Chapter 7 – Positive Thoughts

Scott lounged in his chair, his feet resting on his desk. He had no workbook open, no parchment for note-taking, no quill or ink for writing. His chair was balancing precariously on its two back legs, and in his ears were a pair of headphones. Scott couldn't hear a word of what Professor Binns was saying, though he had no doubt that it was interesting. Another thing that he had not a shred of doubt in regards to was that anything that Binns said, he already knew. The Hogwarts library had become a frequent haunt for Scott since his disillusionment with his teacher's ability to teach, and he could say with surety that the veritable metropolis of shelves was his favourite location in the castle. He'd learned more there than any in his class had ever learned from the droning ghost before them.

Against his better judgement, he glanced to either side of himself. To his right sat Ethan, who, in between feeding Cyril some odorous substance from a baby bottle, was throwing occasional awkward glances at Alex. Alex was to Scott's left side, and was resolutely not looking anywhere near Ethan. She'd been more talkative since they'd begun their Flying Lessons, and had confided her side of events to him, amidst many tears.

"You were right, God, I should have said something sooner. I could have prevented all of this from happening," she'd cried, her face buried in his chest.

He'd comforted her. "I think he's just had a bit of a shock. I'll make him see sense, don't worry."

And to his credit, he'd managed to make Ethan come around to the concept far more than he had been originally. He still seemed slightly shell-shocked from his early morning run-in, but had expressed the desire to apologise more than once. Unfortunately, he still wasn't sure on everything.

"It's just... Half the time he- er- they?" he'd asked, looking to Scott for confirmation.

"You'll have to ask Alex yourself," he'd answered unhelpfully.

"Well, half the time, he's a she, and good for him- her- them? But I... Girls are..."

"Merlin's beard, Ethan, you're eleven!" Scott implored him desperately. "Can't you grow up a little?"

"How am I supposed to grow up if I'm having that shoved in my face?"

"Alex didn't make you look at her in the shower, mate!" Scott had yelled, frustrated.

Now, leaning back in his chair, listening to something far more engaging than dead old men, he just wished that the two of his friends could come to an understanding. He hated playing the mediator, and as much as he took a perverse pleasure from hearing "You were right" directed at him repeatedly, he just wished the two of them could be a sight more happy.

Eventually he realised that class was coming to an end. This was perhaps the only part of the lesson that he could benefit from hearing, so he took his headphones out and listened.

"The essay will need to be twelve inches long, and precisely summarise the conditions that allowed Emeric to garner the support that he gained in modern-day Devon. I expect references and quotations from A History of Magic, and any other texts you decide to consult. The worksheets with instructions are up here for you to collect. That concludes our lesson."

With perfect timing, the bell chimed to signal the end of class, and they each dispassionately filed up to the front, collected the parchment, and filtered out.

Scott realised that Ethan and Alex were still beside him and realised his chance. "Ah, bugger," he said with convincing dismay. "I've got to run to the loo, tell Professor Flitwick I'm sorry, will you?" And he dashed off, leaving the two of them alone in the corridor.

Alex scowled at Scott's retreating back, while Ethan continued to shoot nervous looks at her. She saw him open his mouth a few times as they walked up to their Charms classroom, but he seemed to struggle to find the right words. Eventually, she became so fed up with his failed attempts at whatever it was he was trying to do that she spoke, though he seemed to find his courage at the same time.

"Look, I'm really sorry," they said in perfect unison.

Ethan immediately shook his head frantically. "You haven't got anything to be sorry for."

"Don't be an idiot, of course I-"

"You're right, I've been an idiot," he interrupted. "I got scared, I freaked out, and I was wrong. I just don't think that I was prepared for... Well, that, I suppose."

Alex stopped walking, and so did Ethan. She looked at him properly. He still seemed uncomfortably anxious around her. "Ethan, I really wanted to tell you. I was going to do it that day," she said earnestly, fighting the urge to tear up. "Everyone else already knew, but I didn't really care what they thought, not as much as I was worried about you. I wanted you to know the real me, but I was scared because I thought I might have given you the wrong idea."

It was Ethan's turn to look anywhere but her. His face showed his shame as he shuffled his feet awkwardly. "And I reacted... like that," he mumbled quietly.

Alex sighed. "Not either of our finest moments, really," she joked pathetically.

Ethan laughed weakly.

She stuck her hand out. "Friends?" she asked hopefully.

Ethan stared at the hand as though he'd never seen anything like it before. "I... You want to...? When I...?" he stuttered.

"If you're okay with it," she said, with an intake of breath. "With me."

Ethan nodded, and after a moment of confused hesitation, he took her hand with his long, gangly arm and shook it.

She breathed out, and they turned and continued on to their classroom.

Scott returned as Professor Flitwick finished calling for attendance.

"Sorry, Professor, had to use the necessary," he called, shrugging at the diminutive man as he strode in.

"Not to worry, Mr Carter, not to worry," Flitwick said fondly. "Just find your seat, and I'll fix the register up for you."

He sat beside Alex, who he was smugly pleased to see was seated next to Ethan.

"And how was your toilet break?" she whispered facetiously to Scott. He said nothing, simply smirked at the two of them, and turned to listen to Flitwick.

"Now, over the past month we have been studying our spell theories relating to the manifestation of light. We began with the usage of multicoloured sparks, which you should all be adept at by now. Last week, however, we focused primarily on the creation of a singular bright light at the tip of your wands. Would anyone like to tell me the primary difference between the theory behind sparks and the theory behind wand-lighting?"

Scott punched the air.

"Mr Carter?"

"It all lies in the concentration put into the radiance, sir," Scott explained, his voice clear and certain. "The caster's focus is vital so that the light is concentrated for as long as the caster requires. Sparks, meanwhile, are ephemeral, and overlap with Fire-Making spells, where intention is placed more into heat, over concentrated physical light."

"Excellent, three points to Ravenclaw!" Flitwick said jovially. "Indeed, Mr Carter touches on what separates our current focus from the relatively simpler sparks we produced previously – that being where the magic is focused into. With that concept in mind, perhaps we could attempt a trial run of the incantation?" He drew his wand from his robes.

"The wand movement for this spell is simple - a slight flick of your wand; your upper arm need not move. And then, Lumos!"

Flitwick's wand-tip was suddenly illuminated by a white light. "I will now dim the room to better test your efforts. You may find it easier to summon light in darkness. Can anyone – ah, of course. Mr Carter?"

"It's partly psychological. But the magic also responds better when it can achieve its purpose – illuminating. 'If darkness assails, light prevails'."

He nodded. "Very good. Another three points for Ravenclaw, I think."

They set about trying to summon light from their wands. Within a single minute, Scott had produced a glorious light that had lasted a further twelve. This earned yet more points for his house. Alex eventually managed it, though she seemed to get stuck on the concentration aspect repeatedly. Ethan was struggling most of all, far more than any of the Gryffindors, than even Jack Sloper, whose wand kept slipping from his hand. Partway through the lesson, Ethan had managed to call up a light so chaotic that it flashed repeatedly and with luminescence to rival the sun. Scott was reminded of Muggle strobe lights as he rubbed his eyes, the power of Ethan's miscasting nearly burning his retinas.

"Sorry!" Ethan cried, after he had hastily shouted the counter-spell Flitwick had desperately called out ("Nox! Nox, Croaker!").

The rest of the day passed without incident, though Ethan was still smarting over his failure to evoke the Wand-Lighting Charm. Scott and Alex tried to give him words of encouragement, to little effect. After dinner, they set to work on their homework, though Ethan didn't seem eager to practice charms with them. They eventually went to bed, full of mixed emotions.

The following morning was Defence class, a double period in which they practiced a minor defensive spell that would theoretically force someone back a few feet. Professor Foley had matched the class up with partners at random, and Scott now found himself facing Cormac McLaggen, wand drawn.

"Flipendo!" he cried, brandishing his wand at the boy, whose height was equal to his own. With surprising nimbleness, McLaggen dodged out of the spell's path, where it dissipated harmlessly against the wall. McLaggen answered the attack with one of his own, and Scott was less fortunate than his opponent had been. He stumbled as the spell shoved him into a desk, but remained standing. McClaggen laughed and, incensed, Scott quickly cast once again. The large Gryffindor, distracted, was caught unawares by the jinx, and, with a little more force than necessary, was cast into the wall behind him.

The rest of the class looked up at the commotion as McLaggen climbed to his feet, his face resembling an overgrown beetroot.

"My bad," Scott said innocently.

"Mr Carter," Foley called. "Could I see you in my office after class, please?"

Scott opened his mouth to protest but decided that back-talking a teacher wasn't wise. He nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you," Foley said. McLaggen looked smug. "Now, I think you've all made significant progress on the Knockback Jinx so far. But now I want you to return the desks to their original positions, so that we can get to the study of the spell's applications in a defensive situation."

After forty minutes of further work the class began to leave for their morning break. Scott waited for Professor Foley to finish packing, and dutifully followed him out. Foley's office seemed to be on the same floor as their classroom, as they passed the stairs on their way there. Once they had arrived, Foley gestured for Scott to enter. "In," he said, before following him inside and closing the door.

The office was decently sized and well lit. A few glass cases and cabinets lined the walls, which held numerous musty objects, curious metal instruments, and books. Scott waited for whatever punishment or lecture that Foley had in mind, but nothing of the sort came. Instead, Foley turned and smiled. "First of all, I'd like to award Ravenclaw five points. That jinx you pulled off was the best I've seen from the first year cohort so far."

Scott blinked confusedly for a moment, before remarking silently to himself that being the teacher's pet really did come with quite a few perks. "Thank you, sir," he said politely.

"Sit down, why don't you?" Foley offered mildly. When Scott had done so, sitting on the chair opposite his teacher's desk chair, Foley continued. "Now, I seem to be under the impression that you've been trying to speak with me for a while now?"

Scott nodded. "Yes, sir. I was hoping we could talk about your job. Er, your other job, that is."

Professor Foley looked pleased by his curiosity. "You're interested in archaeology?" he questioned, grinning. "Always a pleasure to introduce new faces to the field. Anything in particular that you want to know?"

"Well, first off, what are you excavating here at Hogwarts? Is it something the founders might have left, or is there a passage off from the dungeons?"

Foley seemed to see that he was burning with his desire for knowledge. "Yes, I'm sure you've been quite desperate to know what my team and I have been so busy with. So far, we've only been surveying the area. We haven't found anything new for certain, or truly begun excavations. We may not find anything at all.

"Extensive searches of the castle for ancient secrets have been conducted for hundreds of years now. Plenty has been discovered and lost in that time. I'm not certain what I hope to find in my study. Perhaps, as you considered, the founders may yet have left behind things that no living eye has seen in a millennium. I'm not sure if you've ever heard of Salazar Slytherin's legendary Chamber of Secrets?"

Scott nodded. "I've read that Slytherin built it to hold a creature that he'd use to purge people he considered inferior. But isn't it only a legend, sir?"

"Of course. We have no concrete evidence that such a chamber ever existed. However, I do have compelling evidence that something once stood where Hogwarts stands now, predating it by some time indeed."

"Really?" Scott asked excitedly. "What's the evidence?"

Foley drew his wand from his pocket and pointed it at one of the glass cases in the room. It unlatched and opened, and from within a stone basin rose and hovered over onto the desk between them. "I wonder," Foley queried, "whether you might recognise this object?"

Scott examined the basin without touching it, fearing delicateness. He wasn't sure, but it looked like one of the outrageously expensive objects that he'd seen in a store in Wiggen Lane, in Upper Flagley. "That's a... pen- a pensieve?" he asked uncertainly.

"Indeed. Pensieves are useful tools for the siphoning and reading of memories. They have been used for millennia by witches and wizards to review their life experiences, and even to preserve them long after they have passed. It was once the case that particularly powerful wizards were once buried with their pensieves and hundreds of stored memories.

"Now, have you noticed the distinctive markings around the pensieve's rim?"

Scott examined the artefact closer, looking at the distinctive runes etched into the ancient stone. "Futhorc!" he cried excitedly. "But... don't wizards still use these runes today?"

Foley nodded. "Yes, they became quite popular again among the magical community around the thirteenth century. But when Hogwarts was first constructed, the usage of these particular runes had lessened in popularity. Latinised alphabetisation had become the norm, and, of course, remains as such to this day. But dating this artefact, I can safely say that it has existed in this form for well over a millennium, since at least the eighth century."

But something didn't quite track for Scott. "I'm not sure I follow, though. This region would have been under the control of either the Dál Riatans or the Picts around then. Why would a definitively non-Celtic piece of writing have anything to do with the Scottish Highlands?"

Foley seemed even more jubilant that Scott had offered this conundrum. "Ah, that's where things get even more interesting! This artefact was uncovered by the school's founders themselves, during the construction of the castle foundations and what would eventually become the dungeons – subterranean storerooms would have seemed quite novel at the time, I'm sure."

"This pensieve was excavated by the founders themselves? I've never read anything of the sort before!" Scott pondered.

"I have it on good authority that this basin was discovered right here in the late tenth century," his teacher stated confidently.

"Whose?"

"Why, the very same person who provided me this fascinating artefact in the first place!" Foley revealed. "The Headmaster of the school!"

Again Foley's wand flicked, and yet another glass case opened. From this one came an ancient manuscript, levitating dutifully over to softly land on the desk. Foley carefully used his wand to sift through pages until he came upon the passage that he was searching for.

"Lùnastal Dimàirt, lorg neònach de ionad cuimhne. Dè na aosmhor a bha a 'fuireach an seo?" he read. "Simply put, this pensieve was discovered early on, to the astonishment of the workers and founders. I'm sure that they too were befuddled at the Anglo-Saxon lettering that they found so far north. Perhaps it was claimed in a war against Northumbria? I cannot be sure."

"But if pensieves were left behind as literal memorials, surely there should be preserved memories stored alongside the pensieve?" Scott asked hopefully.

"Alas," Foley lamented softly, "if any were discovered, they are now long lost to history. And therein lies the tragedy of my work. You see, Scott, most of our world does not view these things as worthy of preservation, except out of a desire for prestige. Our own currency can attest to that fact." He finished this statement with a note of bitterness.

"Our currency?" Scott questioned. "What do you mean?"

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Scott, but did you ever wonder where Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts came from? Or how wizarding goldsmiths were able to create and distribute so many Golden Snitches worldwide, when each of them is only single-use?"

"I-" Scott began, but couldn't finish. How did these resources come about? He hadn't heard of any wizarding goldmines, or of any miners. Transfiguration was out of the question – precious metals fell under the Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. Besides, if money could be conjured or otherwise transfigured, poverty wouldn't exactly be as prevalent as it was. "Maybe... maybe they use a Philosopher's Stone?" he offered desperately, not wanting to accept the implication that Professor Foley had created in his mind.

"Alchemy has had its uses, certainly, but Philosopher's Stones are coveted objects, and unbelievably rare," Foley said, crushing Scott's hopes. "No, I'm afraid wizarding currency has a far more terrible source that many don't quite realise. What do you think happens to the relics that Curse-Breakers pilfer in their mass raids?"

Scott suddenly felt quite ill. He wildly dug into his pocket, tearing out a handful of bronze coins. He'd been planning to give them to Skeres after morning break – she'd been pestering him to pay her back for her porcupine quills. Now, though, the thought of handing over what could have once been a priceless piece of history – now reduced to a shallow symbol of currency – made him want to be violently sick. He felt his eye twitch as he stared without really seeing at the falsely innocent tender sitting in his palm. In his mind's eye, he recalled a carved gold urn held in the hands of a Gringotts employee. He wondered how many Galleons it had become. He wondered if he'd ever see those Galleons.

Defilement. Sacrilege. Blood money, that's what it was. He resolved then and there to never pay for another thing ever again in his life. He'd simply have to steal what he needed from now on. He simply couldn't live with the concept of trading in the remains of history. No doubt he'd get arrested at some point. And wouldn't that be typical, he thought. I'm going mad in Azkaban while Ministry-sanctioned Tomb Robbers are getting filthy rich!

He was abruptly torn from his unhinged trance by the sound of bells. He looked back up to see Foley watching him, concern etched on his face. He realised that he must have looked quite the sight gazing at Knuts for several minutes.

"Er, you'd best be off to your next class, Scott," he said, smiling sympathetically. Scott knew that he must understand. "What do you have? I might be able to make sure you don't get into trouble for being late?"

"Er, that's okay, professor. I've got Potions, and I don't think Snape will care what you have to say."

"Too right," he chuckled. "I was always abysmal at Potions. I hope you fare better than I did in school."

By the time that he'd reached the dungeons, he was only a minute late, but this was still enough time for Snape to deduct a point from Ravenclaw. He didn't really care at this point, however, and found his seat next to Skeres.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Carter," she whispered snidely to him. "Is that why you're late, had to change your pants?"

"I saw dozens of ghosts, Skeres. Maybe you've not noticed, but the castle's lousy with them," he muttered back. "But, no, I was late because I'd rather spend time with a miserable spirit than another minute with you."

"If you're all they get to talk to, I can see why they'd be miserable," she cooed, blinking sweetly at him. She leaned in. "So, have you got my money?"

"Why, Daddy not sending his little princess all the cash she wants?" He wasn't going to give her the money now, not after what he'd just learned.

She ignored his taunt. "I hate to have to shake down filthy Half-bloods like yourself, but you did make a deal, Carter. I expect you to fulfil your end of the bargain."

"And I expect you to die alone and friendless, Skeres. I sure hope we both get what we want."

She had just opened her mouth furiously, apparently losing her patience for jabs, when an angry voice rang out in the dingy classroom.

"Shall we all sit and wait for Carter and Skeres to finish their discussion?" Snape said, swooping over like an overgrown bat. "Clearly whatever they have to say is far more important than what I have to teach you all."

"No, sir," Skeres said.

"Quiet," he snapped. He loomed over Scott menacingly, looking down his beak-like nose at him. "How extraordinarily dimwitted you are, Carter. How you managed to dupe the Sorting Hat into placing you into Ravenclaw, I have yet to understand. Your talent for disrupting my class has just earned you a detention. Congratulations. Miss Skeres, you shall share his fate." At this, Skeres' jaw dropped in horror. "I certainly hope Bubotuber pus is to your liking," Snape continued, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "You will be getting to know its properties first hand Tuesday evening."

The sun had barely risen over the horizon on Saturday morning, but excluding the lone figure jogging the circumference of the loch on the school grounds, an unusual amount of people were awake and active at Hogwarts.

"Has the Professor seen this?" a gruff-voiced man asked.

"No, but he's going to want to," a leaner man replied.

"What am I going to want to see?" Michael Foley asked, arriving at the scene with yet another figure.

He was garbed in his dressing gown, looking sleepy but curious. The room that he'd entered, a side room off from the Entrance Hall, held four others, aside from him and the woman who had brought him. They were all gathered around a table which held an assortment of printed parchment and notes. The lean man gestured to one sheet, which was particularly large.

Foley walked toward it and read. "J10 to H8 two-by-two survey: resistivity idiosyncratic, magimeter residual readings... eccentric," he trailed off, glancing up at the others.

"Go on, keep reading," the gruff-voiced man urged.

Foley looked back down, his face shining with excitement. "Subsurface structure at grid position, substrative at two-hundred feet below structure foundations at grid position. Survey certainty: positive, Merlin's beard!" He looked back up at the others, grinning wildly. "Ladies and gents, gather the others. This is cause for celebration! We got a positive!"