"Come in, Minerva." From his desk in the top of the tallest tower of Hedgewards Severus Snape looked at the Head of Gryffindor House and deputy headmistress who had appeared outside the door running through her mind the list of important matters that needed to be discussed. The door opened slowly and, bobbing her head deferentially for a moment Minerva McGonagall stepped forthrightly up the steep step before treading carefully across the stone floor. Snape looked up and watched her before laying down his quill.
"Minerva," said Snape again getting to his feet. "Please, sit down." This time she closed her eyes and nodded once before sitting on the chair to the right of his desk, the morning light beaming through the lead-decorated windows that stretched across the entire eastern side of the tower, curving slightly with the wall above the rows of prior headmasters of Hedgewards hanging in their frames.
"Good morning, Severus," she acknowledged as Snape circled his desk, standing before her expectantly. "Please begin. I take it, you have some information for me?"
"Indeed I have, Severus," she replied, her manner stilted and influent and she tried not to let the weariness of the previous evening affect her, not, at least, until after lunch, when she would be free to rest for a few hours, to recover from a strenuous and exhausting night, both physically and mentally. "In fact, I've just come from Poppy; she's never seen such a queue of students waiting for treatments for colds and cough quite so early on in the year. Indeed, it's only just gone October and she doesn't usually have this many customers for her services until at least the beginning of January."
"Winter 'flu exacerbated by visits home for Christmas." Snape nodded wearily. "She tells me this every year when she comes to ask me to make medicinal potions when her stocks have run low. Has she suggested any pattern in the illnesses?"
"None that she can see. Some students have coughs, some colds. Some have 'flu and she's kept those students in the hospital wing. It does not seem that the students have anything in common, not age, house, geographical origin, magical ability…" Minerva stopped, inhaling heavily. "Nearly all of the non-wizards have an illness of some sort, but when you consider their number…so few…" Minerva yawned, dipping her head and hiding her gape behind her hand"
"Please, continue. I'd like to know what it is that's exhausted you so." She gave Snape a sidewards glance before rolling her eyes.
"Thank you. My visit to the students under Madam Pomfrey's care was nothing compared to the numerous visits to the dormitories, both in my own house and the other three." She shook her head. "These pensieves…it's getting out of hand! The students know that they do not get them out in lessons and yet no fewer than eight members of staff have confiscated more than a dozen yesterday alone and I had to take another fifteen off students using them last night…accessing the information of the Daily Prophet…communicating with their families…"
"Nothing which could not be done without access to either the Floo Network or a newspaper. However we have made it clear that we will not condone their use after lights-out nor to access third party material, and the Prophet does indeed count as that."
"Yes, yes," replied Minerva, slight impatience seeping into her tone. "But not to communicate with friends who have connections with known Conjurists, as both Fraser Blewitt and Henry Swales had been doing in the early hours of the morning." She shook her head. "I've since discovered, despite several sophisticated security spells, that they'd been discussing the contents of Conjurist pamphlets. I caught them out of bed discussing an attack that had happened in Grimsby and once I'd contacted the Ministry I managed to tell them a few things that they didn't know about the perpetrators! I mean, fancy students having such power! And Swales had sent the information on to other pensieve owners, now I know that the magical technology they're using is modern and in vogue, but it's precisely such power that could cause damage way beyond our control if we don't bring in more stringent measures." She stopped, waiting in silence so as to convey the graveness of the situation to Snape by way of a void in the conversation. At length Snape nodded.
"Indeed. Please inform their Heads of Houses. I will speak to them both." He paused. "As of this morning all teachers will have the power to confiscate on sight. If caught in lessons again then their heads of houses will keep them for a week and a third time will result in the devices being Owled home. Students will be told that they can only use them in their leisure time and they will be restricted to inter-pensieve use. I will enact restrictions on the coverage of pensieve usage with the floo network although we cannot limit what is said in personal messages, as we cannot restrict what is said in floo conversations or letters. Snape made a few steps towards his desk before turning to his deputy.
"Thank you, Minerva. You need rest. Once I have circulated the memo to staff I will see that your classes are covered this morning so you may rest." Cloak billowing, Snape made his way up the stairs to the upper floor located at the rear of the office in which many Hedgwards head teachers had kept many things personal and pertinent and on whose shelves were kept many thousands of jars and vials as befitting a Professor of Potions. Minerva stayed seated, waiting. Eventually Snape turned from his work, in which he had immediately immersed himself and looked up. He got to his feet and made his way down the thick oak steps with a light treat and was standing before his deputy once more.
"Tell me, Minerva," he said when, once she had acknowledged his reappearance with a nod and smile, "what have you to tell me? The Sorting Hat? Sorted, as our young people might say?"
"No, Severus. It is not Sorted, despite my best efforts, and believe me I've spent a good proportion of my own time on that wretched thing! Several hours a week! But – " McGonagall broke off, exhaling sharply in exasperation, before looking at him slowly.
"What if I were to tell you something about the non-wizards that Caelius Lupin insisted we have here?"
"If you are about to tell me about the undercurrent of bullying whose epicentre appears to be Fraser Blewitt and Henry Swales…"
"Oh, Blewitt!" exclaimed Minerva McGonagall, shaking her head. "He seems to be the cause of all sorts of trouble, not least communicating with Conjurists. His poor sister can't move for his over-protectiveness – no. I've nothing to tell you about Blewitt and Swales that you don't already know. It is about the non-wizards, their abilities. Their magical abilities…"
"Go on."
"I have had discussions with several teachers, Grocott, Longbottom, Flitwick….when I saw it myself I thought I was imagining things and scarce could I bring myself to mention it. But it was Yellis who came to me and told me what he had observed." She looked at Snape, her eyes shining. "Some of them have abilities. Some of them, all of them in one form or another, are actually showing signs of being able to perform magic."
The paragraph hung between them for some time. Snape stood still, considering what he had heard. Minerva said nothing, waiting for the headmaster to say something to her. On the wall behind her the portraits had a lot to say and huddled into Phineas Nigellus's frame to whisper to one another.
"I wonder…" He looked at his deputy. "In what form has this magic taken place? Voiceless magic? Wandless magic?"
"As far as Grocott is concerned three students have made potions that have worked, namely the Paralysis elixir which made three toads immobile for over a week. He put it down to other students helping them but apparently all three deny this. Julian Scott, Septimus Lupin's friend had a war of words with Darren Black over it, apparently, accusing him of trying to make fun of him by tampering with the potion. Flitwick kept his magical students in during lunchtime when the wizards who had made the orbs that the non-wizards in his third year class smash against the wall. That explains the injuries that Belle Howard and Justine Grey suffered – they were closest to the impact. None of them admitted to tampering with the orbs but nevertheless he called down Professor Trelawney to get them to explain why she would not be getting the orbs back and only let them go when, in mid-rant she broke down in tears."
"That explains her refusal to teach any lessons today and why she has locked herself in her classroom," replied Snape. "And Longbottom?"
"The growing of rehmannia resulted in the blood flow being reduced in the mouse subjects that Professor Longbottom uses to test the efficacy of the plants he grows. It should only have worked if a person with magic had grown them. He put it down to the samples being confused, but congratulated the six non-wizards in his class and gave them house points."
"How like Neville Longbottom," Snape nodded.
"The staff I have mentioned all report cases which could be explained easily as mistakes or mischief. But I witnessed with my own eyes non-wizard students in my class perform transfigurations. All four had been using school wands that they had borrowed to simulate making the spell. All invoked the spell and the transfiguration, in this case water to jam tarts, were performed successfully by each of them. Mulligan, Reynolds and Fletcher all believe I made the transfiguration myself, but I did not. They performed the magic themselves." She looked down, shaking her head.
"Why so despondent, Minerva?" Snape asked. "Surely this is something in which to rejoice?" Her face, disbelief etched deeply, met the bright, cheerful one of his. "Their parents chose to send them to our school because of some deeply-held belief or interest in magic. For all we know they have magic in their ancestry and are able to access it here. Perhaps their parents suspected it anyway? We have had several wizard families who have kept their children at home because of the Ministry's decision about inclusion. Should it turn out that the students are wizards after all this may go some way pacify their resistance. Thank you, Minerva, for bringing this to my attention."
Minerva nodded and Snape saw that her relief at telling him what she had appeared bodily, as if a weight had lifted from her shoulders in a real sense.
"Now, despite your protestations about commitment to your students may I insist that you take leave to rest today?" Minerva McGonagall closed her mouth, for that was indeed what she was about to do. "I would prefer my Transfiguration teacher, Head of House and deputy head to be able to serve me tomorrow, rather than joining those students still in the hospital wing. And we may discuss your apparent findings when you are refreshed."
88888888
"Come on, mate!" Septimus pulled at Julian's curtains. "It's time to get up!"
A groan from the bed behind the four-poster curtains told him that his friend was close to being awake. Not that Julian was a morning person, but he'd tried to insist that Julian rest, not feeling his best with a cold and a cough, but Julian had insisted Septimus wake him for breakfast so they could go down to the quidditch pitch to watch the first game of the season.
"And watch you try out for the team," Julian had added as they sat in the common room, warming themselves by the fire as the cool autumn evening began to turn chilly.
"We're in the first year, Jules," said Septimus, shaking his head. "I'm playing in the first-year friendlies, but there's no point trying out for the Gryffindor team, no first years make the team."
"But you'll wake me up early to go though, won't you?" asked Julian quietly. "I know I can't join in myself, but I want to be part of the house, y'know?" Septimus nodded. He knew he'd feel the same if he was in Julian's position, especially with the hard time some of the non-wizards were getting. It wasn't as if Julian didn't know what he was getting into, and his stoic attitude to life and sense of humour had seen him through so far. But the cold he had, which had lasted for nearly a fortnight was getting to him; he'd missed several lessons and despite Septimus helping him catch up, knew his friend had a mountain to climb to in making up for what he'd missed and understand it. Magic was, in effect, like a second language and all the more difficult to learn if one was feeling under the weather.
"That's not entirely true, what you've just said." Both boys had turned to see the face of Rufus Lestrange. "There has been a Gryffindor first year on the team."
"Oh yeah?" Julian smiled, his tone potent with a ready comeback should Rufus say something idiotic.
"Who was it, Rufus?" asked Septimus. He wanted to know, and knew that Rufus would probably go without telling them anything should Julian say something witty, which appeared to confuse the boy.
"Harry Potter," he said simply, before continuing his journey between the stairs from the dormitories to the alcove of the common room where several books were shelved. They watched him sit down, pull out his portable pensieve, connect the external earphones before selecting a book and turning over its pages.
"Harry Potter?" asked Julian. "Is he related to Sam Potter?"
"He's Sam's older brother. He works for the Ministry." He paused momentarily, before adding, "Mum wrote that book about him." Julian nodded but said nothing. Septimus had told him about his mother's ventures into authorship and he knew that he was a little sensitive about it." He glanced over to Rufus, who didn't actually appear to be reading the book, and though the central hemisphere of the pensieve was exposed to he could plug in his earphones, it wasn't glowing, as they did when they were on and Septimus wondered where the music Remus was tapping his foot to was actually coming from.
"But still," said Julian, as he pulled his blanket closer to him, "he was a first year that got on the team. It was a sentence that he repeated to Septimus as they got ready to go down to breakfast.
"That was a fluke, it has to be," said Septimus as they made their way through the tunnel towards the Fat Lady's portrait before swinging it aside much to the chagrin of the subject, who wondered piteously how often she would be moved that morning. She was right: the corridor was already busy with students milling about from several houses.
"The Great Hall'll be busy – atchoo!" Julian bent his head and covered his face with his hand. "Sorry, Sep," he said as Septimus stopped. "I can't wait for this bloody cold to go – I got a sniffle when I was in Weymouth, I just never thought it would last this long.
"'s all right, Jules," said Septimus sympathetically as they continued to walk towards the Great Hall. "Is it pointless of me asking you to go back to bed?"
"Yes," his friend replied firmly. "I mean, you might be right; the odds of a first year getting into the Gryffindor team might be low, but you don't expect me to miss you playing in your first game, do you?"
They ate breakfast quickly. As Septimus expected the Great Hall was quite full; he often ate breakfast at the weekends early, as did Julian, or rather, he did before he'd contracted his illness: Septimus supposed it was because they were used to getting up early at weekends to go out looking for beasts big and small, and it was no different here. They'd managed to explore some of the grounds, though the Forest was out of bounds, much to their disappointment
Around them, as breakfast appeared under cloches on the long tables students began to sit, congratulating one another, goading other houses and generally getting into a competitive mood. Like he and Julian, they were already dressed in kit or were donning house colours. Some had furled up banners ready to hold them up, to cheer for their players and to change the wording so as to simultaneously insult the opposition when Madam Hooch or other teachers weren't looking. All four houses were fielding first year teams, as was tradition on the opening game of the year, as a prelude and, as tradition dictated, they played with the match set of quidditch balls for the only time in the year. In the late afternoon the first of the house games would be played and the second the next day.
At around lunchtime final trials for teams would be offered and, theoretically, first years could put themselves up for their house teams with other last-minute hopefuls. But as the students knew, from anecdote and tradition gone before, first years who were arrogant or foolish enough to try out never got in. Almost never. Septimus's mind drifted to Sam's older brother. How had Harry done it? Sam was good at flying, but he wasn't on the team. He'd never mentioned Harry though. But it must have been about twenty years before.
"Eat up, Sep, or we'll never, a-hm, get a seat!" Julian glugged back his orange juice before getting to his feet. They passed several other Gryffindors tucking into breakfast, by Darren Black, whose head was buried in a quidditch magazine; Rufus Lestrange, who was softly drumming a beat with his index and middle fingers, this time absent of any outer media whatsoever.
"Weird," said Julian, shaking his head as he tapped the side of it before looking at his friend as they reached the Great Hall's doors, looking around at the scenery and weather. "It looks like we're going to have a nice day for it." Septimus nodded. A few clouds in the sky skirting behind the lofty mountains, sun dappling their surface. Clear but with a chill to the air, making one want to skim the air on a broom, race fast and feel it in his hair. Good quidditch weather.
"Have you heard about your dad recently?" asked Julian conversationally. "It's great news, isn't it, that the wizard he was with has woken up." Septimus nodded. He knew his friend was only trying to make him feel better but, knowing what he shouldn't about his father's condition, that he had been bitten by a vampire and Sirius Black had been bitten by a werewolf, he knew that Sirius's prognosis was far better than that of his father.
"Yes," Septimus nodded.
"Perhaps Professor Snape can help," Julian continued, taking the winding steps down to the lower ground, where the flat area of land before the Forest's forbidden paths began, home to the school's pitch. Around them other students were surging, coming in threes and fours, the noise of their conversations, giggling, laughing, general chatter, filling the air. "I mean, he was the one who told you about your dad's friend. He's a great wizard, Professor Snape is. He's done loads!"
"Yes." Septimus didn't want to talk. He didn't want to think of his father, not at the moment. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say that would change the situation. Even writing to his mother and sending her a birthday card hadn't helped his feelings of helplessness as far as his father was concerned. Septimus even felt bad for feeling grateful that Professor Snape had not offered to take him to St. Mungo's – being there, seeing his dad lying there, so ill, made it seem all the worse.
Julian looked at him. He'd seen that expression before etched into his friend's youthful features. When Septimus had told him he had to stay with his father and uncle which is why he was new to the primary school; when he'd confided in his new found friend that his mother had worked for the wizards and had left to work in Norway; when he'd told him that his father had been injured. Even when he'd made the trip over to the Scott house to tell him that his mother was back…Septimus's expression had been one of overt concern, as if he could scarce believe his mother had come back. Julian knew the best for his friend was to change the subject.
"So, which teams are up first?"
It wasn't a question that Septimus could answer; indeed, no-one seemed to know and it was a fertile topic of conversation between the two of them as they descended the steps that led to the quidditch pitch. Around them other students surged, they too wishing to know the order of the day. The commentator box doubled as a noticeboard on the outside of pitch and he and Julian pushed their way through the crowd to where other Gryffindor students were standing.
"Oh, come on!" yelled a second year student, Olly Franklin, across the crowd. "We wanna know who's playin'"
"Wait on!" yelled Martin Horner from up in the box. "Bobby's just getting his wand sorted…" he glanced back over his shoulder, whispering something to his co-commentator before continuing, "right, he's got it…no…"
"'c'mon Carter, get your act together!" yelled someone.
"All right!" roared the voice of the unseen Bobby Carter. "I'm trying to read this handwriting! OK…here goes…"
Septimus and Julian huddled closer as the crowd surged forward and they craned their next to read the words glowing orange on the banner-cloth that hung across the commentator's tower.
"We're on second, straight after Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Ravenclaw." Septimus looked around, noticing the first years whom they knew from lessons staring at the banner too. "Be great if we can win," he added as they strode into the arena. "Shame we have to use school brooms, though."
"Tradition," replied Julian through a sniffle. "But I've seen you fly, Septimus. You're not too bad."
"Cheers, mate," said Septimus as they walked to the players' area: it was only now that the gravity of the situation was beginning to dawn. He was going to be playing on behalf of his house in front of the whole school. And it was only the evening before that he found out that he couldn't use his beloved Lightningshot but would have a school Cleansweep.
The Hufflepuff/Slytherin game didn't last long. With shoulder-to-shoulder-packed stands, people holding scarves, cloaks and banners and cheering with all their might a sea of yellow and black emblazoned with badgers fought their peripheral borders with the green and silver moving mass that were the Slytherin students. It had taken less than an hour for Hufflepuff to win 275 to 100 and, from his vantage point in the players' area Septimus saw the yellow and black mass erupt into cheers, their badgers barking magically with excitement. By contrast the snakes from the Slytherin fans hissed their disapproval. Whichever house won between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw would face the might of Hufflepuff, for their victory was hardly surprising.
As the second-playing teams were called out, assembling in the centre of the pitch opposite one another a dead weight in his stomach made Septimus feel as if his feet were dragging through the turf. The wait had been agonising enough, watching the first years from the other houses flit and fight for every point but now, as a chaser, with the quaffle fighting to free itself from its chest, he felt positively ill.
Behind them the crowd roared as the two teams faced one another. What happened then, from the moment Madam Hooch opened the chest containing the feverishly anxious balls to be free to the end of the match Septimus would never quite be able to remember the details. Flying high on a broom picked from the school's aged collection he focused wholly on the game, gold and red patches streaking past him to the left and, as he fought to gain supremacy of the ball from Robbie Dawkins, dark blue on the right.
He swooped, flying under as Robbie tried to pass the quaffle to Emeeleah Gibson. On the under-pass Septimus swooped between them, arm out. A cheer went up as he grabbed it, curling his arm around it and tucking it under his arm. The goal wasn't in sight though; banners shielded his view and Septimus realised he was facing the longside of the pitch and, on his tail Emeeleah and Robbie. He looked around, trying not to lose his balance on the broom or fly into the cloth that was coming increasingly near. Below, hundreds of faces, eyes on him, waited for his move. Septimus pulled the broom up, to almost vertical to miss the banners but he still couldn't see Rachel Fletcher, the other chaser.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the tail of a broom. Trying not to loop-the-loop Septimus tried to level off and turn, the momentum throwing him to the right. He grabbed the neck of the broom with his left hand, the quaffle easing itself towards the back-end of his grip. He tried to hold onto both. Was it Rachel behind him? A split second and a decision had to be made. He threw it. A cheer went up again and Rachel whizzed underneath him with Robbie and Emeeleah on her tail. It had been! But the game wasn't won yet. Beneath them were the seekers, Thomas Grant of Gryffindor right up on Gary Fowler's tail, waiting for the Ravenclaw seeker to make the tiniest of mistakes. He looped round, looking for Rachel, knowing that he would be needed for there had been no call of points for either team.
Darting past the stand he saw that Rachel indeed needed help. Both chasers were on his tail and it had not helped that the Ravenclaw bludger had flown so close that she was now at the Gryffindor end of the pitch. How she threw the ball to Septimus he would never know but as it flew over the heads of the Ravenclaw seekers just as they both went for it, brooms colliding and sending them spiralling to earth. Septimus grasped the quaffle with both hands before grasping the broom handle with one hand and trying to steer the broom away from the goals. He didn't quite manage it though; as he slipped between the gap between two the right-hand and central goals he lost his grip on the quaffle and it went hurtling through the central goal.
"Ten points to Ravenclaw!" Bobby Carter's voice echoed around the stadium, followed by deep groans from the Gryffindor side. In contrast the cheers from Ravenclaw erupted, but the game continued so quickly that Septimus barely had time to think about what had happened. High above this time the snitch was in Tom Grant's reach. Septimus looked for where the quaffle was, back in play at the Gryffindor end. Looking between Rachel's battle with the two chasers again he glanced down to where the battle between the seekers was going on. He dived. If Tom could catch the golden snitch then his misdemeanour would be chalked up to an accident on the backdrop of Gryffindor victory.
"…and…what is Septimus Lupin doing?"
"..it looks as if he's trying to catch the snitch himself…!"
"…the last time a snitchnip happened at Hedgewards was in 1488 in the closing match of the year, between Slytherin and Ravenclaw, the beater, Henry Bolton, catching the snitch accidentally as it got lodged in his ear…"
The crowd roared. That wasn't Septimus's intention. Well, if he'd have thought about it, he would have thought that it wasn't his intention, but he wouldn't know what his intention was…
Diving past them to the right he skimmed close to the crowd. Both seekers swerved, Tom Grant more so, but he still seemed to be in control of the game as far as the snitch was concerned. Septimus was having his own problems; the broom seemed to be hard to control. It was in a spiral, twisting towards the ground and try as he might he could not get it horizontal. He leaned back and, as he did so, noticed that there was someone hanging over the edge of the stand. Septimus looked up, just in time to see the face of Ariella Blewitt twisted in horror as she fell towards him. He leaned forward, leaning with all his might against the handle of the broom. It tilted, and he managed to gain purchase with his knees just before he hit the ground. Leaning to the right Septimus brought the broom to a stop and looked up. Ariella was still falling. He bent his knees and jumped, launching the broom back into the air. Above him the match was going on, but Ariella was close to the ground herself.
The crowd gasped, their attention now not on the match but the falling Ravenclaw girl. Septimus grasped at her cloak, but it came away in his hand and, when he swooped around for another try realised it was too late, she was going to hit the ground. Without thinking, he let go of the broom with his knees. The momentum of the stick continued as he plunged to the ground. He knew about falling, out of trees, out of his bedroom window when he'd tried to get Mervyn into his cage from the windowsill. The broom raced away, Ariella gripping it while Septimus landed on his back, the sky and the peripheral of the pitch in his fading eyesight.
When he came round he realised Julian was telling him what a stupid sod he had been, and what had he thought he was doing? The rest of the team was surrounding him too and, next to Julian, Madam Hooch calling him by surname, thanking Merlin that he'd come round when he tried to sit up.
"What the hell were you thinking, Sep?" asked Julian when, as his friend helped him stagger from the pitch, having been given a clean bill of health and told his bruises would heal, and they made their way outside the pitch as they waited for the scores.
"I suppose it won't matter much if I'm out of it," said Septimus, slumping onto a rock, nursing his shoulder. "It should be a good match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff this afternoon, before the proper match."
"What do you mean?" asked Julian, confused. "Didn't you hear what Horner and Carter were saying? No, you were unconscious," he added, shaking his head. "We won! Tom caught the snitch, which he wouldn't have, by the way, if you hadn't done, well, whatever you did." Septimus shook his head.
"I don't know what I was doing, to be honest. I should have been up with Rachel, but…it just seemed that, if Tom did catch the snitch it'd make up for what I managed to do."
"He-he!" chuckled Julian, nudging Septimus before giving him a look of sympathy when he winced. "That'll be one for the history books. First-year opening game and Septimus Lupin scores an own-goal!"
"And then – " Septimus broke off, his attention taken by the figures approaching them.
"And what do you think that was, Lupin?" Before then Fraser Blewitt stood, bending his large frame over the two. "Aerobatics? Think you're a Red Arrow?" Septimus said nothing, but something triggered in his mind.
"Hope you don't think you're going to try out for the team? You know first years never get in."
"It's been known before," retorted Julian. "So, why don't you want him trying out for Gryffindor? Think he'll be a threat to you, Blewitt?" The captain of the Ravenclaw team growled under his breath and stood over them.
"Oh, here goes the non-wizard, never even heard of quidditch a month ago and now an expert! Misguided." Septimus opened his mouth to say something but Julian spoke instead.
"You should be grateful! It was your sister who was falling out of the stands. You should be thanking Septimus for helping her." Glowering between both of them Septimus closed his eyes for a second, picturing the moment when he realised that Ariella was falling. And behind her…he opened them. The faces were the same, same expression, of snarling anger.
"And you, Lupin, letting this muggle speak for you."
Around them gasps, as the growing crowd of spectators responded to the insult. Julian said nothing – he was barely familiar with the term – but for those that were it was shocking.
"Don't let the ministry hear you say that," Septimus said, narrowing his eyes. Could it really be that Fraser was behind his sister when she fell? Who knew? He'd had concussion. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him.
"Don't think your uncle can save you, Lupin," he snarled. "Look at what non-wizards have done for you. And you choose to be friends with mis – "
"Mis – ?" asked Septimus.
"This," Fraser corrected deliberately. "You think you're so untouchable...your beloved uncle. And you think your parents can help you," he sneered at Septimus, "how on earth would that happen? Your dad's as good as dead and your mum's crazy, everyone knows it." He shook his head mockingly.
"It's wizards that have done for him," said a voice behind Fraser before Septimus could think of a reply. "Conjurists." He turned. Darren Black looked up at the older student. "And, why shouldn't he try out for Gryffindor?"
"Clear off, Black," Fraser growled, bearing his frame down on him. Julian looked at Septimus, frowning a little. Darren Black talking back to a seventh-year? For them?
And, at once, before Septimus could figure what was about to happen Darren Black and Fraser Blewitt were facing one another a stretch of open ground between them, wands aloft.
"And you, a good, decent wizard from an honourable family, would fight me over this – " Septimus frowned, for it wasn't the situation that Fraser seemed to be talking about – he'd pointed to Julian – "…this misborn?" Not only gasps now but calls for staff to attend, the announcement coming over the tannoy of the commentator tower. He looked at his friend, but his face was impassive. Septimus knew that Julian was not bothered by that insult either, but the crowd, almost all of whom were wizards, muttered in shock and horror at the Ravenclaw quidditch captain's vile words.
But before either boy could attack one another between them stood Professor Snape. Wands were lowered quickly but neither of them looked away.
"Black, Blewitt, my office, now. You too, Swales," he added to Fraser Blewitt's friend who seemed to be hovering by the boy. "Septimus Lupin," he continued, his tone a little softer. "Great game, I thought. I would like to discuss the details with you later this afternoon. Perhaps Mr. Scott could accompany you?"
And with that, both would-be duellists in tow Darren Black looked over his shoulder in Septimus's direction, nodding at him as the headmaster made his way back towards the castle.