Assignment #9 - Medieval and Renaissance Studies - Medieval Inventions - Task #2: Eyeglasses - Write about a visit to the Opticians, or someone who has trouble with their vision.
The First Years get tinier every year. Harry watches them file into his classroom with amusement, a line of tiny heads wearing tall, towering hats. He's glad the hats aren't required after the first year, but there's something undeniably adorable about dozens of nervous eyes peering out from underneath wide brims.
"Good morning," he says, once they're all settled. "I'm Professor Potter, and I'll be teaching you Defensive Magic."
They stare up at him, wide-eyed and silent. Some of them are quivering. He hides a smile and leans back against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. The very first lesson is always the same.
"My brother said it used to be called Defence Against the Dark Arts," says one particularly brave student in the middle row.
"Your brother is right," Harry says, inclining his head. "But the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor was cursed by Voldemort, not long after he left school. The other teachers eventually found a loophole in the curse, and changed the name so that the position no longer technically existed. Understand?"
A few of them nod, still nervous. He chuckles, standing up properly.
"Alright," he says. "I know you all must be feeling scared. You know what I do when I'm scared?"
"You get scared?" one of them mutters under his breath.
Harry doesn't respond; it's low enough that only he and a few others heard it. He flicks his gaze curiously over the student in question, a young boy who isn't afraid to meet his eyes, and his heart stutters. Tipped-up chin, firm but wary eyes, messy hair and trailing sleeves. There's even a bruise near his jaw, faint but there.
It's like looking straight through a window into the past.
"When I'm scared, I do this," Harry says. "Expecto Patronum!"
Happy memories come easily these days. Warmth fills him as the stag bursts from the end of his wand, loping around the room. Some of the students shriek, veering back, and the rest start babbling and calling out in awe and disbelief. The stag trots through the aisles of tiny desks, and then comes back to stand beside Harry. He touches the antlers just once, smoothing his hand over them, and lets the magic fade.
"That was the Patronus Charm," Harry explains, turning to face the sea of astounded faces. "If you work hard and pay attention in my classes, then by your third year, every single one of you will be able to make your own Patronus. I promise."
Only the tiny, brown-haired boy in the front row remains unconvinced.
Harry pokes his head through the staff room door and spies McGonagall immediately, relaxing on a plush red armchair. She no longer looks weary at the mere sight of him, not after several years of teaching in the same halls, but she does put down her teacup and pick up a biscuit for strength.
"What is it, Potter?" she says, dry as anything. "It's only the first week, so I can only assume that you've stumbled upon a matter of extreme urgency, and you need me to deal with it. Or you'd like to break some laws, and you're wondering if I have anyone to cover your class."
Alright. Maybe she is still a bit weary at the mere sight of him, but at least she's learned to joke about it.
"I'd like permission to take one of the First Years into Diagon Alley," Harry says. "You've got a Floo Network connection, haven't you?"
"What on earth do you want to do that for?" Professor Sprout demands.
"You can't just take a student somewhere without parental permission," Flitwick pipes up, pausing his game of chess. "Oh my, think of the hassle."
"I'm sure you can send off for whatever they need, Potter," Professor Sinistra adds. "We have funding in place for students who can't afford certain items, although that might still require parental permission."
"Which student?" McGonagall says sharply.
The room comes to a halt. Harry steps inside and shuts the door.
"Connor Maddins," Harry says. "He's one of yours, I think, Professor Sprout."
Professor Sprout hums thoughtfully, drumming her fingers on her knees. "Don't think I've met the little sapling properly yet, but I'll get around to it, that's for sure."
"I know exactly who you mean," Professor McGonagall says, sighing. "You may take him. I won't alert his parents. I'm quite sure that would do more harm than good, and they signed over a large amount of responsibility to the school the moment he was accepted. We have some freedom to care for the boy."
Harry inclines his head. There are a few worried murmurs from the rest of the staff, but most of them simply look upset on Connor's behalf.
"Madame Pomfrey might want to do a check-up, but I doubt he'll go willingly."
"I'll slip her a note," she agrees, waving her hand and picking her teacup up again. "Off with you, Potter. I'm sure you'll want to get started straight away, since you don't know the meaning of patience."
"At least I asked you for permission this time."
"Shoo!"
Getting Connor Maddins into Diagon Alley is a fairly easy affair. Getting him to accept that he needs glasses is a disastrously difficult situation that devolves the longer they stand there.
"I don't need anything," Connor insists, glaring up at him. "I'm fine as I am. I don't know who snitched on me, but it's not your problem, Sir."
"Nobody snitched on you."
"Someone did! It doesn't even matter, because I'm not going in anyway!"
Harry sighs and kneels down in the middle of the street. Connor looks a little taken aback by his close proximity, leaning away slightly, but at least he doesn't run off.
"Nobody snitched," Harry says. "You've been sitting in the front row of my class for the last week. Every time I write something on the board, you stop taking notes, and you spend most of your time squinting at your own page. It wasn't hard to figure out."
Connor drops his arms, looking a little miserable. "Right, Sir. I get it."
"I'm not sure you do," Harry says gently. "I'm not here to do anything or say anything or imply anything. All I want is to get your eyesight checked, and sort out any visual aids you might need. Can we start there?"
Reluctantly, Connor nods.
Lens and Wire is a tiny little store nestled on a side-street of Diagon Alley. The outside is clean and efficient, painted dark green, and the inside is neat and orderly, if a little cramped. It's nothing like a Muggle Opticians, which Harry finds to be a sterile, terrifying experience; there is a giant rotating sphere hanging from the ceiling of Lens and Wire, made out of copper lines. Every now and again, it blinks.
Connor seeds two technicians and a specialist, and it's a full hour before they're both back in the waiting room. Harry stayed with him through all the tests, and he stays with him now, sitting side-by-side in the soft-backed chairs.
"My dad says I don't need glasses," Connor says, so quietly and suddenly that Harry almost doesn't hear him. "He said it's a waste of time and money, and that I was faking it for attention."
"But you're not," Harry says. "And I'm not sure about you, Mr Maddins, but I think I trust these very qualified Opticians over the opinion of your father. Unless he's also an Optician?"
"He's not," Connor says slowly, glancing up at him. If Harry isn't mistaken, there's a somewhat delighted gleam in his eye. "He works in an office."
"There you go, then."
"Mr Maddins?"
The optician comes out of her office, smiling brightly, a clipboard in hand. Connor goes tense, and Harry puts a hand on his shoulder lightly.
"We got the results of all our scans, and I think I've determined the best course of action. We can do a few spells to ease some of your eye-strain at a later date, but I think for now, you should pick out a pair of glasses, and we'll see how you get on from there. How does that sound?"
Connor looks a little lost. Harry takes over quickly, standing up and shaking her hand.
"That sounds fine," he says. "Will you help us pick out a pair?"
The little bell chimes behind them. Connor blinks at the world from behind a pair of specialised, slim frames that are charmed not to break or fall off. Harry gently but firmly ushers him away from the Opticians. His pockets are a little lighter, but he doesn't care. This was worth it.
"Feel okay?" he asks.
Connor nods, but he still looks a little lost. "I can't believe they actually gave me glasses. I really thought…"
"That you were making it up?"
Connor glances away, shrugging. "Maybe. I'm sorry you had to deal with all this, Sir. And I'll find some way to pay you back."
Harry snorts, but not unkindly. "No, you won't. It's my job to look after you. You needed glasses, and that's that." He pauses, and then adds, "It wasn't a waste of time or money."
Connor looks like he's just been struck. He glances down at his feet while he walks, nodding uncertainly.
"And I should have said earlier, but when people fake things for attention, it's usually because they need attention," Harry says, with a little quirk of his mouth. "That's not a bad thing. People like to be attended to. They deserve to be attended to. Even if you were faking it, which you weren't, you still deserved to be helped. It just would have been a slightly different problem to deal with. Understand?"
Connor nods, faintly awe-struck. "Got it, Sir. Are we going back to school now?"
He's about to say yes when he catches sight of a familiar sign just a little ways up the street.
"Not just yet," Harry says. "How'd you feel about ice cream?"
"I feel pretty good about ice cream, Sir."
Connor slips his glasses on, and Harry slips into place beside him, leading him up the street towards Florean's. When they get there, Connor proudly reads every single ice cream flavour off the giant board without missing a beat, just because he can. And Harry grins the entire time.
[Word Count: 1,730]