had passed to this unnamed son after Cadmus's death, but such an event was not recorded. Rose was finding it more and more difficult to pursue the Resurrection Stone through history when the trail was so tenuous as to be non-existent.
And if the trail was non-existent, did that mean that the Resurrection Stone was, for lack of a better word, safe? After all, the Elder Wand blitzed a trail of blood, glory, and mayhem from Antioch to Voldemort. It cropped up stories of grand battles, of harrowing duels, of events that changed the course of the Wizarding World. It even cropped up in a few old songs – which were unambiguously horrible (medieval wizards, as it turned out, should have left the rhyming to the Sorting Hat). Did the Resurrection Stone's comparative silence in the pages of Wizarding history mean that it was of lesser importance? Less potency? Rose grew more and more unsure as the days passed and her researches continued to return almost negligible results.
It didn't help that Hogwarts felt very, well, safe right now. Yes, someone had broken into her room and left a strange message on her bed. That was difficult to forget, and Rose had by no means done so. But Hogwarts was rapidly becoming overlaid with that sticky, intangible, almost overpowering substance known as "Christmas Cheer," and that made it very easy to forget that anything could be wrong – ever. The halls were decked, the fires aglow, the cider spiced at every meal, and even the portraits had gotten into the spirit – though most of them probably should have refrained from singing Christmas Carols off-key during classes. Professor Jones had to cast a silencing charm on the entire room to drown out one brave knight's lusty rendition of "Silent Night" ("If only Sir Cadogan could allow us a 'Silent Day,'" she had muttered as she cast the charm around the borders of her classroom). There was also the fact that Albus had very reasonably pointed out: if whoever was sending these messages was able to do them harm, wouldn't they have done so already? What kind of nefarious mind would go through all the effort of breaking into Hogwarts only to cause no actual harm – unless in fact they were unable to cause actual harm? That was the most likely scenario, Rose told herself. Something in the makeup of Hogwarts itself was protecting her, and that was a comfort indeed.
Sometimes, it seemed to Rose that she only continued her researches for two reasons: firstly, because Al continued to ask, almost constantly, what she had found, and she would have loved to show him something that could potentially represent a breakthrough; and secondly, because she really, really wanted to be more right than Scorpius.
As it turned out, she needn't have worried.
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"It wasn't Peter Travers," Scorpius announced over breakfast one morning, seemingly out of the blue. He then proceeded to pour himself a cup of tea, clasp his fingers tightly around it and lean forward, trying to get as close to its warmth as possible. It wasn't any colder in the Great Hall than it had been in September, but the heavy clouds above their heads, the snowflakes gently floating from said clouds, and the fact that the grounds had been covered in snow for the past two weeks made the mornings seem much frostier. Al and Rose had chosen to sit at the very end of Gryffindor's table, as it provided more room for Rose to do the work she'd been unable to complete due to her other researches. Scorpius had taken the seat across from Rose, and was glancing up casually every other second or so, presumably to see if his revelation had provoked any response. Al yawned; one could never expect him to be quick on the uptake in the mornings.
"Mmmmm," Rose agreed, not entirely paying attention. This Transfiguration assignment was due in five hours, and it was driving her up the wall. If she could only understand how, exactly, the transformation worked in a solid state . . .
"How do you know?" Al asked.
"I just do."
"Yes, but how?"
"I have my sources."
"What are they?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Then how can we know that you're right?"
"You can take my word for it." Al huffed and sat back in his chair.
"Rose, Scorpius is being expansive," Al whined. Rose finally looked up from her paper and scratched her nose with the end of her quill.
"He's talking too much, or he's taking over your side of the table?"
"What?"
"He means 'evasive'," Scorpius clarified.
"That does sound much more like you."
"Thanks ever so."
"What are you being evasive about?"
"He won't tell us how he knows that Travers isn't Stone," Al broke in.
"Because I was asked not to!" Scorpius exclaimed, looking wounded. Rose cocked her head to the side and looked at him for a moment. He met her penetrating gaze square on, his expression mild. Rose could swear he was goading her. Al was still looking very indignant next to him.
"His father told him, Al," Rose said after a minute of contemplation. Scorpius made no effort to confirm or deny her fairly educated conjecture, which she took to mean she was probably right. "Now can I get back to my work?"
"No!" Al exclaimed. "First off, Peter Travers was our best idea as to who's leaving these really, really strange messages that are also incredibly creepy, mildly threatening, and directed at you and me, Rose, so I think you'd show a bit more concern now that we're lead-less. And secondly, no one's seen or heard from Peter Travers since, well, since at least two decades ago. How does your father know he's really dead, Scorpius?"
"Because he's seen Travers's grave. And if you'd really like proof, I can show it to you." Al's mouth opened and closed a couple of times.
"If Travers was buried," Rose began into the silence that Scorpius's comment had produced, "Wouldn't there be some sort of record? Why didn't anyone know he was dead?"
"It's complicated," Scorpius replied.
"So's a Hovering Charm, and I've got that well covered. Try me." Rose sat back and folded her arms. She didn't know it, but she looked mildly ridiculous due to the large ink smear on the side of her nose. Al folded his arms too, and tried to glare and look intelligent at the same time. Far from quailing in the face of such a double threat, Scorpius instead sighed resignedly.
"I went to my father when I discovered that there had been a Death Eater named Peter Travers –"
"I thought you weren't allowed to tell us that," Al remarked.
"I didn't; Rose figured it out. My promise obligated me not to tell you," Scorpius continued, grinning. "I never said I wouldn't talk about it once you'd figured it out."
"But you had to have known that Rose would figure – ahhhhhh, I see now."
"That's pretty twisted logic for a Gryffindor, Malfoy," Rose remarked innocently.
Scorpius made no acknowledgement that she had spoken, save for what might have been the beginnings of a smile, quickly smothered. He continued with his story.
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"How did you come to hear that particular name, Scorpius?" Now that he thought about it, Scorpius didn't really have a valid excuse for his curiosity about one particular Death Eater. Thinking quickly, he went with the standby that any student anywhere can use in these potentially awkward scenarios.
"I heard the name in a class one time." Scorpius could only see his father's head. Inspired by Rose and Al's successful conversation with Mr. Weasley, Scorpius had decided to employ a similar tactic to have a rather sensitive discussion with his own father via the Floo network. The hour was, of course, extraordinarily inconvenient, and Scorpius's father had balked at the idea that any part of his body might have to enter the Gryffindor Common Room, but Scorpius had known exactly what to say to convince him. He also knew that, had Draco's body been visible at this moment, his arms would have been folded. He had that kind of expression on his normally immobile face.
"Which class?"
"I . . . I can't recall at the moment."
"Interesting. And who are your professors this year, again?"
"Well, there's Professor Jones – Defense; Professor Longbottom – Herbology; Professor Flitwick – Charms, of course; Professor Callister – Trans –"
"Caligula Callister?"
"I believe so, Father."
"Ah."
"You know him?"
"He was a year behind me in school," Draco said impassively. "We crossed paths occasionally, you might say."
"And he knew Peter Travers, too?"
"Ye – well, no. Well, actually . . . Scorpius, you've learned how to keep a secret, correct?"
"Yes, Father," Scorpius replied, trying not to roll his eyes. "Since the age of two, when you told me that I couldn't tell strangers my last name," he almost added, but refrained.
"I would . . . strongly request, then, that you not tell anyone where you got the information I'm about to tell you."
"I'll do my level best."
"I would appreciate it." Draco sighed, and, if he could have, would probably have pinched the bridge of his nose. Like father, like son. He continued, "Scorpius, Peter Travers is dead. He was murdered quite some time ago, and yet if you've been researching his whereabouts, which you must have done before coming to me, because you're much more thorough than I ever was at your age, you will have found that he's listed simply as 'missing.' Fewer than five people alive know about his death, and I think it would be safe to say that none of them want it to become general knowledge. He lies in a grave that is, in fact, quite a ways into the Forbidden Forest."
"How did he die?"
"He was killed."
"By who?"
"By whom, Scorpius. By whom."
"By whom, Father?"
"I think it would be better if you didn't know that."
"What does any of this have to do with Callister?"
"I think it would be better if you didn't know that."
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"That's all?" Rose asked.
"Essentially. Father told me where the grave is, told me to go see it for myself if I wanted proof, but I couldn't get any more out of him about Travers's actual death. Not even when it happened." There was silence around the table as Rose and Al took in what they had just heard. Finally, Rose looked round the table.
"You know what this means, right?" she asked solemnly.
"Callister killed Travers," Scorpius replied immediately. "Yes, I thought the same thing."
"Callister ki . . . oh, Merlin," Al said weakly. His fork hovered over some uneaten eggs, until he looked at them queasily and pushed them around his plate. "Do we have to go to Transfiguration today?"
"We can't skive off!" Rose said, looking deeply offended. "Well, only for something really important."
"What, and finding out your professor is a murderer isn't –"
"Do I hear my younger cousins planning to skive off class?" Fred cried jovially, sitting down and helping himself to some toast. "For shame!"
"I skived my first class in October of first year," Louis added. "You lot are running a bit late, no?"
"What're you skiving off for anyways?" Fred asked, perhaps noting the serious expression on Rose's face and the slightly nauseated look Al was sporting.
"We're not!" Rose said hurriedly. "It was just a hypothetical."
"That word is bigger than Malfoy!" James laughed and patted a very unamused Scorpius on the back.
"Yes, well," Rose said, standing up and yanking Al up by the elbow, "We really ought to be going to class now. Wouldn't want to be late!"
"Let us know when you're planning to actually have some fun!" James called at their retreated backs.
"We've got lots of ideas we'd be willing to give you!" Fred added. "For a price, of course."
Smiling wanly, Scorpius excused himself as well. He caught up with Rose and Al a few steps later, in time to hear Rose muttering some imprecation against her cousins – not, in fact, for encouraging them to skive off, but rather because they had the gall to offer Rose and Al – Rose and Al - tips about having fun. Rose was having fun, she fumed furiously. She was great at having fun. She was having so much fun, that –
"All right, Rose, we get it. You're the Queen of Fun. Now can you stop dragging me down the corridor? Your nails are digging into my arm." Rose muttered again – a somewhat abashed apology to Al this time.
"Hey Rose!" The voice caromed off of the brick walls, grating enough to almost assail Rose's ears. She was in no mood for this. She ignored it and kept walking as Al and Scorpius hurried along in her wake. "Rose!" the voice was persistent. "Rose! Wait up!"
"Hi, Zeke," Rose gave up as Zeke pushed his way past a rather surprised Al. She slowed down her rapid pace and the sail of her robes deflated; Zeke seemed to be having some difficulty keeping up with her. "You're going to Potions, right, Rose?"
"Yes, Zeke."
"Oh, good! And you finished the homework, right, Rose?"
"Yes, Zeke."
"I knew you would!" Rose gave him a look so perplexed that only Zeke's obstinate obliviousness could have barreled through. He barreled through it. "Do you think we'll be on time, Rose?"
"Yes, Zeke."
This conversation continued in a depressingly similar manner all the way down to the dungeons, where Potions class was still being held, despite the fact that the lessons were no longer taught by a bitter, potentially depressed Slytherin spy. By the time they reached the classroom, Al was practically in stitches, and even Scorpius was wearing a twisted smile that twitched regularly. Rose was glowering in the general direction of the floor, fiercely concentrating on each tile as though paying attention to it would stop Zeke's endless jabbering. Zeke was carrying on in all his oblivious glory.
Rose slammed her books down on the table hard enough that the sound echoed around the room, drawing stares from some of the other students who had already arrived. Al and Scorpius, sharing a meaningful look, purposefully took the seats to either side of her before Zeke could claim one of them.
"Thanks," Rose muttered. Al nodded – or rather, he moved his chin up and down very slightly, once, which Rose took to be acknowledgement. When she looked down to get out her parchment, her favorite quill (the one with the nib that always stayed sharp – a gift from her mother), and her ink, Al quickly shoved something underneath one of her books. It was, unsurprisingly, a note. Rose smirked; someday, they would learn to do this kind of thing by magic. But for now, this would have to do. She uncrumpled the parchment fragment.
Do we still have to go to Transfiguration later?
Yes, Al.
Class started. Professor Wistorren was lecturing today on a potion that they'd get to try for themselves, hopefully by the end of the week – so long as Wistorren managed to stop talking about his time working in St. Mungo's long enough to actually tell them what they were supposed to be making. As their professor turned his back to diagram on the chalkboard the very complex distinction between a figure-eight stir and a standard swirl stir, Al shoved another piece of paper in Rose's direction.
Even though our professor is probably a you-know-what?
Yes, Al.
Have you changed your mind?
No.
What about now?
No.
Al huffed a little and bent over his parchment, scribbling furiously. Rose was too worldly-wise to imagine for even one second to think that he might actually be taking notes. Plus, Wistorren was still talking about the delicate process of the swirl stir, which Al had definitely already learned by baking endless cookies with Grandma Weasley. Rose was, of course, failing spectacularly at taking notes. She was almost relieved when Al shoved another parchment fragment in her direction; at least it would be a distraction from the endlessly droning cadences of Wistorren's voice.
What about now?
No.
Fine. Then can we at least go to the Forbidden Forest and see the grave?
Rose rushed compulsively to hide the note, even though no one else was paying any attention whatsoever to her private drama. After the initial shock, she gave Al a quizzical look. He looked back at her, his green eyes impenetrable, his quill hanging slackly from his fingers. Ink slowly dripped onto his otherwise blank page of notes for the day. Rose gave a little shrug and shoved the parchment over to Scorpius.
The blond boy kept his head down, appearing to continue his furious transcription of every one of the Potions Master's inane comments. But within four seconds he had slid a small piece of parchment back to Rose, who read it at a glance before passing it on to Al.
Tonight.
Author's Note: So here's what happened with this chapter: I wrote it. And then all the sudden it was somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-some pages in my Word document, and I'm sitting there going, "No, no, no, no, no. You are not writing Lord of the Rings, .harmless. You're not even writing Harry Potter. Get a hold of yourself."
I'm serious, everyone, it was a monstrosity. It needed to be put down for its own good. So then I needed to pretend to be Dr. Frankenstein a little bit. A little off the sides, a little off the top, three pages going into Chapter 10, and so on and so forth. What you see here is the result. Anywho, I'm not entirely sure I like it all so much, but it gets the job done. And now I get to write the next chapter, which I'm ridiculously excited about. I will probably go back and "fix" this chapter at a later point, though. Any recommendations (beyond major plot points, which kind of can't change) would be welcome!
And on that note – thank you so much for reading, and sticking with this story. Thanks to those of you who have added this story to their favorites or alerts – with my wildly erratic update schedule, I think it's probably the only reliable way to keep track of me :) And thank you, especially, especially, especially(you can't see it, but there are an infinite amount of underlines underneath that last "essentially") to those of you who review or PM me. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to get feedback – good or bad - but I can tell you that if there were such a thing as non-creepy virtual cookies, I would send them to you.
I hope you all have a lovely holiday season, whatever holiday or holidays you are celebrating. Until next time!
-bbh