OMAC: You read my mind, buddy. It's gonna take some smooth acting on Jake's part to make this work. Good thing he's had some practice on the stage...
Inadvertently wrote a third of the next chapter thinking it'd fit in this installment, so hopefully the next update will be released quicker than usual. Thank you for all of the feedback so far, and I hope you enjoy the new material! As always, I love any comments on the story so far in reviews and PM's, and make sure to follow for future updates!
He was walking down a drab hallway with peeling wallpaper, torn carpeting, and stains in the ceiling, an aesthetic that would have challenged the most dismal of motels. His short grandfather followed closely behind him, forlorn and expressionless but always there when Jake looked over his shoulder with worry. Sad little fluorescent fixtures provided meager patches of flickering light and the end of the hallway was coming into focus as they walked through the uneven darkness. Jake could see a cloaked figure with flaming red hair just turning the corner as they approached.
His breath caught and he hurried his pace, turning the corner to find another long, empty hallway with no one in sight. He quickly continued on, looking over his shoulder to see his Dragon Master was following at a farther distance and watching Jake despairingly. Another split appeared ahead and another dark outline of a person just slipped passed the corner to the left, their messy black hair and glasses disappearing behind the moldy wall.
Rushing forward, Jake found yet another corridor shrouded in darkness. He sprinted ahead recklessly into the ever growing darkness, seeming to make no ground until he spotted a door ahead standing slightly open. On the other side, a figure with curled brown hair slowly closed the door completely with a light thud.
Jake closed the distance and slammed into the door, it in turn opening readily and spilling him into an abyssal room. He shakily got to his feet looked around at the completely empty and unlit chamber as the door shut behind him. Dust filled the air and he searched around at the four bare walls in vain for any sign of life until he realized his grandfather was also absent. He spun around and threw the door open to reveal the hallway vanished and replaced by the same flat wall that covered the rest of the room.
A high pitched cackling from behind drew his attention away from the false door and back to the previously empty space. Against the opposite wall stood a woman draped in flowing black robes with a matching headdress woven into her tight hair. She lifted her head to stare at him with wild eyes, but before she could say a word Jake dashed across the room and threw a furious punch at her face.
Polished glass cascaded around him as his fist powered through the mirror, shards of the object digging themselves into the skin of his hand. He stepped back from the scene and twisted around to find a dozen more mirror copies of the woman all laughing at him throughout the room. He threw himself at the nearest target, and then the next, until he stood in the center of the room with torn clothes and warm, bleeding arms, the remnants of his assault forming a reflective sea around him.
No matter where he looked on the floor, his own image was shown back to him, cracked and distorted by the pieces of mirror into terrifying illusions that were barely recognizable. He fell to his knees and tried to seal his eyes shut. A hand fell softly on his shoulder and he gratefully looked back up to find what he was sure had been his grandfather, here to rescue him like always.
"Gramps?"
"Try again," a smooth voice chided. Jake sat up groggily, finding himself tangled in sheets and shying away from bright light spilling in from the room's awning window. The fog of sleep seeping out of him, Jake began to remember why a well-dressed Englishman was watching him wake up, semi naked, in an unfamiliar bedroom.
"Yo, Stout, it's like seven in the morning," Jake yawned.
"Actually, it's noon."
"See! Way too early." Jake pulled the sheets back over his face, only to have them flung forcefully from his bed. He groaned loudly and sat up once more, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes.
"You might have warned me about this, you know," Stout said displeased.
"If you don't want to see some boxers, then don't pull off the covers," Jake argued.
"Not what I was referring to." Jake blinked up at the man to see him wiggling the fingers of both of his hands in the air. It took Jake a moment to examine his own hands and see that they were both those of his dragon self. He shook them out in puffs of fire to be replaced by ones much smaller and softer.
"Does that happen frequently?" Stout asked seriously.
Jake looked away, embarrassed. "If you mean just the hands, then not really…"
Stout rubbed the back of his head, sighing softly, "That will take some thinking." As if flipping a switch, he suddenly brightened and clapped his hands together loudly. "Alright, enough dawdling, we've got just under a week to get you ready and I don't intend to waste a second." He swiftly strode out of the room and turned back to Jake. "You'll find the shower across the hall; I strongly recommend that you use it."
Implied insults aside, Jake couldn't deny feeling much better as he stepped out of the steaming bathroom and dressed back in his bedroom with the few clothes he'd managed to pack. Checking himself in the mirror above the dresser, he noticed he'd forgotten to style his lengthy hair and cringed at realizing he'd forgotten most of his toiletries back in New York.
"He's gotta have a comb or something in here…" Jake scrounged through the room, searching shelves and opening drawers until he cracked open his nightstand cabinet and found it filled with clutter. He dug through the mess, passing over papers and odd little trinkets when a photograph fell out onto the floor. A freckled blonde woman smiled out of the picture with bright eyes, sitting in a plain sundress with a plump baby dozing on her lap. As he watched her, the woman lifted a hand to tuck a wandering strand of hair behind her ear while she cradled the child with the other.
"I would very much like to get started today, if at all possible!" Stout called from a distant room.
Jake flinched and rushed to shove the scattered memorabilia back into the cupboard, shouting back, "Alright, I get it! Chill, yo!" Abandoning his search, Jake left the room and walked through the clean, if boring, home until he found the English Dragon reading a newspaper at the kitchen table.
"You seem surprisingly lax, considering our predicament," Stout derided from behind the black and white paper.
"Yo, you can't rush perfection Benjy," Jake laughed.
Stout lowered his reading material and fixed Jake with a distinctly unimpressed look. "I think we can both agree that you are far from being an average young wizard, let alone perfect. For example," he gestured to Jake's tangled hair. "That simply won't do."
Jake dragged his fingers through the knots and responded, "That's it? I just need a comb and some gel, dawg."
"I was referring to the highlights," he sighed. "Even if they weren't reminiscent of your dragon form, they practically scream…well…American."
"And what's wrong with that?" Jake said defensively. He was annoyed to see Stout pinching his eyes with agitation.
"'What's wrong' is that you'll draw attention, Jacob. Every dragon knows that the key to infiltration is to blend in with the crowd." He grinned sadistically and lifted a pair of gleaming metal scissors from beneath the table.
Instead of complaining, as Stout no doubt expected, Jake simply rolled his eyes and took the seat next to him. "Whatever, I could use a trim anyway, but FYI it's not gonna help, Stout."
"I'm willing to try," Stout persisted, wrapping a towel around his neck. Jake sat stiffly, twitching away from the sharp instruments as Stout moved across his head and sheared away chunks of green-tipped black hair. "I'll admit, I was rather surprised that you agreed to go along with Dumbledore's little scheme," Stout commented aloud. When Jake gave no response, he continued, "What with abandoning your community and keeping the Council, even your own Dragon Master, in the dark. You must be quite motivated to see this through. It makes me wonder…"
"What about you, huh?" Jake snapped, pulling his head out of Stout's grasp to turn and look at him. "Fred's lying on a table in agony and you won't risk someone seeing him as a human, but Potter has a nightmare and now you're jumping to have me walk around like I own the place? What happened to 'protecting our race' and 'learning from history'?"
Stout's response was flat and cold. "This is different. You have no idea what You-Know-Who is capable of." Jake must have looked unconvinced as Stout breathed deeply and elaborated, "Decades ago when You-Know-Who rose to power, his army attempted to overthrow the Ministry of Magic in a long, horrific war." He looked over Jake's shoulder sadly, the latter turning to see a framed picture hanging from the wall of a much younger Stout and an older, gray haired man that reminded Jake of a grizzled bear.
"Countless people died; wizards, muggles, and magical creatures alike. The English Dragon at the time, my grandfather, owned a shop in Diagon Alley as his cover. He was closing down one night when You-Know-Who's forces, they're called Death Eaters, attacked the marketplace." He smirked grimly and chuckled. "The stubborn mule couldn't transform without someone noticing and he still managed to fight off half of the attackers before they got the better of him. The damage from their attack would have been terrible had he not intervened, but still…"
If felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of freezing water over him. "Stout, I…I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"Quite alright," he mumbled, nudging Jake's head forward and returning to his cutting. "He was a noble man, if overly proud and selfless to a fault. Not unlike Lao Shi."
Jake slouched and sat silently for a few minutes, trying to push down the regret building in his stomach. The snippets of hair were becoming smaller and less green when he confided in a rough voice, "I don't know if I can do this."
Stout responded cheerily, "Oh, I think you've got a fair shot…honestly, I do!" Jake had turned to look at him petulantly. "What matters most is your character, Jake, and trust me when I say that Dumbledore is nothing if not an excellent judge of character. Everything else is correctable."
"Like my hair?" Jake said testily.
"Exactly, and I think it turned out rather well." Stout dropped the scissors and pulled off the towel around Jake's neck before giving him a hand mirror. The bangs and sides were gone, leaving his hair just on the shorter end of how he usually wore it. "And not a speck of dye left, I might add."
"Oh it isn't dye," Jake commented.
"Well of course it's…" Stout gaped as he noticed the tips of Jake's hair slowly beginning to lighten into the familiar green color, "…bollocks." Jake couldn't help but laugh at the defeat pouring off of Stout.
"It just sort of happens," he explained while shaking his head and showering the table in a flurry of cut hairs. "Started around the sixth grade and I can't get rid of it. Black dye, bleaching, nothing. I guess you could cut it all off, but the Am-Drag doesn't do bald."
"You're just full of…" Stout groaned.
"Surprises?"
"…problems." Jake shrugged and Stout valiantly tried to regain his composure. "Fine! No matter, we'll simply have to work harder in the other areas."
"Other areas?" A haircut was one thing, but Jake wasn't all too comfortable with the determination in Stout's voice.
"As simple as I may make it seem," Stout applauded himself, "pretending to be a wizard is a many-layered thing. For example," he slickly pulled a wooden stick out from within his sleeve. "Our ability to channel magic through wands is unpredictable and shotty at best, but you still need to have one and act like you're using it to keep up appearances. We'll have to get you caught up on their lifestyle as well since wizards tend to live and behave like they're in the middle ages, something you're likely already a little familiar with. Then, of course, there's still the matter of your appalling vocabulary and identifiable accent…"
Another photo on the wall, however, had distracted Jake from Stout's tutelage. It was a formal, though conspicuously dusty, picture of Stout next to the same woman Jake had seen in the photograph from the cupboard, though neither of the subjects moved in this one. They stood happily, Stout wrapping his arms around her waist while they both smiled out of the frame.
"…and naturally we'll practice using a quill and ink. Bringing a pen, hah, you may as well just transform in the middle of the Great Hall at dinner…"
"Hey Stout," Jake interrupted. The man looked over curiously and grew reserved when he found the point of Jake's interest. "Who's this chick? I saw her in another photo upstairs with a baby. Is she your sister or…?"
"Wife," he answered repressively, "but don't get off topic. We ought to…"
"Hold up, so that was your kid? You never said you were a dad!" Jake laughed while clapping him on the back, confused as to why he appeared so somber. Stout looked away and left the room, grabbing a jacket draped over one of the table chairs as he went.
Jake walked after him and continued, "But hey, I guess it's not surprising that a smooth guy like you's got a family gig." Stout walked to the couch in the living room and grabbed a pair of leather shoes, ignoring Jake. Unperturbed, the teenager flung himself on an armchair and asked excitedly, "So when do I get to meet them? You know you can't keep a lady that fine from me forever, Benjy. I promise I'll be good!"
Stout straightened up stiffly from his shoes and fixed Jake with a worryingly vacant stare. His blue eyes weren't seething with anger or dripping with grief. They were just…empty. "They aren't here," he answered flatly.
"Yeah, I got that," Jake laughed obliviously. "So where are they? Visiting family for the holidays, right? Or not, well give me something here, yo! You're acting like someone…" And then the dark understanding hit him like a truck, catching the word in his throat. Left alone, he may have sat there frozen for an eternity, but Stout seemed to read his sudden shock.
"Died?" he finished coldly. He laced on his shoes before he stood and returned his unseeing gaze back to Jake, who still sat petrified in his chair. "You misunderstand. They're alive, Jake, or at least I hope so. I haven't seen either of them for almost sixteen years."
The technicality didn't ebb Jake's anxiety. "Why, were they kidnapped or something?"
Stout snickered joylessly. "No, nothing so dramatic. You see, after my grandfather passed I took up his mantle as the English Dragon. It quickly turned out to be too much for her. She left one night - well disappeared, more like. I tried to find them, but my lead pointed to somewhere in Spain. I had to choose between fulfilling my duties here and following after them. So…I chose."
He looked unfazed, emotionless, but Jake's mind was overflowing with pity and sympathy from his own experiences. He'd thought Stout a shining role model of a World Dragon, having his domain under his thumb with a successful career and a happy home. He wanted it to be true so badly that he'd missed what had been laid out before him from the start, that Stout was even more victimized by the role than Jake had ever been. If Benjamin couldn't make this life work, what chance, what hope, did he have?
A small smile developed on Stout's lips and helped distract Jake's racing mind. "I first met her at the Ministry when I was just starting out in my department, you know. She was a brilliant witch; could solve any problem with a flick of her wand and a grin. Well…anything except for me." Stout dropped his somber demeanor at once and again perked up spontaneously. "I said we weren't going to waste a second of this week and here you've got me telling stories like an old man. Enough chat, hurry up and put on some warm clothes!"
Taking a leaf from Stout's book, Jake did his best to stomp down his building misery and nodded rigidly before climbing the staircase to retrieve his own red jacket and shoes. Walking down to meet the English Dragon at the front door, he worked up his false optimism and asked aloud, "Alright, Benjy, What 'other areas' are we doing next?"
Stout laughed boomingly. "Why, the easiest ones to improve, of course! You'll need supplies: books, potions materials, safety equipment, all sponsored by our gracious benefactor, Dumbledore."
"Diagon Alley?" Jake guessed, fondly remembering his last visit to the twisting, turning marketplace.
"Diagon Alley," Stout agreed. He opened the door for Jake to pass by and quickly reached out to feel the cuff of his crimson red jacket. "And remind me to fetch you a new wardrobe while we're at it."
Jake yanked his arm out of his grasp. "Oh no, no way, Stout, that's where I draw the line. No one messes with the threads." Stout rolled his eyes and followed the teenager out into the brisk London air, gently pulling the door shut behind him.
Mr. Weasley was alive, and about that much Harry was very thankful. The wounds were extensive, and his recovery had been lengthy, but the joyful man had finally walked through the doors of Grimmauld Place earlier in the afternoon, completely cured. The Weasleys were ecstatic, of course, and several other members of the Order had been dropping by throughout the day, most to give Mr. Weasley warm wishes.
One, however, had arrived for a very different and extremely unsettling purpose. Harry had hoped beyond hope that Mrs. Weasley was playing some poor joke when she informed him that Professor Snape was waiting in the kitchen to speak with him, but the sight of his imposing potions instructor standing by the fireplace had stolen away what little optimism he had. His godfather glaring at Snape as though he were a particularly grotesque fly in need of swatting didn't help ease his worries, either.
As the bat-like head of Slytherin house grudgingly explained, Dumbledore wished him to give Harry private lessons in a branch of magic known as Occlumency to help prevent his visions. Harry wasn't entirely sure what this meant, but Sirius heatedly questioned why the headmaster himself could not provide the lessons. Harry quite agreed with his sentiment, but before he knew it the argument had escalated dangerously and both men had their wands drawn, each looking eager to hex the other into oblivion. Had it not been for the entrance of the Weasley family into the kitchen, Harry had no doubt that they very well would have.
Sirius's continued morose attitude mixed with his new 'Remedial Potions' class and the promise of having to endure another term of Umbridge's pernicious aura made Harry understandably reluctant to leave the noble house of Black. There was also something else, a lingering terror from what he'd heard the Order members discussing when they'd all visited Mr. Weasley at St. Mungo's Hospital. While Harry and the others secretly listened with Fred and George's Extendible Ears, Moody himself had admitted to theorizing what Harry had dreaded since having the vivid nightmare: Voldemort was possessing him.
It had been enough to leave Harry speechless, lingering depressed and secluded away from the others. He may very well have still been in that pit of despair had Hermione and Ginny not talked sense into him. He'd never blacked out, never had long periods of forgetfulness, which Ginny – having experienced Voldemort's mind-bending influence first hand – claimed were essential signs of possession. It made sense, and it was a comforting argument, yet still Harry felt unclean, contaminated. It was in this mood that Hermione found him that night, lounging upstairs by a sleeping Buckbeak rather than enjoying their last day of break with Ron and the others.
"Up here again?"
Harry jumped, not having noticed her quiet entrance. He cursed softly before addressing her, "Sorry, Hermione, I didn't hear you come in."
She gave him a concerned look and moved to sit across from him. "Are you alright, Harry? Ever since Professor Snape left, you and Sirius have been so quiet. I'd think you'd be trying to relax before tomorrow."
"Easier said than done with everything that's going on," he answered sullenly.
Her expression fell with immediate understanding. "You know Dumbledore wouldn't make Snape give you these lessons if they weren't absolutely essential," she assured him. He merely turned back towards Buckbeak and lazily ran his fingers through the hippogriff's feathers.
"And what if it doesn't work, Hermione? What if the nightmares just get worse, or if the next time I see Voldemort attack someone it's through my eyes?" he asked in distress.
"Harry, we've been over this. You-Know-Who never possessed you, and as long as you're at Hogwarts he never will. Dumbledore will make sure of that," she said firmly.
"Yeah, by making me take private lessons with Snape," Harry sneered. "At this point I don't even know if I want to go back to Hogwarts."
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry, you know you've got to," she derided.
"Doesn't make it any better," he groaned. "I can't play Quidditch, everyone still thinks I'm a nutter, and now there's Snape on top of Umbridge. There's nothing left for me there."
"Of course there is, Harry! We've got our O.W.L.S. to think about!" Hermione corrected him, looking aghast. She quickly continued under his exasperated glare, "And don't forget the D.A. too! If you're not there to teach it, then there's no way anyone can hope to do well in Defense Against the Dark Arts on exams."
That was true and a welcome reminder for Harry. He'd nearly forgotten the plans he'd had for the first classes of the term and the new jinxes and counter-curses he'd lined up for them all. Snape's lessons would certainly make it more difficult for him to find time for the sessions, but he'd make it work if it meant perpetrating their rebellion against Umbridge's regime.
"Besides," Hermione added off-hand, "if anyone's going to be completely miserable it's Ron. Whenever someone brings up Quidditch, he looks as though he's swallowed one of Fred and George's Puking Pastilles."
"Johnson's never going to let us live that down," Harry sighed. "Even if Umbridge hadn't banned me, I probably wouldn't have time for Quidditch anyway."
"Ginny's lost again, Harry, you're up!" Ron's voice called out from one of the lower floors, followed by a squeal and the thump of something impacting a wall.
"Better make him happy while we can," Harry laughed, getting to his feet with Hermione and moving to leave the stuffy room. "More Wizard's Chess is as good a way as any to try and relax, I suppose."
"Though Ron's head may be too big to fit through the door by the end of the night," Hermione admitted.
To Harry's appreciation, time with the others did in fact greatly improve his mood that night, though Sirius remained sullen and reserved well into the morning after. Harry knew why, of course. Once they left, his godfather would once again be subdued to the small abode, alone except for the occasional Order member and his bigoted house elf Kreacher, who had only the previous night managed to reappear in the dusty attic after several days of absence. The elf's attitude and following disappearance had deeply worried Harry, who knew all too well the mischief house elves were capable of when they were properly motivated.
Yet still the problem remained that Sirius would once again be trapped and caged, a burden Harry knew was far too great for the brave man. Harry, however, had nothing to offer but words, but even those he was unable to provide as the home was a zoo of running bodies, everyone grabbing bags and readying trunks for their departure by Knight Bus. He'd been packing his things, and then helping carry parcels down the staircase, and he supposed he'd gotten breakfast at some point though he couldn't recall when or what he'd eaten, and now they were all suddenly about to walk through the front door into a foggy air.
Tonks and Remus were guiding them all outside when Harry at last spotted Sirius approaching him. Before he could speak, Sirius shoved a small postcard-sized package wrapped in brown paper into his hands, urging him while watching Mrs. Weasley, "Don't let Molly see this, I doubt she'd approve."
"Okay, but…what is it?" Harry asked, intrigued by the strange surprise.
"A backup plan, just in case Snivellus gives you any grief. This'll let you reach me so I can set him right," Sirius whispered gleefully. Harry pocketed the gift, but knew he would never use whatever it was. He'd managed to survive Umbridge without divulging her torturous punishments to anyone, and he'd already had plenty of experience tolerating Snape's harsh attention. No, Harry would sooner return to the Dursley's than admit he'd let Snape get to him.
"Thanks, Sirius, and listen. I…"
"No time, Harry," he said in a hush, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Be safe, okay? And don't forget I'm here for you." Harry tried to think of some comforting farewell, something to make his godfather's isolation bearable, but he found himself being moved from the home, a brisk wind nipping at his neck as their small group walked out into the courtyard and came to a stop just in front of the cobbled road.
Tonks waved her wand hand out over the road. A loud CRACK sounded and the infamous purple, double-decker Knightbus slung into view and came to a screeching halt in front of them.
"Wicked, I've always wanted to ride this thing," Ron laughed while they all hoisted their belongings into the crowded vehicle. Many of the seats were taken and their group was forced to split in two with Harry, Ron, and Hermione following Tonks up onto the top deck. As they walked, Harry couldn't help but shy away as everyone stared after him, particularly the pimply busboy that exchanged their sickles for tickets.
"This bus really is dreadful," Hermione complained as they sat themselves and she quickly latched her arms around the nearest handrail.
"What makes you say…" Ron's half-finished question answered itself as the bus promptly hurtled forward with another loud CRACK. The uniform buildings and courtyard outside were gone, replaced with a vague countryside that whirled past the windows with blinding speed. They were soon streaking through a small village, weaving around pedestrians and between buildings until they at last came to another peeling stop in front of a pub.
Harry relaxed his grip as the busboy helped an elderly woman out onto the street. Someone on the first deck audibly lost their breakfast, and he looked down and snickered at Ron, who had been quite unprepared for the harsh travel and was sprawled on the grimy metal floor.
"Shut up, Harry," he grumbled as he tried to get to his feet. Unfortunately, before he could find support, they had sped forward with another CRACK, accompanied by new scenery hurtling past them. Though Ron finally managed to collect himself after their fourth stop, the jarring trip had lost its humor by the third. Tonks seemed to have similar thoughts and spoke with the busboy in a low voice, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as they were finally darting along the frosted streets of Hogsmeade.
They rolled to a stop in front of the metal gates to Hogwarts, Ron wasting no time and sprinting to the exit. Tonks sighed and grabbed his abandoned luggage while they all descended the small staircase to the bottom deck and followed the other group out onto the muddy road.
"Oh get a hold of yourself," Ginny scolded Ron as he stood bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing the highland air in heavily.
"Never…again…" he gasped, struggling to lift himself until Tonks tossed his belongings at him. Surprisingly, he managed to catch them without collapsing into the wet dirt below. Now if he'll just do that on a broom, Harry thought.
"Alright, come along everyone," Remus corralled them, waving his wand and opening the gates to the school grounds while their ride careened away and off into the distance behind them. They all trudged slowly up the dirt road, dragging their trunks through the loose ground as the towers and halls of the massive school slowly grew with every squelching step they took. Despite the gloom and grime, Harry's thoughts were of a black shaggy dog, trapped within even bleaker surroundings in a distant, cold dwelling. The lump in his pocket from the small package reminded him of his godfather's own plight, of how miserable he was, and the troubles that awaited Harry ahead seemed much smaller.
He didn't need a 'backup plan'. If Sirius could shoulder his torment, then so could he.
After several minutes of intense scrutiny and careful examination, Jake had come to one absolute truth: it looked like rope. Well, like old, thin rope to be more accurate. Very thin rope, actually, it couldn't be thicker than a shoestring, and it was pretty frayed, which made it rough and itchy to hold. What good would a weak little rope like this be? It tingled at his touch, something he'd felt before but couldn't readily recall. He felt like throwing it away, or setting it aflame, this silly little hoop of thin, wiry, itchy, repulsive rope.
"Alright, I give. What is it?" he conceded, dangling the ornament in front of Stout's face, who in turn quickly batted it away and jerked the steering wheel to avoid swerving into the next traffic lane.
"For Heaven's sake, Jake, are you trying to get us killed?" he snapped, glaring sideways at the grinning boy in the passenger's seat. "I'll tell you, but first you must recite your background for me once more, in character."
Jake groaned loudly but obliged, clearing his throat before droning in a painfully terrible attempt at a British accent, "Good evening, my name is Jonathan Long. I am a wizard from Cardiff, born to a squib mother and muggle father. My parents refused to let me attend Hogwarts, but my uncle Benjamin Stout convinced them to let me stay for a term before taking my O.W.L.S. so that I could practice with the students and professors. Pip pip, cheerio, God save the Queen."
Were he not driving a vehicle and his attention demanded, Stout likely would have buried his face in his hands. As it stood, he gripped the wheel tightly and fought to refrain from speaking whatever was on his mind. "That bad, huh?" Jake asked despairingly.
"Oh, much worse," Stout said matter-of-factly. They came to a stop at a red light and he pointed a finger at the circlet still in Jake's hand. "As promised. That is a training collar, my old one actually."
"Training collar?" Jake asked. "Training for what?"
"For young dragons. Since you do not recognize it I'm guessing you did not encounter this problem, but some fledglings – my adolescent self included – have trouble controlling their dragon transformations when they first develop them. As you can imagine, it's difficult to continue mingling with the public if a pair of wings or a thrashing tail can appear at any moment, so they are given these collars by their Dragon Masters."
Jake looked down at the necklace, which still looked as feeble and mundane as before. "So wearing this itchy thing helps control your dragon powers?"
"I'm actually surprised you haven't picked up on it yet," he answered with a smirk. "There are a few threads of sphinx hair woven into the cord. Entire bundles of the vile stuff can completely drain our energy and leave us motionless, but this cord is much less potent and instead just makes accessing our powers more difficult, a perfect solution for curing spontaneous outbreaks."
The tingling sensation in his fingers repulsed Jake and he tossed the necklace to the floor of the car. "Now now, Jake, we can't have mishaps like what occasionally happens in your sleep. You are to wear this collar at all times, no exceptions. When you sleep, bathe, go to class, study, everywhere, is that clear?"
His commanding tone stopped Jake short of retaliating and he grudgingly nodded, picking up the necklace and dropping it over his head. He immediately felt its effects, like a twenty pound weight had been dropped on his shoulders and he'd gone a day without sleep. "Aw man, this is messed up, Stout! I gotta wear this thing all the time?"
Stout laughed jovially, "Oh yes, and believe me it isn't pleasant at first but you'll grow accustomed to it. Now, as for your, erm…how to put this kindly…speech impediment..."
"I know I suck, okay? You were trying to be slick when you kept talking to everyone for me at Diagon Alley, but I'm not stupid. You don't have to try and sugarcoat it," Jake said bitterly.
"Well you'll be pleased to learn I've found a rather ingenuous solution!" They had just pulled up and parked in front of a large building with signs leading up to it reading King's Cross Station. Stout reached into his jacket and retrieved a small silver medallion, the size and shape of a half-dollar and blank except for some kind of carving on both sides that looked like a very angular letter B. "As they say, if you've nothing nice to say, best to not say anything at all."
Jake sighed. "It looks like money. What, you want me to bribe everyone?"
"I really should have just done this to begin with," Stout mumbled before reaching across and attaching the medallion to Jake's training collar by a clasp at its top. He then sat back in his seat and observed Jake expectantly. After a moment of waiting patiently, Jake prepared another snarky comment but found himself unable to voice it. He tried to yell it, then scream it, but he couldn't make a sound.
"Splendid!" Stout cheered before checking his watch and recoiling at what he saw. "That time already? Come along, Jake, you won't want to miss the train." He leapt out of the car and began removing items from the trunk, all while Jake continued to pound his armrest and kick the floor with the effort of trying to speak.
Stout was amused to see him climb out of the car red-faced and gesticulating to his throat, trying to mime the accusation of Why the hell can't I talk?! He grinned with satisfaction and explained, "It's a silencing charm, my boy. I had that ornament enchanted so that anyone wearing it would be found speechless, unable to produce so much as a vowel. It's perfect, really. No one can discover you through your voice if you can't speak, can they?"
Jake pulled the necklace over his head and shouted unnecessarily loudly, "You could have told me ahead of time, dawg!"
"Ah, but it wouldn't have been as entertaining," Stout answered, enduring Jake's venomous glare as they piled his newly purchased belongings on a cart and wheeled it up to the doors of the station. While they passed through the initial gates and terminals, Stout said more seriously, "I know this will be difficult, Jake, but you must wear both the collar and charm at all times. Learn to communicate with gestures or write down your thoughts if you must, but this will keep you safe and hidden. You will seem antisocial and thus repel the attention of other students, and it also validates your poor magical abilities compared to normal student standards. Silent casting, after all, is a very difficult technique that most witches and wizards struggle with well into adulthood."
Though he didn't like the last minute change of plans, this new tactic had single handedly removed several of Jake's greatest concerns, and even he had to appreciate its elegance. "That's…great, actually. It's perfect, except…" his thoughts drifted back to the desires he knew he couldn't afford to indulge. They can't know who you are, you know that.
"Except…?" Stout prodded.
"…except…nothing, never mind," Jake said dismissively, looking away at the various trains he could see at the platforms ahead. He could feel Stout's eyes boring into him as he resolutely avoided his gaze.
"You know, you never did tell me why you were so keen to take on this task," Stout reminded him. Just like before, Jake made no attempt at a response, not even sure of the truth himself, though Stout's intuition must have already worked out at least part of the answer considering the knowing smile he gave him. "It's a difficult thing we're fated to do; a cruel, unfair thing."
"Benjy…why didn't you leave? You know, chase after your family, live another life?" Jake asked carefully. Stout slowed his pace and buried his hands deep in his pockets, grinning sadly.
"I wanted to go, I tried to go, but every time…something held me back. To leave my country without its dragon, to steal away its protector for the sake of my happiness, would have been truly selfish. I wanted to go, Jake…so much so that it pains me to this day…but I had to stay."
Jake scoffed in disdain, all too familiar with the sentiment. "Sounds right, like we ever have a choice."
"You're wrong," Stout barked. Jake looked up at him and shrank under the passion burning in his eyes. "We always have a choice, Jake."
They stood for a moment before he coughed and turned away from Jake, continuing down the length of the path between platforms nine and ten. The crowd had thinned a bit, and Jake had begun to recognize individuals that were clearly poorly disguised witches and wizards wearing hideous vests and mismatched clothing.
"We're nearly there, and now begins your silent pilgrimage," he announced, pointing to the necklace tucked in Jake's pocket. Reluctantly, Jake slipped it over his head once more and slouched under the burdening exhaustion, unable to voice even the most meager of complaints. They walked a short distance further before Stout guided him towards one of the stone pillars standing between the two platforms.
"I trust you recall how to find the train?" Stout asked, pleased to see Jake's nod in response. "Wonderful, well you go first and I'll be close behind." Obediently, Jake aimed his cart at the pillar and cracked his neck before pushing the luggage to a light jog and bracing in preparation for what would normally have been a disastrous, jarring crash.
Instead, a light breeze blew through his hair and he found himself surrounded by a moderate crowd of students and parents, all meandering around a crimson red train engine. It was so strange, standing amidst this crowd without towering over everyone and drawing their stares of curiosity or disdain. The fact that not a single person looked his way gave him a rush of inspiring courage. This might actually work.
"Well you're looking chipper," Stout commented, appearing beside him. "And you ought to tuck that in. The fewer clues, the better," he whispered while shoving the training collar and attached medallion beneath Jake's shirt. "Wand?" Jake tugged the flimsy stick out of his pocket and presented it. "Good, always keep it handy. Now what else…oh yes, nearly forgot." Stout reached once more into his apparently bottomless coat pockets and pulled out two small brown leather books, quickly handing one to Jake.
"If there's an emergency with our little psychic or your identity, find Dumbledore. He'll know what to do. Use this journal," he tapped the diary-like book in Jake's hand, "to get ahold of me for anything else. Whatever's written in one appears in the other, so we can keep in touch. The same policy as the collar goes for this: have it at all times and keep it hidden. Good?"
Jake shoved the book into this bag, uncertain of whether or not he'd need it but nevertheless exchanging it with a confident smile for Stout's sake. The man in turn smirked before growing unusually somber and whispering, "Any day now I expect to receive word of your disappearance from the Dragon Council. No doubt your family is trying to resolve the issue on their own, but a week is…well…they'll look for help soon. If you'd like, I can forge a letter for you, if there's…anything you want to tell them? Maybe to ease their worries, or…"
His chest ached with crippling remorse, but Jake shook his head stubbornly. When Stout looked to him imploringly, he reached beneath his shirt and tugged at the frayed cord, inclining his head to him. Stout interpreted the meaning of his gesture and sighed in resigned agreement. The fewer clues, the better.
The train whistle sounded and the families around them began giving farewells and parting as the students moved forward to board the train. "Alright, this is it," Stout teetered, his anxiety beginning to bleed through his renewed joviality. "Remember what's at stake, Jake, and know that I have complete confidence in you, so keep an eye on our friend Mr. Potter and do try to enjoy yourself." Smiling broadly he genuinely laughed, "For you not to after all of our hard work would be a pity, don't you think?"
With that, Stout spun him around and shoved Jake toward the train steps, where he mixed with the line and slowly climbed aboard. The moment he turned into the carriage corridor and the walls surrounded him, Jake's courage immediately melted away. Without a plan or goal, he walked awkwardly along the hallway until he found the first empty room and hastily slid the door open to fling himself inside. Falling onto one of the seats, he searched through the window for Stout and felt his stomach turn as the English Dragon was nowhere to be seen. Aw man. What am I doing, what am I doing, dammit Jake what'd you get yourself into?
The carriage jerked forward and the platform slowly began to move backward in the window. Families waved goodbye and Jake could hear other students shouting back at them, but before long the station was gone and rural London was flying by instead. He fell back against the seat and thoughtlessly pulled out Stout's journal, rubbing his fingers over its bumpy surface. He'd been given so many tools and so much help from the man, far outreaching friendliness or even familial affection...
Jake dropped the gift into his bag and looked back outside in shame. His own agenda aside, Stout had shown him too much kindness, too much trust. How could he stand to foster someone like Jake, who went against everything he stood for, who didn't deserve this kind of support or caring?
How could he stand someone so selfish?
And there's Chapter 21, hope you enjoyed it! (Insert plug encouraging responses through reviews and PM's along with reminder to follow for further chapters)