"Okay, so run this by me again."
"Really? Rowan, that's the third time."
"It seems important," explained Rowan, tugging at his glasses. "I'm trying to commit it all to memory."
Murphy glanced across the table at James, raising both eyebrows. James, with a furtive glance to either side of him to make sure no one was too close, launched into it again.
"So back in the mid-2000s or so, there was a group of wizard vigilantes - mainly former Gryffindors - that were going around Britain committing assaults and murders and calling themselves Gladius Leo."
"Latin for 'Sword of the Lion' - roughly," Rowan expounded. Then, with an aside glance at no one in particular, he added at a mutter, "Not the least bit pretentious."
James paused for a moment ("Wh…") Then his brain decided that it wasn't even going to attempt to figure out how Rowan was finding time to take up learning Latin with everything else he was reading all the time. James moved on. "Their targets were mainly people they 'suspected' of Death Eater activity or connections."
James was sure Rowan would read correctly into his inflection. He was a clever kid, after all...
"So… mainly Slytherins," Rowan deduced.
"Right," confirmed James grimly. "To be fair, a lot of former Slytherin students did have relatives or people they knew that had gotten mixed up with the Death Eaters. That's the thing about pureblood families - everybody's got a relative, because everyone's related to everyone else. Anyway… after… well, after Brynne's parents were murdered in Wales, there was a break in the case. My dad used that to find and arrest the ringleaders of Gladius Leo. A bunch of them fought to the death, but the ones that didn't were sent off to Azkaban. A few of them, though, when they were questioned, talked about this thing called the 'Scarlet Hand.'"
"'Scarlet Hand'?" repeated Rowan. "Some type of weapon?"
"That's what the Ministry thought at first, too," James assented. "They thought it was a weapon, maybe even a literal glove or gauntlet infused with some type of powerful magic. But it was something worse. It was gold, supplies, and orders. It was a person, or a group of people, that had been funding and organizing the entire operation from the shadows. The real leaders of Gladius Leo."
"A 'Scarlet Hand'... to swing the Sword." Rowan's expression turned dark..
"Exactly. But the Ministry - my dad - never found anything. And after the attacks stopped, they just figured the Gladius Leo blokes were basically telling ghost stories. Saying something or someone was still out there just to scare people."
"But you think the Scarlet Hand's real," Rowan stated.
Wordlessly, James nodded.
Rowan's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "If that's true…" he glanced up toward the staff table.
"Don't stare, you prat," Murphy scolded him. Rowan, who did not appreciate being spoken to like a child by someone barely one year his senior, glared in return. "...Well, it's kind of not subtle if you gawk at him while we're talking, is it?"
Rowan sighed - a nonverbal concession of defeat to this particular point - and averted his eyes, setting them instead on James. "I hate to state the obvious, but that's a massive accusation."
"I know," James agreed gravely. "So unless we were to come up with some hard evidence, we wouldn't even be taken seriously."
"I hate to state the obvious again," Rowan piped in, "but even with hard evidence, moving against him's going to be tough. I mean… how do you bring someone like that in with no help from outside? And what do we do if he realizes his cover's blown?"
"Cover?" Murphy repeated.
"I mean…" Rowan uttered. "He's been hiding here at Hogwarts as a teacher all these years."
"'Hiding' isn't the right word," Murphy disagreed. "He's not faking being a teacher. He is a teacher. A good one. He even taught at ASHES in America. Those are high-level courses - beyond even our N.E.W.T. level. This is different than just a criminal with a cover. You can poke holes in a cover after a while - expose some sort of weakness or mistake. There aren't any holes with Wenster. He's dedicated himself to the craft of teaching… he's respected for it on two different continents. He also - as far as anyone knows - hasn't gotten his own hands dirty. At least, not directly."
"That only proves my point," Rowan said. "He's probably one of the most powerful wizards on staff. And that's saying a lot."
"What are you saying?" asked James. "We should just give up because he's too strong?"
"Of course not," Rowan rebutted. "I just think we need to start with a plan to capture him. It's not something we want to be trying to figure out on the fly."
Murphy's hand went to his chin. "He makes a good point."
"We're getting ahead of ourselves," James pointed out. "We don't have a lead."
"But if we find one, we don't want to be sitting around with our thumbs up our arses for six months. Hell, we don't even really have six months. Term ends in June," Rowan pointed out. James pursed his lips, resisting his first instinct to smirk after hearing the phrase 'thumbs up our arses', which he had always thought was inherently funny. But this wasn't the time.
"What's that got to do with it?" Murphy questioned. "It's not like he's going anywhere. He'll be here when we get back."
"You're probably right," Rowan admitted. "But Brynne pointed something out to me over the holiday. If Flitwick retires - or if he's removed, for that matter, he's lost a lot of popularity with the public lately and some people think it's time he step aside - the Board of Governors would appoint a new Headmaster… and that new Headmaster would probably be Wenster. Which would be a bit of a problem."
"You think?" Murphy deadpanned. But James had hardly heard him.
"You visited Brynne over break?" he asked Rowan.
The slightest of grimaces crossed Rowan's face. "We spent Christmas together."
"...What?"
"...My Uncle Flynn and her aunt are seeing each other, and it's sort of getting serious," Rowan replied, not taking his eyes off James as he took a drink from a goblet. "I thought I mentioned that."
"Why are you being so jealous?" asked Murphy.
"I'm not jealous," James protested, glaring at Murphy. "I'm curious. You saying you'd like to get Mark Albertine off by himself in a dark corner of the castle and beat his arse… that's being jealous."
"I'm just saying… I'm confused." Murphy shrugged his shoulders and reacted to James's accusation rather casually. "Don't know what she sees in him. You think it's the Prefect thing?"
"Albertine's not a Prefect," Rowan pointed out.
"Only because he resigned, right?" asked Murphy. "He made it. There's something to be said for that, I guess."
He took a swig of his tea, then immediately set it down, clicking his tongue. "Lukewarm," he murmured. Murphy thought for a second, and then pulled out his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa," he incanted.
"Oi. Watch it," Rowan blurted out, immediately grabbing a couple of textbooks he'd set on the table and sliding them away from the unsteadily rising goblet - but Murphy was ignoring him and chanting another spell already. Fortunately for everyone, the goblet made it back down to the table, now steaming. Murphy glanced at it and cringed.
"I think I overdid it," His nostrils flared in frustration.
James smirked. "Your Charms were always sh-"
"Shut it," Murphy deadpanned in an exasperated interruption. He glanced to James's right, then back at James. Then he did a double take and turned his entire head.
"What're you looking at?" Rowan asked, craning his head in that direction.
"That's… Rose, isn't it?" Murphy inquired.
James had to look now, and did so. Phillip Bletchley was entering the Great Hall, followed by three girls. Two were his usual hangers-on: Tall, stuck-up Amara Zabini, and strong-jawed, pugilistic Marsha Flint (wearing her Slytherin #30 game jersey despite there not being another match scheduled for several weeks). The third, though, indeed had auburn hair, and a backpack slung over her shoulder. She was astride Bletchley instead of behind him, and the two seemed to be having an animated conversation.
"Y-yeah," James uttered in confusion. It was somewhat odd to see Rose doing much socializing to begin with, so that was one layer - but what was she doing hanging out with Bletchley and the Slytherins?
"Has she always looked like that?" Murphy asked, a strange sort of intrigue in his voice.
"Like what?" James queried. "She… she did something with her hair, I think. I don't know. We haven't spoken much. Although I might see her and Al in detention tonight."
"Right," Murphy uttered sadly. "How many did they end up getting?"
"Albus got one, I think," James replied. "Rose may have gotten… three? Like I said, I'm not sure."
"Well, maybe next time you make an enemy, you should just kick his arse out in the open," chuckled Murphy. James rolled his eyes and gave Murphy a look of disapproval. "Come on. You can't admit you're a little proud? Ickle Albus really handled himself. I didn't know he had that in him. I don't know if he just… snapped, or…"
"No," James disagreed. "That wasn't a snap. Albus never snaps. He'd been planning to do that for a while, I think."
"You 'think'?" Murphy queried. "He didn't tell you?"
"He doesn't tell me anything. I have to figure stuff out on my own," James rolled his eyes.
"Why do you think he went after Temple?" asked Murphy. "I mean, besides the obvious thing."
"You really want my theory?" James asked. Murphy made a hand gesture, meant to denote: Why the hell do you think I'm asking the question? "Sylvia Thomas."
"What?" uttered Murphy. "What did Temple do to Sylvia Thomas?"
"Nothing that I know of," answered James. "It's just Albus has… I guess he's insecure? Maybe that's the best way to put it. I think it's the whole middle-child thing."
"I think it's the whole 'dead-ringer-for-his-dad-and-named-after-a-load-of-famous-wizards' thing," Murphy answered without missing a beat. "Just take it from someone that's got some experience as the middle child. It's not that terrible. Cole's trying to get himself traded, by the way."
Murphy's older brother, Cole, had been a seventh year and James's Quidditch captain two years ago. The two had had something of a falling out on the day of the last match that resulted in James being benched for the final. They hadn't seen each other since then, but James (almost without realizing it) had more or less forgiven him for the whole dust-up. Seeing what was happening between Gryffindor and Slytherin this year had really thrown Cole's minor distrust of James bringing Brynne down to the locker room into perspective as not really that big of a deal.
As of now, Cole was a substitute Keeper in the British and Irish League… James forgot which team.
"Traded?" repeated James.
"Yeah… they've got this older bloke playing in front of him that's damn near as old as magic itself and he can't get any playing time," replied Murphy, eliciting a snort from James, who knew it was a slight exaggeration. Keepers, by virtue of the comparative lack of body strain, typically lasted longer in professional Quidditch than other positions, but rarely did any Quidditch player ever keep a job in the British and Irish League past their mid-thirties. And if you were older than thirty trying to make a national club for the Quidditch World Cup, well, you were probably better off saving your time and energy and staying home. (Although James had seen it happen once, in the Cup before last. Bulgaria's Seeker had been forty or bloody close…) "Anyway… what do you think Rose is doing talking to Bletchley?"
"I'm not sure," James answered. He knew his tone sounded suspicious. He didn't care. "Your guess is as good as mine."
"Speaking of the whole detention thing…" Rowan piped in. "How many do you have left?"
James had been serving detentions on Friday and Saturday evening every week they were in school since the incident. "Left? Six after today."
"Brutal," Murphy sighed. "This is worse than Pike got for the toilet incident."
"Wait, what?" asked Rowan. "Toilet incident? That's the first I'm hearing about this."
"That's because it was our first year - before you got here." Murphy snorted, shaking his head. "I don't think Filch ever got that smell all the way out of his hair."
"I'm not sure he ever tried," James clarified darkly.
"But back to your theory on Sylvia," Rowan interjected, trying to steer the conversation back on track, and probably not inclined to learn any more details about what had happened to Hogwarts's late caretaker in one of the toilets. James, having been there, didn't particularly blame him. "What do you think she's got to do with it?"
"It's kind of obvious, isn't it?" James remarked, glancing at Rowan knowingly.
Rowan shook his head.
"You don't think so?" asked James, seeing Rowan's reaction. "You take all your classes with them."
"Do you and Albus not talk at all?" Rowan asked seriously. "Sure, it's 'pretty obvious' - but it's been 'pretty obvious' now for a couple of years. I don't think after that long, he would have just… I mean, you should see him in Defence practicals. He hates them. Then again… he might hate being seen as weak even worse now. I don't know if that's down to Sylvia, though."
"I don't get it," Murphy remarked. James looked at him. "I mean… why is the fact that your brother's finally grown a pair such a bad thing?"
James pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't want him or Lily fighting. You know that."
"Right. I know. In a perfect world, you'd handle everything - but be honest with yourself for a second," Murphy said seriously. Lowering his voice, he leaned across the table. "You can't possibly investigate the Scarlet Hand and watch your family's backs at the same time. Nobody can be everywhere at once. That's why we haven't had a Charms class since we got back."
James frowned. Murphy was right; with Professor Gladstone acting as Headmistress, she didn't have enough spare hours to teach Charms along with those duties, so all of Hogwarts had open blocks where those classes would have been for the past week.
"I'd hope Professor Gladstone has another plan for that," commented Rowan. "It's not like it's Divination or something else useless. Charms is one of Hogwarts' central courses, so we can't bloody well go the entire term without taking it."
James was hardly listening to Rowan go on about Charms class, though - he had become focused on Rose, Bletchley, and the other two Slytherin girls, who were taking seats at the Slytherin table (or, James thought as he mentally kicked himself, what used to be the Slytherin table).
"...The teachers here are mostly very good, I think. But they've always had trouble recruiting capable minds to fill in if something happens to one of the regular professors. Some people think it's the remote location. We're tucked away up here as north as north goes in Scotland, so it's a bit of a trek. I read once that Helga Hufflepuff suggested the Isle of Man as a location for Hogwarts instead of here, but the other three Founders talked her down." Rowan went on…
"I don't think he's listening, mate," Murphy finally had mercy on him. Glancing at James, he added, "Don't stare, you prat. They're going to notice eventually."
"I've never seen Rose and Bletchley talk to each other," James remarked. "Not in three years."
"It's not like you follow them every hour of the day," rationalized Murphy. "Maybe they talk and you just don't see it."
"I doubt it," James replied suspiciously. "He doesn't talk to Gryffindors, and she doesn't really talk to anybody. Except maybe Al."
"You don't really talk to Rose often, do you?" asked Murphy.
"No," James admitted. "She's family - but she's also been a right pain in the arse since she started school here. She's difficult to be around."
Rowan raised his eyebrows in a way that indicated that he may have agreed but wasn't going to say it out loud.
It was odd; even before Hogwarts, and even with seeing her more days than not, James had never been very close to Rose. It was just a personality conflict, he supposed; she hadn't inherited much, if any, of her father's sense of humour, and while she wasn't quite as moody as she became after starting school, she always had been introverted and bookish.
It had always been the case that it took a certain type of person to relate to Rose well. Now it seemed as if she was running out of those people. She must have been very desperate to seek friendship from someone like Bletchley. Then again, she had never been the type to have a problem with being alone - at least as far as James knew. She could curl up in a solitary corner, stay there all day, and be fine. In fact, she often did if left to her own devices. James always wondered if the reason Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron made her stay with them as opposed to Gran and Grandad, was that they simply wanted her to be forced to interact with kids her own age.
That was the part that was odd, even before the fact that it was Bletchley. Rose didn't socialize for the sake of socializing. So whatever conversation she was having with a knot of Slytherin students that happened to be part of the Progenies, must have been a conversation she really felt was worth having.
And, though he couldn't seem to quite articulate it to Rowan and Murphy, that was the part that worried him.
Albus
"So, Liz, you know the new Charms teacher, Crawford?"
"Of course I do, Nina, we take the same Charms class at the same time. We met her a couple of days ago."
"I heard a rumour from a sixth year that she actually came over to Britain from Canada."
"Canada? I did notice she had an odd accent… that'd explain it, I guess. You know, I kind of like her haircut. Think maybe I should do it?"
"Why? Your hair's so long and pretty. I wish mine grew like that. It's just flat and brown."
"It's a bit much, really."
"Hmm. If you say so. You know what else I heard? Professor Crawford… Professor? Well, yeah, I guess she is a professor now, technically. Well, I heard she used to be married, but-"
Albus tore his eyes from his two gossiping classmates and looked back from his front row seat in Professor Wenster's Transfiguration class for about the third or fourth time, his green eyes scanning the room for any sign of either of them.
Still nothing. This wasn't good. Class was due to start any minute now.
He let out a sigh, glancing forward to the front of the room where the wizened, old Professor was writing something down with a quill. Then, though, he immediately looked down at the textbook on his desk, where he had been trying to re-inject into his brain some of the things that he had read over the weekend ('Chapter VII - The Fundaments of Animation'), just in case the professor was in the mood for one of his pop quizzes. He did not want to catch the Professor's eye, though, as it seemed that the former Acting Head of Gryffindor House (he thought with a sense of immense relief) was trying to burn a hole through him with his eyes every time they looked at each other. Wenster had been stalking the school at a quiet boil ever since Neville's return marked his demotion, picking off students in the hallways for the most minor of infractions. He had even tried to dock Albus and Sylvia points once for sitting at what had been the Ravenclaw table before Professor Halim fortuitously arrived to remind him of Professor Gladstone's edict. Albus had a feeling Wenster knew already, and just didn't care.
Albus stared at his book. It was odd, feeling like a student again after everything that had happened. But that, he supposed, was the real reason they were here, was it not? They were supposed to be learning and sitting classes. Briefly, Albus mused back on his father's time here, wondering what it was like. Did he sit in one of these seats - maybe even this exact seat - trying hard to concentrate on the work set to him by his own Transfiguration professor (that had been Madam McGonagall, right?), while all hell was breaking loose in his personal life? Or while he was worried about friends? Or family?
But Dad didn't really have any family that went to Hogwarts with him, Albus thought. He glanced to his left. Sylvia was an only child. What she knew of her family, mainly on her father's side, were all Muggles.
For one awful moment, Albus wondered if that was easier…
Sylvia must have felt his eyes on her. She looked up from staring at her own text and at him. An odd expression came over her face. She tried to put up a weak smile, but it was clear that something was on her mind that she wasn't saying. Which was odd. For as long as he had known her, she had always said what was on her mind. It was one of her best and worst traits, he thought… a thought that must have amused him, because his mouth dared to turn up into a smile for a split-second. She returned it, but Albus could still see nervousness behind her dark eyes. And that made him sad. She had to know he would never hurt her, right? She just had to know that… he just wanted his family to be safe and happy. For that matter, he just wanted her to be safe. He wanted her to not feel the need to have to stand up for him at all the time. He hadn't realized that the time, but that had been part of it, too. He had wanted everyone - her, his brother and older cousins, the rest of Hogwarts - to know he could take care of himself if necessary.
He looked away from her, back to the classroom's entrance.
Trudging into the class, slumping into a seat in the second row from the back, was Scorpius Malfoy. His blond hair was disheveled, falling into his eyes and plastered to his face. With what looked like an almighty effort, he straightened up and reached into the black satchel he had brought with him to pull out the burgundy-covered book Albus knew to be their Transfiguration text. He pulled out his wand and tapped the book. Even from here, Albus could hear the light rustling as the book sprang open, its pages fluttering violently one to the next in a barely-discernible blur, but then -
The book itself leapt from Scorpius's desk, falling with a thud on the tiled classroom floor. Scorpius made a pained face and bent down to retrieve it.
Albus hadn't spoken to Scorpius since that first night. And, honestly, it had become more and more difficult with time. The more days that passed with Scorpius looking haggard and barely keeping himself together, the more nights Albus had lain awake to the sound of Scorpius tossing and turning in bed or the muffled noise of him crying face-down into his pillow and sheets until his energy gave out, the more Albus realized Scorpius had to have been dealing with something for which there was little to no comfort. And what do you say to something like that? Is it even right to say anything?
He glanced at Sylvia again.
Sometimes words don't make things better. And when they don't make things better, sometimes you just shut up and be there until that person's ready to talk. That… that was something he could do.
He pushed himself to his feet.
"Mr. Potter?" Wenster's low voice carried across the quiet classroom. "Leaving us so soon? Class has only just started."
"Not leaving… sir," Albus replied deferentially, locking himself in a staredown of neutral expressions with the old instructor. He didn't like Wenster, and he knew Wenster didn't like him. Yet, here each was, trying very hard not to let the revulsion show on his face.
The class was silent enough to have heard a pin drop. Not even the Ravenclaws were talking (then again, the Ravenclaws didn't talk much to begin with.) The November incident was common knowledge around the school, of course - as was Albus's courtyard duel with Eamonn Temple from about two weeks back. It appeared that everyone was curious, based on those two things, to see how this exchange would play out.
"No?" asked Wenster, as if he hadn't heard Albus the first time.
"No, sir," Albus answered. "Just changing seats."
He glanced toward the back of the classroom - but as soon as he did it, he realized he'd made a mistake.
"I don't think that'll be entirely necessary," Wenster answered. "You can hear me much better at the front of the classroom, can you not? In my vast experience as a teacher, the back of the classroom is typically where the trouble happens."
There was an implied threat of reprisal behind the professor's wordless lift of his eyebrows. Slowly, Albus sunk back into his seat, silently fuming.
You bastard… Albus thought, snarling against the sudden lump in his throat. You foul, evil, cruel bastard, you're doing this on purpose…
"Are we done?" Wenster queried. "You look like you might have something else to say."
And that last taunt was too much. Albus's clenched fists pressed into the desk and he made to stand again, but just when he was about to leave his seat, the door to the classroom opened loudly. Albus turned around in his chair -
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Miss Weasley," Wenster scolded. "You should know better than to arrive to my classroom late."
"Yes, sorry about that, Professor," Rose replied, with a tone that suggested (at least to Albus) that she wasn't at all, as she walked down the middle aisle to stand in front of Wenster. "I was just looking after my brother, making sure he got to his class alright."
"Your brother has been here a full term already, has he not?" asked Wenster. "He should know his way around by now."
"He does. It's just that… you know, he doesn't exactly feel safe in the hallways anymore. After what happened in November, I mean."
Albus tried to keep a straight face and not betray that he found this very odd. Either something had changed, or Rose was straight up lying. Hugo, despite taking an awful beating, had bounced back spectacularly. It sort of followed, Albus thought. Hugo had tried to fight back in the first place despite Godric's Guard outnumbering him and all of them being older and bigger, so he certainly wasn't scared of much, if anything.
"Really?" Wenster asked, nostrils flaring. "Well, it might behoove you to walk a bit faster next time so you can be in your seat before I start, hm?"
Rose started toward a seat.
"That's an interesting badge you've got there on your robes, Miss Weasley," Wenster stopped her. She had been heading toward a seat in a middle row of the classroom, but she turned around, where Albus saw a plain black badge with crudely written letters "'F.L.W.'? What's that stand for?"
"'For Love and War'," Rose recited - in a way that sounded like she had rehearsed this beforehand. "You've never - ...no, I guess you're not the type to listen to modern music, are you?" Now, Albus knew she was lying. Rose hated that band - said they were nothing but noise at one point, if Albus remembered correctly.
Wenster eyed Rose suspiciously. "Five more points from Gryffindor. Non-Hogwarts-approved accessories are not allowed on school uniforms during class sessions. Get rid of it."
Rose didn't protest this, taking the pin off as she went to her seat. She took one in the third row, next to Mati Rama…
" 'Lo, Madhari," Rose said casually, as the brown-skinned Ravenclaw girl looked at her very uncomfortably. Meanwhile, Albus silently derided his own mix-up. That wasn't the first time he'd mentally botched Madhari's name. It was fortunate that they never spoke to each other…
Then again, the fact that they never spoke to each other might have been partially responsible, he rationalized, for his inability to get her name right.
"If we're done with the rude interruptions," Wenster announced in a clipped voice. "Today, we are going to take our second attempt at basic animation. Can anyone tell me what the difference is between animation as a branch of Transfiguration and a simple charm?"
No one answered. Before November, Rose typically raised her hand to answer a question like this. Albus knew she likely knew the answer. But it appeared that she wasn't the least bit interested in helping Lucan Wenster's class run smoothly anymore. In fact, she was presently staring a hole through Albus from across the aisle, wordlessly demanding that he say nothing. It was unnecessary; if Albus remembered the answer to begin with, it had leaked out of his head at some point the previous weekend.
The class would pay for their silence.
"Since, apparently, no one did the reading… a foot and a half on the subject, to be turned into me at the beginning of next class." Wenster announced. "Exams will be here sooner than you know it, and I won't have you lot besmirching my reputation as an educator with your lazy study habits."
A smattering of sighs and groans littered the room. Wenster ignored them, pulling out his wand.
Albus tensed.
After a moment, he wondered why he had done that. (Meanwhile, tiny pieces of paper were being levitated to the desk of each student.) "Since your work on the Avisimilis spell coming out of the holidays was... frankly, appalling... we're going to be reviewing it again. Draw a loop with your wand, then tap the object in question and say the incantation - Avisimilis. If done correctly, this should animate your paper bird to take flight like a real bird, but will not change its overall appearance. Do not confuse this spell with Avis, which conjures birds, or Avifors, which transmutes already existing objects into actual birds. Avisimilis. I expect each of you to have done this by the end of class," Wenster ordered.
Albus swallowed hard and took out his wand, practicing the motion a couple of times. He had been slightly off with the wand motion during the last class and somehow turned his paper bird to a wood carving of a bird - an impressive bit of transmutation in and of itself, but completely incorrect.
"Avisimilis," he heard to his left. His heart pounded twice and he flinched for a moment. Sylvia glanced at him, smiling.
"Didn't blow it up this time," she said, keeping her wand trained on the animated paper figure as its wings, once static, flapped with the crinkling of paper against paper, and it rose into the air. Sylvia's smile turned into a grin, her eyes lit up as the bird rose ever higher, circling them and going into an impressive dive before leveling again, zooming across the room like a rocket. Albus lost track of it in a flock of similarly animated paper birds.
Sylvia's face fell. "How do I get it back now?" she asked Albus.
Albus didn't answer. Wenster, after all, hadn't taught them that part. It seemed as if he knew all about how to set things in motion, but nothing about how to control them.
Or maybe, thought Albus, he knew how to control them and had no desire to do so.
Albus eventually came back to his own assignment - and not long after, his own bird joined the circling flock overhead.
"Accio," Wenster intoned a few moments later, waving his wand. The flock of paper birds zoomed toward him, their paper wings rustling as they passed him to land in perfectly organized rows on his desk. At that point, he swept his wand over them with a murmur of "Finite," and the entire flock went perfectly still, now no more than the paper that had formed them. He eyed them for a while. Then he looked up.
"There is one less than there are wizards," he announced, scanning the classroom with his eyes. After an uncomfortable silence, he started up the aisle. Past Albus and Sylvia's row, past Rose and Madhari Rama, past several others…
All the way to the back.
"Mr. Malfoy," he announced, as Scorpius slowly looked up at him. "You're the last one. Let's see it. Avisimilis."
Scorpius drew the figure-eight shape in the air with his wand - not neatly, Albus observed with consternation. "Avisimilis," he said in a hollow croak.
Scorpius was certainly not a Squib; but he may as well have been one in the moment for all his incantation did.
"Avisimilis," Wenster repeated. Scorpius repeated the motion again.
"Avisimilis."
For the second time, nothing happened.
Professor Wenster's face tightened.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Malfoy."
"Wait - why?" Desmond McLaggen, of all people, cried out.
"Because, Mr. McLaggen," Wenster interrupted, "Mr. Malfoy should have been able to work on this… what with all the... free time he's had of late. He lacks many things, but talent is not one of them. Which leaves one of two possibilities. Either Mr. Malfoy is simply lazy, or he wishes to make me look like a fool - and I don't suffer either."
Silence. Scorpius bowed his head.
"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Malfoy," Wenster said quietly. "I don't like you very much. I never have. It's only honor that compels me to instruct you like I would any other student. Honor. Something you and your family would know next to nothing about. I'll give you one thing, though. You came back. Your grandfather wouldn't even accept his punishment like a man."
He whirled around and started toward the front of the classroom again.
"For ten points to your House," he announced to the entire class, "name the reason Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy eluded Ministry prosecution after the Death Eater Wars."
Albus kept his hand firmly in his lap. He was not going to help Wenster with this - not even for points.
Wenster reached the front of his classroom and turned on his heel, his blood red cloak swishing behind him.
"Yes, Mr. Lester?"
Albus craned his head around to see two rows behind him, where his fellow third year was on his feet.
"When a splinter group of at-large Death Eaters continued committing crimes around the British Isles after Voldemort's def-"
"Riddle," Wenster interrupted flatly.
Rowan was caught off guard. "Sorry?"
"Call him Riddle," Wenster repeated insistently. "That was his name."
Rowan eyed the professor, nonplussed. "In any case, after… Riddle's defeat, some of his Death Eaters escaped capture. Lucius Malfoy provided information about Death Eater leadership and preferred hideouts," Rowan explained. "In exchange for clemency for himself and his wife and son."
Wenster paused for a moment. "Correct," he said. "Or at least closely enough. Take ten points to Gryffindor."
Rowan sat, not looking very happy for someone who had just won his House ten points.
"You know…" Wenster added, his tone growing suddenly almost wistful. "It's a shame Rufus wasn't still around at the time. He wouldn't have allowed them to cut a deal like that. He'd have been your uncle, correct?"
A couple of people around the classroom gasped and muttered.
"Great-great-uncle." Rowan, though, seemed unaffected. Calmly, he added, "So I've been told."
"Rufus was strong-willed and talented. If he - or at least Bartemius Crouch - had been elected after the First War, perhaps there wouldn't have been a second," Wenster answered, and there was a shadow behind his eyes now. Tapping the desk after a moment, he commanded, "On with work, then. There's still learning to be done."
But Albus didn't remember much about Professor Wenster's lecture after that. He stared ahead and made a futile show of paying attention, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just watched a test of another sort underneath the surface of the question and answer. He remembered back to his conversation with Professor Malcolm in the fall, how Malcolm had asked for his aid… how he had turned him down. He hadn't given much thought about it since then, and Malcolm had given no obvious indication of his displeasure with Albus's answer. But the exchange he had just witnessed between Rowan (Rufus? Who was Rufus? Someone well-known. Albus remembered having heard the name somewhere before…) and Wenster had shades of that moment.
I made the right decision… right?
Well… whether correct or not… the decision was made. In the end, that was all he could do. Choose and live with what he chose, hoping whatever happened to him and others as a result was worth it in the long run. He had to do what he believed was right.
A flurry of sound and motion, then a shake of his shoulder pulled him back into reality. He grabbed hold of his text (The Three Branches: A Survey of Transfiguration Theory) and stood quickly, distantly registering Sylvia calling his name, and Wenster's reminder of, "A foot and a half - that's eighteen inches. The differences between Charms and animation magic. This will be in your text, chapter seven. Do not copy passages from the text word for word. I have read this book from cover to cover several times, so I will know if you do."
Albus was making his way toward the back of the classroom. He worked his way around his fellow students, unable to resist a glare at Nina and Liz, who were doing such a good job impeding his progress that it felt intentional. Finally, though, he arrived at the second row from the back.
When he had made the decision to come back here, he knew that he was going to have no idea what to say, and had made peace with that. Now, though… now that the moment was real, now that he was standing next to Scorpius's desk with the latter completely mute and not even acknowledging him, it was more than a bit awkward. Nobody acknowledged the two of them, either. Thankfully, this was the last class of the day for many of them, so everyone was in a hurry to get back to their common rooms for study or relaxation.
"Al," Sylvia called, finally making it up to them. "Here…"
She went silent, glancing at Scorpius, who'd had his eyes locked in an aimless, almost catatonic stare at nothing in particular.
Rose was last to come up the aisle. She glanced at Wenster, who had gone back to looking at papers on his desk. Then, as she approached the door and each of them, her brown eyes darted - first to Sylvia, then to Albus, then to Scorpius. They lingered on Scorpius for a long moment.
And, very subtly, her lips turned upward.
Albus pondered that image for several moments that felt like several hours. His heart began pounding in his ears and he felt his entire chest grow hot.
"What the hell's wrong with you?!"
Rose was well down the empty hallway by the time Albus emerged from the classroom and shouted this. Still, she stopped, and turned around as Albus approached her at a run.
"You think it's funny, what's happening to Scorpius?" he asked breathlessly, finally only a few feet away.
"What is happening to Malfoy?" Rose queried, an almost dismissive tone in her voice.
"I don't know, but he's suffering," Albus answered, choking back another sudden lump in his throat. "Can't you see that?"
"Yes. It's fairly obvious," replied Rose, with little to no sign of empathy on her face.
"So what, you're going to tell me he deserves whatever he's getting?" asked Albus.
"I didn't say that," Rose defended herself. "Although, I am glad to get to see what it looks like… when someone breaks."
Albus's jaw unhinged.
"You really have gone mad," he quavered.
Rose did a strange, off-center nod of acknowledgment. Then she reached up and put her hands on his shoulders, and Albus felt something he had never felt around her until very recently.
"I have a secret," she said with an oddly bright tone.
Albus was too terrified to even protest. This wasn't even his cousin anymore. This was… someone else. Something else. She pulled him into an embrace. Or, rather, pulled herself into one.
"He's going to pay. One of these days," she hissed into his ear, and the ice in her voice sent a shiver up Albus's spine. "Somehow… someone's going to put the same look on his face. And I hope I'm there to see it."
Albus watched her back away from him, pulling at a section of her robes to call his attention to it before she whirled around and took off down the hall.
The badge was back.
'F. L. W.'
And, with a pang of terror, Albus now knew (yet somehow, felt like he had always known) what the letters stood for.
"Even for Rose, this is..." Sylvia's voice trailed off behind him as she approached. "What's happened to her?"
Sadly, Albus watched the spot where his cousin had once been. He had no answer - not even one that made sense to him. Rose had been many things. Uptight, sure. Insecure about herself, most definitely. (Not like Albus could talk…) But never, ever cold and hateful.
"You know…" Sylvia replied again. "I don't know why I didn't come with you that day. I wish I had. Maybe…"
"...Things would have gone differently?" Albus finished. "I doubt it. In any case, we all made it out…"
"Did you?"
Albus clenched his fists, feeling an odd surge of anger within himself. Sylvia was right to ask that question. They had survived, somehow, sure… but had each of them not left a piece of themselves in that tower that evening?
But you don't think that about yourself, do you? You think you found something. And you feel guilty for thinking you're better off when James and Lily and Rose and Scorpius…
Albus's heart dropped into his stomach.
"Scorpius," he muttered blankly, turning around. "I left him."
But Sylvia was standing there, giving him an odd look.
Albus didn't understand it. "I have to go. I can't leave him behind like this."
Sylvia's expression didn't change. "I know," she answered quietly.
What was that look? He had to get to Scorpius. To help him. Or even to just be there and let him know how much he wanted to help, even if he couldn't. He didn't have time…
It felt like she was trying to swallow him whole with her eyes. Physically, even. They were getting bigger and bigger, or she was getting closer and closer. One of the two. Possibly both. But possibly neither.
"Potter? Thomas?"
Albus looked up.
Sylvia had whirled around immediately.
Lucan Wenster was coming toward them.
"I would advise you, if you've got somewhere to go…" As Wenster approached, Albus saw Sylvia's wand hand twitch. He even had an impulse to grab hold of it before it went to her pocket, but fought it down as the Professor came within mere feet. "...to get there as quickly as possible. Rumour has it that the gang of violent Slytherins calling themselves the Progenies… they're still active. And owing to a combination of… well, politics and disloyalty, our Guard is all but disbanded. They won't be able to protect you."
Wenster made to walk past them, but stopped when he was parallel to them.
"Don't be silly, Miss Thomas," he said, without looking at either of them. "If I did pose any threat to young Mr. Potter, there wouldn't be a thing you would be able to do about it."
And he stalked down the hall, his blood-red robes rippling in his wake.
Even with him several paces away, though, Albus had a pang of terror when Sylvia stepped forward and emphatically raised her hand, her longest two fingers pointing skyward in a gesture signifying… well… it would have gotten her a detention at best had Wenster seen it.
"What a knob," she scoffed.
Albus turned away from her, unable to resist cracking a smile…
A smile that came off his face immediately when the door to Wenster's classroom swung open. Out staggered Scorpius, trudging slowly to the middle of the hall. He looked like his entire body was shaking. After a couple of ragged breaths, he straightened…
Then he lurched forward. An awful groan escaped his mouth, followed immediately by a torrent of vomit.
The sick splashed against the tile floor and pooled nastily at Scorpius's feet. He stood there for a moment, doubled over with his hands against his knees. Another groan, and a fresh, but smaller wave of the sick emerged. After that, dry heaves. His body tightened and slumped, producing nothing more.
"Oh, my God," Albus heard Sylvia say in a breathless whisper behind him. He turned his head to her immediately once he realized that she could see what was happening.
"Go get someone," he implored.
"Who?" Sylvia's eyes were wide. He hadn't seen her this unnerved before. Not since…
He shook the image from his mind. He had to focus.
"A Professor," Albus replied. Hearing her footsteps departing behind him, he decided to add, "But not Wenster. Anyone else."
"Right," she said. He heard her leave and turned his attention again toward Scorpius, who was coughing violently. When he rose, his hand was over his temple and his teeth were tightly grit. He staggered over to a wall and slumped down against it.
Albus walked over to where he was, and sat down.
"My head…" he heard Scorpius mutter. He wasn't even sure if Scorpius had registered his presence yet. After a moment, he looked up.
Albus's first thought when seeing his face this close for the first time in almost two weeks, was to wonder if this was what corpses looked like. Scorpius Malfoy had always been pale, but now his face had gone a gray color, to match his irises, which had once held a silvery shine to them that suggested inner life if not stating it outright. Now, though, they were gray, like his face. Even his hair, which was typically a light platinum blond that still gave off golden hues when the light hit it, seemed to be losing its color. The whites of his eyes were gray, too, where they were not cracked with lightning bolts of red. The eye sockets were sunken into an unusually gaunt, bony face, suggesting an unhealthily rapid loss of weight - and Scorpius had been lean to begin with.
People must have noticed, Albus thought angrily. Someone other than himself must have noticed and cared that Scorpius had been wasting away over the last couple of weeks. Were people really that awful? How many parents of students had taught their children that anyone named Malfoy was deserving of their hatred and disdain? It had to be the parents, Albus reasoned mentally. None of us were born yet when the War happened. Scorpius wasn't even born yet.
Feebly, Albus reached his hand around and put it on Scorpius's shoulder. He heard the other boy make a noise and felt him tense, but not resist.
Then, after a long silence, a croak escaped Scorpius's throat.
"...You can't help me, Albus."
But Albus Potter did not move a muscle.
"...You're probably right. But I can try."