"Hogwarts: A Prospectus" is from JM Matthews estimable Slytherin Rising series. ("Estimable" is a snotty word that roughly substitutes for "kickass.")

And hey—this is my first attempt at fan fiction, and any advice you all might give me would be really appreciated.:-) Please, review!

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
Aldous Huxley

Chapter 11: Lemon drops

"Not too overwhelming, I hope?" Dumbledore's eyes were kind as he approached.

"Not as bad as I expected."

He met her smile. "There are a few who couldn't make it tonight, but they are included in this facebook," he began, handing her a palm size, leather bound journal. She flipped it open, then nearly dropped it in shock.

"They're moving!"

"The first time I opened a Muggle picture book, I was equally surprised to see images that were still. Would you like a lemon drop?" he offered.

"Oh, that'd be nice." Saira took the proffered candy, popping it into her mouth. It was oddly comforting, perhaps because it reminded her of the mundane in this situation where not much else did.

"I think you'll like this next one. It's the one we send to our students who have grown up with non-magical families," he said, handing her a slim book entitled Hogwarts: A Prospectus.

"Thank you."

"And, Saira, may I have a brief word with you?"

"Is something wrong?"

"Not because of anything you've done." He assured, and she relaxed visibly. "Please," he gestured to a chair by his desk, "come sit a minute."

Saira settled into the armchair, realizing it was the very one Snape had occupied just minutes ago. Her nose took in a little extra air, trying to sort out the presence of her most attractive nemesis to date. –Well, at least he smells good…sort of like cinnamon.—

"I'm not sure how much it's fair to expose you to on your first full day here. The better part of me would rather keep most information from you, until you're better ready to hear it," Dumbledore began.

Saira's spine straightened, and she began to narrow her eyes. –Since when does he get to decide what I'm ready to hear? What if it's important that I know something sooner?—

"However, past experiences have led me to believe that sheltering others can just as likely get them into grief as save them from it. Before I begin, though: a question for you."

She appraised the man before her, watching his elegant fingers slide together smoothly in his lap. So serene he might have been a Buddhist monk begging dinner outside of the Underground, the old wizard reminded her of schoolbook pictures she'd seen of the Thames in a harsh winter. Still and smooth on the outside, but you knew there had to be current raging purposefully beneath.

"Yes?"

"What sort of work did your brother end up doing?"

She blinked. Despite Dumbledore's assurance that the conversation had nothing to do with her actions, Saira had been preparing to explain her way out of her dealings with Snape. She was so caught off guard by the question, her mouth opened a good few seconds before any sound came out. –End up doing? He knew Rafi?—

"Um, he fixed cars, and mopeds, and had a music gig with friends. Why? And how did you know I had a brother?"

"He told me about you. In many ways, it's more surprising I know he had a sister."

Saira had the distinct impression she was being teased. She squared her shoulders and looked at the old wizard, remaining very still as she turned his words over in her mind. –Come off of it, this is still your subconscious. And think, the both of you were boarding school brats, once upon a time. Just never at the same school. And wouldn't it be funny if Rafi went to school here? That's it; it's just you, trying to make sense of an unfamiliar situation. Like the coma you're in.— She clung to her belief that this was some sort of entertaining dream especially hard for a minute. Not too many people willingly give up their faith systems, even if they've only had them for a matter of days.

"Why would my brother come to school here?" –That's it, put him on the defensive. Give nothing away. He doesn't need to know you think he's a figment of your mind.—

Dumbledore popped another candy in his mouth, and gestured to the bowl on his desk. Saira unwrapped another –Mmm, butterscotch- and followed suit. –Though I really think another sort of scotch would suit me far better right now.—

"Your brother went to school here the same reason your students go to school here. He was a wizard. Reasonably adept, when he put his mind to it. But, as I recall, he never put much stock in it. I think he had some serious opposition at home." Dumbledore's glasses hadn't moved, nor had his face, but nonethelessSaira had the impression of him peering over them.

–Rafi, a wizard? Doesn't seem quite right.— "But if he was a wizard, wouldn't that mean that he'd do some magic? I grew up with him, even if we did go to different schools. We spent summers together, and we worked together. I even lived in his flat for a bit, before I saved enough to get my own. He was wonderful, yes—but not magical."

"Perhaps." Dumbledore smiled, a trace of sadness in his eyes. "But perhaps it's something he didn't choose to share with many people. As I recall, even while your brother was here he would try to solve problems without using magic. He thought too much magic made wizards lazy. He graduated, but never sat for his NEWTs, and left his wand behind when he returned home. I'm not sure why he stayed as long as he did, though I wish he'd stayed longer."

Saira thought it over, trying to remember anything about Rafi that had seemed different or magical. And she couldn't. It made her sad to think this stranger might know more about her brother than she did.

"Saira," Dumbledore's tone became very gentle, "I'm sorry he's gone. And, I'm even more sorry when I tell you that I think his death might not have been an accident, though that's what you've been told."

Her eyes were on him, unflinching. –He will not make me cry.—

Dumbledore paused, gauging her reaction, and then continued. "There are some who do not much care for magical people who do not practice magic. Those who cannot practice magic are called Squibs. But those who do not practice? Few understand the distinction. I believe that, combined with your mother being a non-magical person, is what set your brother up for an attack."

Saira shook her head. "I'm sorry, I don't believe you." Her voice was quiet, but level.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully, as though he expected she might have doubts. The old man turned in his chair, and brought down a wooden box and a small scrap of paper. A picture.

"Here," he offered. "This is a picture taken of your brother on graduation. We might have others, in the yearbooks, if you're interested."

Saira looked down at the familiar face. –Rafi.— He shrugged and nodded at the photographer, as if saying "yes, it's me—let's get this over." Saira was still a second longer.

"May I keep this?" she asked.

"Of course. And also, this, if you'd like. It's customary to break a wizard's wand when he dies, but since Rafi didn't have his with him…" Dumbledore's voice trailed off, and he opened the narrow woodenbox in front of them.

It was a smallish wand, innocuous looking in a fair, nearly honey colored wood. "European boxwood," offered Dumbledore, "with an ivory core. Quite musical, your brother."

"Yes, he was…" Saira gazed absentmindedly at the wand, and then looked back at the picture. –I'm going to have to think this over. This is craziness. And what's this about his death not being an accident? I don't want to know.—

"This, too, is yours to have, if you want it." The old wizard rested a light, warm hand on top of Saira's. "I think that's enough for one night, don't you? Unless you have any questions?"

Saira thought a moment. –What can I possibly ask him? I mean, is there anything I really want the answer to? No more about Rafi, I don't think I can stand another moment of this, not tonight.— And then it hit her.

"Well, one question."

Dumbledore smiled, leaning forward in a fatherly way.

"Sir…does Professor McGonagall really have a tail?"