The Hundred Acre Wood
Disclaimer & Warnings: See chapter 1
Timeline: Thursday, September 5th, 1991, evening
Chapter 73 – Not all those who wander are lost
Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair. Pouring a glass of wine, he looked out over the student tables. He knew every one of their faces, and every one of their names. They were all so young, so naive, with no idea of what the future held in store for them.
He wanted to protect them from it, but he knew that at some point it'd be impossible to do so any longer. When that happened, their childhood would be at an end, leaving them to grow up far too fast. He viewed it as his responsibility to forestall that moment as long as possible. However, with each passing year the responsibility became harder to bear alone.
After classes were over for the day, he'd met with his staff. It'd been a long first week, with one day still to go. The unusual sorting and disappearance of Ezekiel Mohr from the Great Hall had been the whispered topic of conversation in every dormitory, common room, corridor, and classroom for days. The boy's sorting had been the longest on record, a true hatstall coming in at a full seven and three-quarter minutes. Everyone had their own theory as to how a 'House of Dumbledore' would have worked and how he accomplished vanishing in such a spectacular way, each theory more outlandish than the next. It was distracting to the point where all the teachers complained they'd have to repeat their introductory lessons as no one paid attention the first time.
Despite a thorough search of the castle, Mr Ezekiel Mohr couldn't be found. Nevertheless, to allay Minerva McGonagall's concerns, Dumbledore spent the earlier part of the week in Lower Popplecombe, two villages over from the home of the Weasley's Great-Great-Auntie Muriel.
The Mohr's were a prolific clan, and despite Ron Weasley's memory, none of them were wizarding families. Yet, he interviewed each and every one of them and inquired if they were looking for a young boy. None had, or at least none admitted to it. Most just said, 'No thank you, we don't want another mouth to feed' and slammed the door in his face. Some just slammed the door in his face without bothering with the niceties first.
It had been a colossal waste of time. If it hadn't been the first week of classes, he would've sent Severus.
He arrived back to Hogwarts just that morning, to face a plethora of issues. All clamouring to be dealt with immediately. They included the usual cases of homesickness, students lost in the castle and unable to find their classes, complaints about their roommate's housekeeping habits, or lack thereof, requests to change class schedules and the assorted turned ankles from disappearing stairs, plus a few more unusual reports of petty theft, which started in Slytherin, but seemed to be spreading.
Dumbledore sighed. It was as if everyone had held their grievances until he could give them his personal attention.
After the staff meeting, Minerva and Severus had stayed behind to be briefed on the results of his trip to Lower Popplecombe, as well as the latest news from the ongoing search in London. Unfortunately, all he had to reports was that both boys were still missing. He had absolutely no idea where else to search for Ezekiel Mohr, and the number of Order members left available to continue looking for Harry Potter was dwindling.
The most disturbing news was that when he checked in with Remus and Tonks in London, Remus reported receiving a missive from Gringott, requesting he present himself the following week for a second interview to discuss his claim on the Potter vaults. They all took this as a troubling sign that Harry had indeed met with foul play.
Dumbledore leaned forward and peered down the table to his left where his deputy headmistress, and head of Gryffindor House, was finishing her dinner. She still looked upset by the latest news. The way she was stabbing her peas with a steak knife was a dead giveaway. Next to her, Professor Sprout was good naturedly ducking the green missiles as they flew at her. Nothing ever seemed to dampen her spirits. She was definitely the perfect Head of House for Hufflepuff.
Turning his attention to the right, he caught the eye of Professor Quirrell who nodded his turbaned head to him in greeting before looking down at his plate and picking at his dinner nervously. Dumbledore nodded back, carefully suppressing a frown of concern. Quirinus Quirrell, the Defence against the Dark Arts instructor, had recently returned from a sabbatical. Dumbledore had hoped the trip would bring him confidence and quiet his nervous disposition. However, it'd had the opposite effect. His stutter was more pronounced than ever, and he'd picked up a few additional odd quirks, which were already making him a target of every prankster in the castle.
On the other side of Quirrell, Professor Flitwick, Head of Ravenclaw House, was holding a one-sided animated conversation with Severus Snape, Potions Master and the Head of Slytherin House, regarding the recruiting prospects for the house Quidditch teams. Snape was leaning back in his chair between Quirrell and Flitwick, nodding occasionally, his eyes deceptively open. Only his rhythmic breathing betrayed the fact that he was actually dozing.
'Let him sleep,' Dumbledore thought. It made him think of turning in early himself. He took another sip of wine and leaned back again. At least for now, all the immediate fires had been put out and all was well at Hogwarts.
'And just in time. Dessert has arrived!' he thought and selected a dish of bright red Jell-O with delight. He was just putting the first spoonful in his mouth when a thunderous clatter sounded outside the castle.
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
Dumbledore put down his spoon and stared at the ornately carved doors at the back of the hall, which were rattling with the aggressive knocking. The Jell-O danced in its dish from the reverberations.
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
"Bang!"
"It seems we have company. Mr Filch, would you be as kind as to see who is interrupting our dessert?"
"Yessir," Argus Filch muttered and hurried down the centre of the hall towards the doors. As he passed by the student tables, they snickered over his audible grouching about the darn fool who was damaging his castle by banging that hard. However, before he could reach the doors to save them from further harm, they were kicked off their hinges, crashing to the ground in front of Filch as two dozen centaurs rode in over them, splintering them to pieces.
"Aaarrrggghhh! No! My doors! My beautiful doors! It'll take months to fix 'em! Darn beasts! Why don't you stay in the forest where you belong?!"
Incensed by the insult, the centaurs reared up and drew their bows.
The students reacted by screaming and trying to scramble over each other to get out of the way, clearing the centre tables in favour of a safer place nearer the walls. At the High Table the teachers all drew their wands. No one was sure what was happening as centaurs normally avoided contact with anything to do with the human world - wizard and Muggle alike. Therefore, to have them enter Hogwarts unannounced was akin to Hell freezing over.
"Silence!"
Dumbledore rose to his feet, his call to order sounding loudly over the din.
"Do not panic."
The sound level started to drop, even though both sides remained armed and wary.
"Everyone - take your seats. Wands away. There's no need for alarm. Mr Filch, please stand aside and let our honoured guests enter."
The students fell silent, everyone just squishing in to sit where they were, rather than move back to the centre of the hall. Argus did as he was told, but he wasn't happy about it, muttering more insults under his breath as he rescued Mrs Norris, his cat, from the top of a tapestry, where she'd dug in her claws and was hissing at the centaurs, and students, alike.
When the commotion in the Great Hall finally calmed down, Dumbledore addressed the leader of the herd.
"Magorian, my friend, please put down your weapons. I assure you, our caretake, Mr Filch, meant no disrespect. He was just… dismayed, shall we say… that he wasn't quick enough to open the doors when you knocked."
From the corner, Filch muttered his disagreement at this comment.
"We do not believe in doors, especially closed ones," the leader of the herd snorted.
"Ah, I can see where that'd be true. No matter, it's just a bit of wood. You're always welcome here. However, please don't take offence at our surprise. You've never visited before."
Accepting the apology, Magorian nodded to the herd and lowered his bow. The others followed his lead.
"Thank you," Dumbledore said, bowing slowly. He then spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. He remained standing in deference to his guests who couldn't sit. "Now, what may we do for you? Or, is this strictly a social call?"
"We are not here by choice. We are here by necessity," Magorian scoffed.
"May I ask what necessity that is?"
"We have no wish to become part of what is to come."
"And what is that?"
"Only what has been written time and again in the heavens. Pay heed, the signs of fate can no longer be ignored."
"Believe me Magorian - I'm aware of their importance. And although I appreciate the message, you haven't come all the way here, just to tell me that."
"Something malevolent has come to the forest. It must be stopped."
"I'll have Hagrid look into it, and we'll do what we can. However, I feel there's some other reason for this personal visit. It must be something more unusual to bring your entire herd to the castle. After all, several malevolent beings call the forest home, and have done so all these many years. Forgive me for asking again, but it's rather unprecedented."
Magorian strode forward down the centre of the hall until he was directly in front of the High Table, the herd followed closely behind in tight ranks.
"We came to remind you that we will not be used," Magorian hissed. "We do not serve humankind."
Dumbledore was taken aback, he'd no idea what the centaur was talking about. As far as he knew, no one had asked them to do a thing.
"I'm sorry Magorian, but I'm a little lost here," he shrugged helplessly.
"No, it was in the forest where you lost something," Magorian explained impatiently upon seeing the puzzled look from the headmaster. "We are here to return it."
"At the risk of sounding a doddering old fool, might I ask - what did I lose?"
In answer, the herd parted, and a golden centaur pranced forward from their midst. Tossing his head, his white-blond hair cascaded down his sun-bronzed chest, making several of the seventh-year girls swoon. Coming abreast of Magorian, he knelt down so Boy could slide off his back.
Boy did so… reluctantly.
The ride from the high mountaintop plateau down to the lakeside castle had been wild and rapid. Most of the time his eyes had been closed and pressed against Firenze's neck. As a result, he'd missed any opportunity he might've had, to slip off and away from the midst of the herd and back into the forest on his own. Now he was the one place he didn't want to be.
Firenze patted Boy's shoulder reassuringly trying to convince him that everything would be all right. All the same, Boy didn't believe it, and wished the heffalumps would take him back to the forest with them. He'd try very hard not to get into any more trouble. Because, even though heffalumps were just as frightening as Pooh had always insisted they were, he could think of more terrifying things. Being back in the castle was one of them. He clung to Firenze's side, trying to stay hidden in his long hair.
Ronan, noticing the human child's distinct lack of enthusiasm at being returned, nudged him from behind with a well-placed hoof to his bum. It sent him stumbling forward, where he sprawled awkwardly on his hands and knees in front of the High Table.
The glimpse Boy got of the expression on his new master's face before he properly averted his gaze sent a shiver down his spine, and a blast of pain through his lightning bolt scar. He wasn't sure if the look was one of general disgust, or out and out loathing. Either way, his new master wasn't happy he was back.
"Ah, I see now what's been troubling you," Dumbledore remarked to the herd as he stroked his beard.
Ezekiel Mohr.
Back again.
He thought that particular problem was behind him. Now, what was he to do about it?
Boy shook, the Head of all Masters nailed it on the first try – he was trouble.
"Mr Mohr. How nice to see you again. We've been wondering where you went," Dumbledore said pleasantly, trying to not inspire a repeat of the boy's earlier vanishing act.
"We found him wandering where he does not belong…" Magorian began telling Dumbledore.
"The forest is not a place for small humans. He is not safe there," Firenze cut Magorian off to add, before he could say anything that might put Boy in a bad light. The child was frightened enough. Magorian snorted at him annoyed, knowing he was again favouring the young human.
"We are not to be used as caregivers for your young," Magorian in turn, interrupted Firenze, to finish making his point.
"Of course not, of course not. We're in your debt for bringing the child back to us. And I assure you, we'll do our best to ensure he doesn't stray again."
"See that you do. If you lose another one in the forest, we will not guarantee its safe return," Magorian threatened, before turning and galloping out, hair and tail flying out behind him. Other than Firenze, the rest of the herd followed suit, trampling the doors into even finer splinters as they exited.
After the last hoof beats faded, Dumbledore turned to the remaining centaur. He knew many of the members of the hunt by name, but this centaur was unfamiliar to him. Nevertheless, he did seem to have more to say than had Magorian, the truculent leader of the herd.
"Thank you again, my friend. May I call you friend?" At a nod from the centaur he continued, "I know several members of the hunt. However, I don't believe we've met before."
"We have not. I am Firenze, scion of Taveon and Celyn of the High Cliffs, and friend of Dân. I am new to the hunt this moon."
"Well then, congratulations are certainly due. I hear that's a rite of passage not easily accomplished."
"I am not here to speak of my deeds," Firenze said dismissively.
He was upset that this human had so far made no move to console the frightened boy cowering at his feet. If he could, he would order Dân up on his back, and take him with him to the colony. The only thing stopping him was the knowledge the council was right – Dân was too frightened of Dumbledore ever to have agreed to return on his own. The longer they allowed to stay in the colony, the harder it would have been for him to leave.
As much as he hated to admit it, Firenze knew the council was wise. For his own sake and wellbeing, Dân needed to get this over with now. Nevertheless, he'd given his word to the child. He would not leave until he was certain he wouldn't be neglected.
"Then what might I help you with?" the headmaster asked puzzled. It was becoming increasingly clear that the centaur had high expectations regarding this meeting. And that he, Hogwarts, or both, were not measuring up.
"Are you the headmaster here? The one known as Dumbledore? If you are not he, I would ask that you bid him to appear. I will speak only with him."
"Yes, I'm Albus Dumbledore. I do apologise for not introducing myself earlier. I was just taken aback by the extraordinary, yet not unwelcome, visit of the herd."
"Your reputation is well-renowned among the colony. It is said you are a decent human and care deeply for your students. Is that all true?"
"I do my best in that regard," Dumbledore said modestly.
"Then I should not have to tell you that even the faintest star adds light to the heavens," Firenze responded cryptically, his intense blue eyes locking with those of Dumbledore.
"Why yes, I suppose that's true," Dumbledore replied agreeably not breaking his gaze, while wondering what the centaur was really trying to tell him. Unfortunately, centaurs were notorious for being immune to legilimency. Firenze was no exception.
"The last time Dân was here, he did not feel welcome in your midst."
"Dân? Who is that?" he asked questioningly.
Firenze thumped a hoof impatiently in the direction of Boy.
"Oh - Mr Mohr," Albus nodded with understanding. "I assure you Firenze we didn't mean to frighten the lad in the least. We were in the midst of planning arrangements for his care, when he left rather abruptly, without saying why. We've been quite concerned regarding his whereabouts ever since."
At this statement, Dumbledore heard a very small snort behind him coming from his Potions Master. The thinly disguised nasal comment also reached the sharp ears of Firenze and Boy. Boy began shaking at the sound of his new master's displeasure, and Firenze's eyebrows rose in concern that Dân's fear, of not being wanted in the castle, wasn't totally unfounded.
"When the heavens write messages across the sky in fire, they should not be treated lightly. Great care should be taken to divine its true meaning," Firenze warned.
Dumbledore picked up on the unspoken 'or else' threat at the end of his words. Something had definitely disturbed the centaurs, something more than a lost child in the woods. He nodded solemnly, giving his promise. "I definitely will. Thank you for the reminder… my friend."
Satisfied he'd gotten his message across to Dumbledore – Firenze knelt again next to Boy and whispered in his ear.
"Cùm sàbhailte – (Keep safe)," he said in an apologetic tone, knowing how much the child feared what was happening. "I truly regret I must leave you now, I had hoped we would have more time to discuss matters before this homecoming became necessary."
Boy raised up his head just enough to look up at him with pleading eyes, begging not to be left.
"Everyone leaves. Even you… Sir."
Nothing else he could have said would have cut Firenze any more deeply than those few words. Especially knowing Dân was right and there was nothing he could do to fix it.
"I know you have no reason to trust me now, but please believe me when I tell you that the same fates that led you back here tonight, also foretell that we will meet again," Firenze told him kindly, then tried to lighten the mood. "Besides, as we were leaving, I heard Dallin and Lorcán calling for a kentaurpêl rematch against you and Toren, and Fenella was not done fattening you up."
When neither a smile came to Boy's lips, nor the doubt lessened in his eyes, Firenze took off the rowan wood medallion from around his own neck and looped the cord over Boy's head, pressing the wooden emblem to his heart.
"If worry overcomes you, rub the rowan wood – it will help you focus your courage and stay strong. Remember what we discussed - you can do this. Nevertheless, if you find yourself wandering again, let the stars be your guide. They will keep you from becoming lost."
Boy nodded and heaved a sob as Firenze left the Great Hall to join the rest of the herd. In the distance, he could hear the fading echoes of their thundering hooves as they returned to The Hundred Acre Wood without him. He knew no amount of wishing would get the heffalumps to come back. They were gone.
Taking Firenze's advice to heart, and with as much courage as he could muster, he slowly rose to his feet, in front of all the gawking people in the Great Hall, to face his greatest fear – Dumbledore.
As soon as the last centaur left, the Great Hall exploded with noise and movement as everyone scrambled to get a better look at the mysterious boy. It was so overwhelming after the quiet of the forest that Boy immediately sunk back to the floor on his knees until his forehead was touching the stone floor, covering his ears with his hands to try and block out the sound.
"Silence!"
Dumbledore's voice once again rang out loudly over the commotion.
"Prefects, please escort everyone back to the dormitories. Quietly, please!"
This order was met with an abundance of grumbling, none of it quiet.
"But I'm not done with my pudding!" came a particularly loud whingey voice from the Slytherin table.
Snape wanted to cover his ears too.
At Dumbledore's signal, the teachers got up to help shepherd the students out of the hall as quickly as they could. While Hagrid took care of the distressed Filch, who was hopping from one foot to the other as the students passed by, shouting at them to 'quit trampling my doors!'
When the herd had first arrived and everyone in the Great Hall pulled out their wands, it had confirmed Boy's suspicion that he'd ended up at Smeltings, instead of Hogwarts. Cousin said that everyone at Smeltings would have a Smelting stick, and it was a good thing he wasn't going with him to school, because they'd use them to beat him every day. Since Cousin was here, and his woodland friends were not, and since everyone here had smelting sticks, that made a weird sort of logic to his very muddled mind.
Now with all the sudden movements towards him, Boy thought that everyone must know what he was, and was certain they were descending upon him to start kicking and beating him for being so brazen as to have returned to their midst, just as Cousin had predicted they would. In reaction, he made himself as small as possible and began chanting his mantra as hard as he could in his head.
'Please! Just go away and leave me alone. I don't exist! I don't exist!'
In his panic, Boy forgot what Firenze had said about the rowan medallion helping him to face his fears, and instead the fear overwhelmed him. He wrapped his fingers around the circle of wood as tight as he could.
'I wish… I wish I was back in The Hundred Acre Wood… please send me back…'
It just wasn't working. The stone floor was still solid and cold beneath him. While the rowan medallion was comforting, it didn't give him the same warm feeling as the pin he'd left back at his camp, and it certainly didn't make the world swirl around him.
With the hall empty and tranquillity re-established, Dumbledore considered his next step. He'd already spent the better part of the week at Minerva McGonagall's insistence, trying to locate the child's people to no avail and he really didn't have time to deal with him any further. Regardless, thanks to the Sorting Hat, Mr Mohr was now his sole responsibility.
Dumbledore let out a long-suffering sigh. It appeared as he had no choice but to devote some of his precious time to his new charge.
The child still had his hands clapped tightly over his ears, his breath coming in ragged heaves, and he was now rocking forward and back, deep in a panic attack. He was obviously more frightened than the last time he was here, if not more so. That would make him even more difficult to deal with, as well as consume all that more time. Time which would be better spent on the search for Harry Potter.
Dumbledore almost wished the child would be accommodating and disappear again.
When Boy didn't cooperate and vanish, Dumbledore fetched his footstool from under the High Table. Placing it on the floor in front of the boy, he sunk down on it. The four Head of Houses came back just then, after making sure their houses were all accounted for, but Dumbledore waved them away, indicating that they should wait in his office instead. He then quietly cast a 'Muffliato' charm around the two of them, to forestall any more interruptions.
Although his breath was still coming in uneven spurts, the rocking slowly ceased and the boy stilled, remaining bent over with his forehead resting on his knees.
"The centaurs are quite interesting, don't you agree?"
Since the Head of all Masters asked for an answer, Boy gave him one by nodding his head imperceptibly. Dumbledore felt some relief at being able to elicit the response. Albeit small, it was still proof he could communicate with the child on some level. Minerva should be proud.
"I heard Firenze call you 'Dân'. Were we incorrect about your name being Ezekiel Mohr?"
In Boy's mind, his master was never wrong about anything. He was always right. It was a rule. That being the case, he couldn't help but think that the Head of all Masters would be even more right. So, he shook his head 'no' and stoically accepted his fate – that his new name would be much longer than he'd hoped.
"Hm… is that right? I thought for a moment…"
The remainder of what he thought was left unsaid. Boy didn't think it was really a question, therefore he remained silent too.
"If I'm not mistaken, the word 'Dân' in Welsh means 'fire'. If that is not your name, then Firenze must have been referring to your remarkable hairstyle when he called you that. After all their astronomical observations tonight, I was expecting some deeper meaning, such as a reference to the shooting stars that have been gracing the heavens these past few nights. Curious though, centaurs don't normally comment on fashion trends," he teased, trying to get the child to laugh.
It didn't happen.
It was as if he were talking to a rock.
"Mr Mohr…" Dumbledore paused and waited for the boy to look up at hearing his name.
He didn't.
"Ezekiel…" he paused again.
Not even the slightest of movement.
"Zeke…"
Absolutely nothing.
He was getting nowhere. At this point he wasn't sure how much English the child understood, or if he could even talk. So far, he hadn't heard him say a word. When he thought back to their first encounter, the night of the welcoming feast, Mr Weasley was the only one who'd claimed to actually hear the boy speak. And frankly, after spending several delightful days in Lower Popplecombe, following up on Mr Weasley's lead, he rather doubted that source of information.
Tonight, the centaur Firenze appeared to be holding a conversation with the child. Yet, no one could hear what was being said. It might have been that the centaur had done all the talking. Still, the boy did seem to be responding appropriately, by nodding or shaking his head to questions. However, that could just be a reaction to the pressure of being in unfamiliar surroundings.
Boy knew without a doubt his training was being tested. After all, the Head of all Masters already knew all his secrets - that he was an inhuman freak, a worthless slave, and a disgusting whore. He could think of no other reason he'd be bothering with trying to trick him into break the rules, instead of going right to the whipping, other than to see if he was in need of retraining after being on his own for an entire month.
Boy shuddered. He'd just have to do his best to prove he was still an obedient slave because he certainly didn't want to start that over! He sincerely doubted he'd live through it a second time, for undoubtedly his old master would be far less patient than he was before.
Dumbledore stood up and started pacing, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He'd dearly like to get a calming draught into the child, as trying to communicate with his charge in this state was harder than trying to coax a flitterby to land on his finger. One wrong move and he was afraid he'd scare him away again. He had the urge to pluck him up bodily, take him to the Hospital wing, and hand him over to Madam Pomfrey until he calmed down. However, his intuition told him that manhandling him in this way could prove to be the wrong move.
Even covered up, Boy's sharp ears picked up the sound of his footsteps. They were the steady paced and deliberate steps of Mr White, the dinner guest, not the quick, impatient ones of Dumbledore that were indelibly engraved in his memory. Confused, Boy uncovered his ears and cocked his head slightly to one side to listen better. He must be mistaken as that made even less sense than Dumbledore being at Smeltings instead of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore wasn't sure what caused the boy to shift, but the tiny movements were encouraging. He stopped pacing and sat back down on the stool.
"Zeke, I'd like to talk with you. It'd be a lot easier if you weren't curled up on the floor while we did it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Boy nodded and obeyed since he didn't have a choice in the matter. If he had, he'd be outside and gone in a flash. However, this was the Head of all Masters, and his old master had told him all the rules he was forced to live by as a slave, had come from Dumbledore. So that would include the 'you can't run from your punishment' rule.
While he complied, going so far as to sit up, this time he didn't automatically stand and strip bare, trying to avoid making the same mistake he already made twice, once with the devil and once with the heffalump. Instead, he opted for a kneeling position since the Head of all Masters was sitting. By staying low himself, it'd take less effort for Dumbledore to whip him. A courtesy his old master always demanded.
Tenting his fingers on either side of him, he pushed up from the floor, arching his back until he was erect over his folded legs and sitting on his heels, keeping the toes of his trainers bent forward, poised to rise quickly if called upon. He then placed his hands loosely, palms down on his thighs, fingers spread, elbows at his side, keeping his head bowed respectfully.
Dumbledore watched fascinated as the boy repositioned himself in one fluid and practiced movement, as graceful as a dance. It was beautiful, but slightly disturbing at the same time, since the child must have done that every movement a thousand times before, for it to be so effortless now. Even more disturbing was that he was now kneeling before him with an air of expectancy, as if waiting for him to do something more than just talk with him.
That wasn't all what he'd expected.
"I do apologize, Mr Mohr. I should have provided you with a seat. Would you like to take mine?" he asked kindly, standing up from the footstool.
Boy knew this was a trick to get him to break the rule about slaves not being allowed to use furniture. Besides, nobody apologised to a slave! There is no reason to. It was a dead giveaway.
He shook his head and remained in position, even though the refusal itself could be deemed defiance. Boy expected the Head of all Masters to lose his temper and begin hitting him with one of the sticks that everyone carried, but instead the man went to the High Table, brought back a second footstool, and placed it in front of him where he couldn't ignore it. Another test!
"Please sit here then," Dumbledore requested pleasantly, taking care not to rush or pressure the child.
Boy still didn't move. 'Please' wasn't a word that'd ever been directed his way before. It had to be another trick, and he wasn't going to fall for it.
Dumbledore sat back down on his footstool. He wasn't sure if the child didn't understand or was being stubborn. He decided he needed a different tactic, and the hospital wing with its comforting potions was too far away.
"Are you hungry? The house elves have already cleaned up after dinner, but I'm betting they could scrape up something. They're very fond of feeding people."
Boy wasn't just hungry - he was starving. The centaurlings had run him from one end of the colony to the other, on top of the long hike through the forest to get there, and the wild ride after. And while Fenella and Firenze had heaped generous portions on his plate at evening meal, he'd been too nervous about what the council was going to decide to eat more than a few bites of grouse and part of the baked apple. The rest, he'd stuffed inside the chunks of bread, and then hid the makeshift sandwiches in his pockets. While the food didn't fill his stomach that way, it did fill his need of being able to count on having another meal in the future.
Nevertheless, planning doesn't always make perfect. What he hadn't counted on, was being returned to the castle so quickly. The emergency food stash did him little good now that he was no longer on his own in The Hundred Acre Wood. Instead, he was back under the direct control of a master. That meant he could no longer play fast and loose with bending the rules. Until he was punished for all the rules he'd broken since his last punishment, and then told that he was once again worthy of food, he wasn't allowed to eat.
That was the rule. Hard and fast. As it had always been. As it should be.
Remembering all too clearly how his old master would react if he ever begged for food or water before he'd earned it, he shuddered at the memory and shook his head 'no'.
He wouldn't beg. He'd wait.
"Well, I believe I'd like something. I think I'll raid the kitchens. Follow me," Dumbledore declared, thinking the child would change his mind once he saw the food. Standing once more, he walked at a slow and deliberate pace out of the Great Hall. He had to resist the urge to turn around to see if the child was trailing behind him, as the only footsteps he heard were his own. He just had to trust that he was.
As ordered, Boy dutifully followed on Dumbledore's heels, through a door to the left of the massive marble staircase in the entrance hall, and down a flight of steps into a wide cheerful corridor. Paintings of food dotted the walls between the merrily burning torches. Halfway down the corridor, Dumbledore paused to admire a painting of a large silver bowl, full of fruit. When he stopped, Boy carefully slipped silently behind him to wait and watched furtively through his downcast eyes, as the Head of all Masters did the most peculiar thing – he reached out and tickled a pear.
"Ha-ha-ha! Such a clever way to hide the secret entrance to the kitchens. Of course, that means nearly everyone in the castle knows about it. But what they don't usually realize is that once they know how to enter, they're always welcome to come back," Dumbledore chuckled, hoping the boy was listening.
The pear giggled and turned into a green handle. Dumbledore grasped it and the painting swung in like a door. He stepped across the threshold with Boy following close behind, like a second shadow.
The kitchen of Hogwarts was as enormous as the Great Hall. It had high ceilings and long tables in the same configuration as the floor directly above it, and all of them were loaded down with dishes waiting to be washed. Around edges of the room along the walls were numerous cookers and sinks, each overflowing with pots and pans from the dinner preparations as well. At the far end was a large brick fireplace. It was towards this end, that Dumbledore headed to talk with the head house-elf.
Boy hung back. Everywhere he looked in the room there were small greyish creatures dressed in crisp white tea towels with a crest embroidered on the front. The creatures had thin arms and legs, huge round luminous eyes, exceedingly long pointed noses, and large ears shaped like bat wings. As soon as they saw Dumbledore, they left their chores and swarmed around him, bowing and curtseying, and asking how they could serve him.
Boy recognized the little creatures. One of them, or at least one that looked just like them, had created a diversion when he was escaping from Hell. He also thought the same creature may have been at Kings Cross station and tripped his old master when he tried to grab him to prevent him from falling through the brick wall. But he wasn't sure since both had happened so fast.
As he watched how the creatures scrambled to bow down to the Head of all Master and vie with each other for the honour of satisfying his every whim, all the dots began to line up in Boy's mind. The creature he'd seen almost a week ago had served of the man with the white-blond hair, and these creatures appeared to be servants of the Head of all Masters.
So… was this what slaves were supposed to look like? He'd never actually seen one other than himself, so he hadn't been aware he was breaking the dress code on a daily basis. No wonder Ma'am was always displeased with his appearance!
Looked down at his clothes, he realized he owed Ma'am a huge apology if he saw her again. The regulation tea towel all the proper slaves were wearing wouldn't have sufficiently covered his private parts to her satisfaction. That forced Ma'am to go to the extra effort of supplying him with the all black clothes he wore in its place, most of which she had hand dyed herself in a big pot on the stove. One lesson Master had drilled into him very early in his training was that he was not to cause Ma'am any additional work. Here he had, without even realizing it.
He also didn't measure up in how he looked. Boy tugged on his ears - they were far too short and not nearly floppy enough. He touched his head - he had far too much hair. He now understood why Ma'am was always trying to shave it off. He touched his nose – it wasn't nearly long or pointy enough. He felt his eyes – they were far too small and didn't bug out at all. In fact, the only feature he had in common with the creatures, other than height and stick thin arms and legs, was the unhealthy greyish skin tone. However, after the month he spent in the little Wood even that had faded away. Now he knew why Ma'am was always telling him he was hideous. It was because it was the truth. He didn't look anything like a proper slave should.
He also now understood why Master and Ma'am had kept him locked in the cupboard under the stairs and fed him so little – to try and keep him small, and short, and skinny, as a proper slave should be. Since he defiantly began to outgrow the space regardless, it was reasonable for them to decrease the amount of food he was allowed. If they couldn't keep him small one way, they were forced to go another. So really, being underfed was entirely his fault. If he'd known, he would've tried to stop growing, such as when he got his hair to stop.
Wow. He realized now that Master and Ma'am had been totally justified all along in being sorely disappointed in him. Not that they hadn't always claimed that right, but here was a proof positive comparison he could see with his very own eyes. Even if he'd never broken a single rule, he'd never had even the remotest chance of being anything other than a bad slave, just on looks alone.
He was utterly devastated, and at a loss for what to do. With his overabundance of newly discovered shortcoming, he didn't have a prayer of pleasing the Head of all Masters. And since his new master was already regretting his purchase, he was sure to be returned to his old one for correction. Just the thought, made all his scars ache. All he could pray for was delaying it as long as possible.
Looking around and seeing all the chores abandoned, it dawned on him why the Head of all Masters had brought him here. It was obvious this is where Dumbledore thought he belonged in this castle. Exhausted as he was, he still knew he'd be better off if he got right to work and didn't delay for one more second. The heffalumps had only given him a scant few hours to show to prove his worth. But then they were nice. Dumbledore would surely give him even less.
Pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up past his elbows, he gathered a stack of dirty plates from the nearest table and carried them to the first sink. Plunging the plates into the hot soapy water, he started scrubbing. Maybe if he worked through the night, he'd be able to wash and dry them all before they were needed again in the morning.
From the other end of the cavernous room, he caught bits of Dumbledore's side of the conversation, the high squeaky oddly phrased replies – not as much.
"I didn't mean to interrupt -"
"Why thank you -"
"No, dinner was magnificent as always. I'd just like a snack -"
"A toasted cheese sandwich and a mug of hot cocoa, if that wouldn't be too much trouble -"
"No, I'll wait for it -"
"Of course, you may! You really needn't ask every time -"
"Oh really? Congratulations! -"
"By the way, did a young boy with orange spiked hair follow me in just now? -"
"He did? How delightful -"
Boy froze with arms elbow deep in suds. They were talking about him now. He quickly fetched another stack of plates and started scrubbing again. Hopefully the Head of all Masters hadn't noticed his momentary stoppage.
"Is he still there? -"
"Splendid, splendid -"
"What? -"
"Oh no, no, no, no, no, not at all. I'm sure -"
"Perhaps if you could leave us alone for a few moments -"
"Oh yes, yes, that'll be fine -"
"Thank you. It looks delicious -"
Boy became acutely aware as the little creatures left the room. It sounded the same as when Cousin popped all his balloons after his birthday party 'Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!' only followed by hundred more. He was also aware when the Head of all Masters put something down on the table from which he'd been clearing the dishes, and also when he came over to stand behind him.
Dumbledore cleared his throat a few times, trying to get the child's attention without frightening him, but it was as if he were deaf.
Surmising he'd come to check on his work, Boy kept his head down and scrubbed the dishes as if his life depended on it, pretending Dumbledore wasn't there. Sometimes this tactic had saved him from his old master. After he was sufficiently satisfied Boy was being industrious, and not doing anything wantonly defiant, he'd just 'harrumph' then move along, leaving him alone to do his chores in peace.
However, as much as Boy thought it true, Dumbledore wasn't an eviler version of his old master. After several minutes, Dumbledore put his hands gently on the child's shoulders, trying to get him to stop working.
"The house-elves are worried I brought you here because they weren't doing a good job. I assured them that wasn't the case. However, it appears I need to assure you as well. I didn't bring you here to wash dishes. I thought cheese sandwich would be nice."
Even though outwardly the boy looked calm, it was deceptive. Dumbledore could feel his entire body go rigid with terror under his touch. His heart was racing, and his breath was becoming ragged again. Had he'd made a huge mistake, thinking a bite of food and a sip of warm milk would be just as good as a calming draught? What had filled this child with so much fear? Had something untoward happen to him while he was with the centaurs in the dark forest?
Boy froze, wet dish in hand. How could he have been so stupid?! Dumbledore had mentioned needing food just before leaving the Great Hall. Now, not only had he done the wrong chore, but because of his incompetence, someone else had to prepare the sandwich for the Head of all Masters, when he should've done it himself!
His hands started shaking and he dropped the plate, shattering it. The shards spattered like rain in all directions, making little pinging sounds as they hit the stone floor. Acid rose in the back of his throat and he started to panic. Two mistakes in two minutes! It had to be a new record. There was no way the Head of all Masters wouldn't notice that. He had to clean it up! Quick!
Dropping to his knees, he hastened to scoop up the broken bits with his hands, the sharp edges cutting his palms and fingers to ribbons.
"Stop!"
Boy froze.
Dumbledore took out his wand and with a simple 'Vasculo Reparo' charm, the pieces of the plate flew back together, mended and whole. The magically restored plate spun slowly like a top in front of Boy until it rattled to a stop. Dumbledore then plucked the frozen child off the floor and plopped him down on the nearest bench. Grasping both his small hands firmly in one of his, he performed an 'Episkey' spell to heal his cuts.
Trapped, Boy gasped in shock, unable to peel his eyes away from the large hand that had an iron grip around his wrists.
Upset that the child could have been seriously hurt, Dumbledore over-reacted and snapped without thinking, unwittingly launching Boy into his Confession.
"Don't you realize that you could've been badly cut?! What do you have to say for yourself?"
Against his will and unable to stop, Boy automatically repeated the words he'd been relentlessly trained every day for years, to reply in response to that exact question.
"I've been bad, Sir. I need to be punished," he recited in a faint voice, barely above a whisper.
Again, not all what Dumbledore expected. Although, at least one mystery was settled - the boy could talk. Dumbledore sat down on the bench next to him, still holding his hands tight in his, lest the child should get it into his mind to disappear again.
"Tell me… what do you believe you've done, that could be so bad, that you need punished for it? It can't be simply breaking a dish. That was an accident, and to be fair, I startled you, so it's really my fault, not yours. Besides, it could've happened to anyone."
Dumbledore put his wand away, picked up a plate from the table, and tossed it on the stone floor, smashing it on purpose.
"Oops! It just happened to me. See? Accidents happen all the time. It's certainly not something over which to punish someone. So, what did you really do that was all so horrid?"
Boy hiccupped out a small sob. He had to answer. He had no choice, but he'd broken so many, many, rules since his last confession, he'd lost track. It was so much easier, and a much shorter list of transgressions, when Master punished him daily. Perhaps, just this once, it'd be all right to lump them all together? After all, it wasn't really lying or leaving anything out, it was just being… efficient. A quality highly prized by his old master.
He started to sweat, his breathing becoming shallow. It was so hard to speak - to force the words to come out. Maybe if he didn't look, he could do it. He closed his eyes tight. Even though he could no longer see the hand holding him fast, he could still feel it.
"I-I got lost, Sir… and the more lost I got, the more rules I broke. I think I broke every single one. And most of them – at least twice," he finally managed to get out in a strangled voice.
"Oh my, that does sound as if you've been horrid all right. But perhaps, it's not nearly as bad as it seems? I find things rarely are. Especially when it comes to children. I'm sure this will turn out to be one of those times. Why don't you tell me about the worst rule breaking incident, and we'll take it from there?" Dumbledore proposed reasonably, patting the boy's arm with his other hand trying to assure him that there was really nothing to fear.
Boy's anxiety level increased with each pat. He was trying very hard not to pass out as his old master disapproved of that once Confession started. He always demanded him to be fully present during the punishment process, in order to reap its maximum benefit. Nonetheless, he wasn't sure he could make it through Confession if he kept touching him like that, and he still had Acknowledgement, Contrition, and Penitence to get through.
"I-I didn't stay dead, Sir, and have been an ungrateful burden ever since," Boy replied in a flat, quiet voice, offering up his core unforgivable sin of simply being alive, the sin that was the basis for all the others. It made his chest hurt, as if his heart was going to explode.
"You didn't stay - dead?" Dumbledore repeated, shocked.
He then paused for such a long time that Boy began to think that the Head of all Masters thought he was lying to him. He knew it! Why was he always second-guessing himself? Master always said he was too stupid to think on his own. He should've listed every single transgression separately as he'd been trained to do! He should have! He should have! He should have! Why didn't he?!
His shallow breathing started to quicken with panic.
When Dumbledore found his voice and began speaking again, it wasn't to berate and belittle him, force him to grovel, or even to demand he strip for his beating. Instead, he just sounded a little… sad. Somewhere in the back of Boy's terror filled mind, he registered surprise at this. Why would the All-Powerful Head of all Masters be… sad?
"I am the greatest fool to ever draw breath. The Sorting Hat told me, and I brushed it off as an inconvenience. Then the centaurs told me. Well… as directly as centaurs ever can. And what did I do? I just nodded pleasantly to placate them until they went away. Why? You might rightly ask. Because I thought I knew what was important, and what was not. I couldn't be bothered to look past the end of my own nose, to see what was right in front of me."
His words made little sense to Boy. However, from the glimpse he'd got of it earlier, he had to agree that the Head of all Masters' nose was rather large. Nevertheless, he didn't think it was his place to be critical of its size, where his own was far too small to make a good slave. But maybe that's why the Head of all Masters was complaining about it. He had to wonder if Dumbledore was going to be blamed for that too. His old master sure would have.
"There's an old proverb which the Sorting Hat used in his song, that says, 'all that glisters is not gold'. This is just a fancy way of saying that sometimes things, or even people for that matter, promise more than what they really are. But the reverse is also true. At times, important things can go unnoticed. Their inner value overlooked because they're outwardly dressed in rags - the gold without the glitter, per se."
Boy stiffened, it sounded as if the Head of all Masters was finally getting around to asking the next question, "Tell me what you are", to begin his Acknowledgement of his utter worthlessness. When the question didn't come, he began to wonder if he should start grovelling on his own. If it weren't that he'd be sure to be accused of impertinence on top of everything else, he might have, just to get it over with. Only the Head of all Masters never stop talking long enough to allow him. Boy wished if he wasn't going to follow the process, that he'd just jump directly to Penitence. The anticipation of waiting for the first blow was becoming excruciating.
"One bit of wisdom handed down from the first headmaster to the next, is that the value of one child is no less than that of another, as every child's potential is limitless. I'm sorry to say, I forgot that for a moment or two. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" Dumbledore paused to check.
This was it. Mechanically, Boy shook his head 'no' and prepared to pay dearly for his stupidity. He really didn't have a clue and he couldn't lie and say he did. In truth, he rarely understood anything, anyone ever said, having little context to translate it into terms he could understand. Ashamed, he supposed that was why The Family very seldom bothered to explain anything to him. He only wished that the Head of all Masters would follow their lead and be clearer about what chores he wanted him to do, and not make him guess. He was sure to get it wrong this way. It was setting him up to fail, but then… maybe that was the point.
In fact, maybe that'd been the point all along, the real lesson he was supposed to learn – that he was a failure, and nothing would ever change it. Just as his time with the heffalumps proved no one would ever want him. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry, and he felt as if he were going to choke on his own tongue.
"Hm… let me put it another way. Many years ago, a dear friend of mine, by the name of Tolkien, chronicled Middle Earth during a time of great despair and even greater danger. It was an era when clashing worlds were forced together, and of the spark of hope that can turn even the strongest of tides. Sadly, it's similar to what we're living today. However, that's another story and I digress - I'm quite famous for that," Dumbledore said with a small chuckle.
Boy didn't laugh. It was all he could do to sit there motionless, when every nerve in his body was screaming for him to run. But he didn't think he could make his feet work, and his hands were becoming numb.
"The point I'm trying to make is that there's much truth in his words both then and now - 'All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost'."
Dumbledore gently put a finger under Boy's chin and raised his head, finally forcing his terror filled emerald green eyes to meet his own deeply concerned blue ones.
For one split second, their eyes connected before Boy hastily looked away.
"Oh, my dear, dear child… you're not lost at all, are you? You're just very good at hiding."