CHAPTER TWO – THE CURIOUS BIRD
It was winking at her. She was almost sure of it, though the feathers around its eyes and her short-sightedness made it hard for her to tell. For most of the time, it was simply sat on its perch, preening itself and giving her not the slightest bit of notice. But every now and again, when the mood struck it, it would glance up and stare at her. And then – she was certain – wink. It was the most bizarre bird she had ever laid eyes upon.
"Rose, are you even listening?"
She jolted at the sound of her father's voice, terse and out of place in the otherwise tranquil office. He was flushed, and irritated. "Oh, uh – no, sorry."
She thought that he might blow a gasket, so prominent was the vein in his forehead. "I come all the way out here to Scotland – using one of my sick days, may I add – to try and sort this whole situation out for you, and you can't even grant me the respect of paying attention?"
Rose flinched. She didn't like her father when he was like this. He spent too much time in the Wizengamot, dealing with dangerous criminals, and sometimes he forgot that Rose wasn't one of them. Thankfully, Professor Dumbledore stepped in.
"My apologies, Mr Prewett – Fawkes can be quite distracting for some people. Miss Prewett, should I repeat the question?"
Rose nodded sheepishly. The headmaster merely smiled gently at her from across his desk, fingers resting against each other, propping up his chin as he watched her from behind familiar half-moon spectacles. He was a comforting presence, but he still rather set Rose on edge. Until this moment, she had never even spoken to him.
"I was asking whether you felt uncomfortable in Slytherin?"
It was a difficult question. She knew what her father wanted her to say: yes, every day, every second in the common room is like torture. However, she felt that wouldn't quite be fair. She had always been reasonably happy in her house, making mischief with Delilah. Yelena had always been a bit of a snob – and Dolores was someone who Rose could go the rest of her life without seeing and not care one iota – but Leah was sweet enough. All in all, she felt very tolerated – even, one might hesitate to say it, rather welcome. That is, until a few months ago. Since then, everything had become rather pants.
None of these sentiments she felt eloquent enough to express properly, and so she simply said lamely, "I don't know."
Her father rolled his eyes. "Of course she does! She's just nervous because you're asking her to say all this in front of a damned panel!"
He was being too blunt, and his tone was causing discomfort to everyone present, but he did somewhat have a point. It was rather intimidating to look ahead and see not just her headmaster, but also the deputy headmistress and her head of house. Slughorn wasn't too bad, but McGonagall always looked at Rose as though she were a great disappointment. Perhaps she, like Mr Prewett, had expected Rose to be sorted into Gryffindor. Or, perhaps, she somehow knew that Delilah almost exclusively referred to her as 'the old windbag'.
"Why on earth would she be happy in Slytherin?" Mr Prewett continued, as though his daughter wasn't there. "Her whole family is in Gryffindor – it's where she belongs. I put up with the mistake when it wasn't causing any problems, but now that Molly has married into the Weasley family, Rose is being targeted and bullied by her peers, and the school should be doing something to ensure her safety!"
"Excuse me," interrupted Slughorn, for the first time during the meeting. He seemed rather miffed at the constant attacks on his house – his walrus moustache was twitching. "I hate to butt in, but am I wrong in thinking that Rose's mother was, in fact, from Slytherin? A Greengrass, wasn't she?"
Rose did not know this, and it took her by surprise. She glanced over to her father, and Mr Prewett bristled. "Do not bring my wife into this!"
"Thank you, Horace," said Dumbledore firmly, wishing to avoid a scene. "Though interesting, I think what we're actually focussing on here is not whether or not Rose should have been placed in Slytherin, but whether or not she should be moved, am I correct?"
Mr Prewett clearly thought that Rose being sorted into Slytherin in the first place was tantamount to a crime, but was a crafty man who knew when to choose his battles. "Quite correct. My daughter has already been made the target of a campaign to isolate her from all of her peers, which makes her being moved to Gryffindor of paramount importance. It's the only chance she has of rebuilding her social circles and starting afresh."
It was Professor McGonagall's turn to interject. "Headmaster, may I?"
Dumbledore indicated through an inclination of the head that she may. She set down her notepad and readjusted her square-rimmed glasses, focussing her stern gaze on Rose's father.
"Mr Prewett – forgive me if this seems harsh, but I would point out that nothing is preventing your daughter from making new friends in other houses now, or has ever. For the first few years in her Hogwarts career, it seems that Miss Prewett was quite content with the company of Miss Malfoy and Miss Dolohov. It is unfortunate, certainly, that these two young ladies would abandon Miss Prewett on the basis of her sister's marriage, but this is surely something that your daughter would have expected? The Malfoy and Dolohov families have made their opinions on the issue of blood purity very clear, and I would be surprised if Miss Prewett were to say now that she had no idea of these beliefs when these friendships were formed. If she accepted Miss Malfoy and Miss Dolohov with this in mind before, surely she cannot turn around and declare them unreasonable now that their beliefs have directly impacted her?"
It was all true, and it was precisely the reason why Rose had not wanted to bring the topic up to Hogwarts in the first place. Though she never would have condoned Delilah and Yelena's behaviour, she had also never seen fit to step in and defend people like poor Leah, who as a muggle-born suffered the brunt of their discrimination. As McGonagall rightly ascertained, she had known Molly's marriage to Arthur would result in ostracization and had thus hoped strongly against it. She had no one to blame for her situation but herself. She looked, ashamed, to the ground.
It seemed Mr Prewett had no argument in response to that, though he continued to bluster on rather ineffectually. Dumbledore watched him carefully for a few moments before saying, very calmly, "Perhaps, Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn, you might accompany Mr Prewett to the Slytherin common room? I think it would be good for him to see that they are just as well-kept and comfortable as any other house, to soothe his nerves."
They all knew the real reason that Dumbledore had suggested this – he wanted to speak to Rose alone. Rose very much feared such a conversation, and prayed that her father would protest. Unfortunately, there was something about Professor Dumbledore that negated any sort of argument, and with much huffing and puffing, Mr Prewett allowed himself to be escorted from the headmaster's office.
With him gone, the room was uncomfortably silent. Unable to look Dumbledore in the eye, Rose amused herself by once again turning her attention to the strange bird in the corner of the room. It regarded her in return, and chirped softly. She smiled without thinking.
"Rather charming, isn't he?"
He must have noticed her grinning. Rose swallowed dryly, unsure of how to respond. "Yes, I suppose."
She slouched slightly in her chair, in an unconscious attempt to make herself shrink from view. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind. He chirped back at the bird, something which was so out of his usual imposing persona that it threw Rose off. He clearly cared for the creature very much. Rose struggled to remember what its name had been. Flame…? Fawn…?
"His name was Fawkes, in case you didn't catch it," said Dumbledore, causing Rose to wonder if he could perhaps read minds. She felt compelled to reply.
"Is it – is it a falcon?"
It was the first time in the entire meeting that the headmaster chuckled. "Alas, I'm afraid not! A falcon would be much more exciting to birdwatchers everywhere. I'm afraid Fawkes is a lowly Phoenix."
Rose blushed, even though her headmaster was trying to be kind. She felt that, as a soon-to-be third year student taking up Care of Magical Creatures, that she should already know this, especially as her wand had a phoenix-feather core. To be fair, she may have done had she picked up a textbook other than her potions manual in the weeks since she had dragged her father to Diagon Alley.
She was worried about what exactly she should say next, but luckily for her, Fawkes flew over to them, distracting them both. He strutted over to Rose's side of the desk, and stretched out his neck, as though looking to be pet. Receiving the hint, she leant over towards him and gave his neck a gentle stroke, which he appeared to enjoy very much. His feathers shivered slightly as he rubbed up against her palms, chirping and whistling as he did so. Dumbledore watched them both with something close to surprise.
Rose panicked slightly. "Oh – I'm sorry – I should have asked –"
"No, it's no bother." Certainly, he made no move to separate her from the phoenix, and simply leant back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "It's just unusual behaviour for him to demonstrate."
Rose wasn't sure what to make of that, so she just continued to pet the animal for a few more minutes, until Dumbledore asked the extremely odd question – "Pardon me Miss Prewett, but may I see your hands?"
It confused her greatly, but she tentatively stretched them out to him. Fawkes seemed rather miffed, and continued to half-heartedly nuzzle against her arm. With a very delicate touch, the Professor brough Rose's hands up to his glasses and inspected them, as though he were looking for something in the lines on her palms. It was a few seconds before he spoke again.
"Professor Slughorn tells me you have a propensity for potion-making."
Rose didn't know exactly what 'propensity' meant, but she decided that it probably meant 'talent'. "Well – it's my favourite subject."
"Interesting…" He peered at her over the rim of his spectacles. "And you're very good at Herbology as well, if I'm correct?"
"Yes, I suppose I am."
He clucked in a manner oddly similar to Fawkes, though it was gentler. "I hope you will forgive me saying, however, that perhaps you are less strong with regards to practical magic."
She thought about her lessons in her first two years at Hogwarts. Aside from Potions and Herbology, she was generally competent in Astronomy and History of Magic. Defence Against the Dark Arts she often did alright in as well, though she was much better at identifying and discussing dark magic than she actually was at dealing with it. This wasn't to say she was bad at Charms and Transfiguration per se – she just certainly wasn't good. She bumbled around the middle of the group, too hardworking to hit the bottom, but lacking the natural talent it took to get to the top. She conceded, therefore, that Dumbledore was probably right, and she said so out loud.
He nodded in consideration, as he let go of her hands and allowed her to pull back to her seat. "Well, no matter. We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Though have you perhaps considered wandless magic?"
Rose blinked. "No, I uh, don't think so."
She had never been particularly attached to her wand. It was Laurel and 14¾ inches. It was exceptionally pretty, and unfailingly loyal to her, but using it felt like swimming with armbands. She felt restrained – she wanted to feel the water on her skin.
Dumbledore was still nodding. "Well, I may suggest to Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick, with your consent of course, to let you try it. I have a feeling it may help."
Rose felt too awkward to say anything, so she went back to petting Fawkes, who shivered happily.
"What courses have you chosen for this year?"
This wasn't a difficult question at all, as Rose had been obsessing over her new subjects since she'd selected them.
"Care of Magical Creatures, Ancient Runes, and Art."
"Ah, brilliant choices, if I may say!" he said, approvingly. Rose felt a swell of pride, though she new it was foolish. "You'll excel at those, I'm sure."
He was, she concluded firmly as she gave Fawkes feathers a gentle ruffle, a very nice man indeed. She didn't know why she'd ever been frightened of him, and even less why Delilah and Yelena referred to him as a wrinkled old prune. Her father had told her that Art was a ridiculous subject to take, and that everyone used photographs these days anyway! But here was the most prominent wizard of their time telling her that she was exactly where she ought to be, and it made her feel quite validated. It did, however, remind her of another question she had been wanting to ask for quite some time.
"Professor Dumbledore, sir?"
"Mm?" She thought he might have turned his attention to something else in the silence, but when she glanced up, his focus was still firmly on her.
"Do you think I belong in Slytherin?"
She thought that he might blow her off with some pleasantry or another, but instead he sat back in his chair and considered the question. Then he said, with great gravity. "I believe so."
Something washed over her, though she wasn't sure exactly what it was. Relief? Before she could work it out, the headmaster spoke again.
"And I say this not because I would like to protect the Sorting Hat's reputation for being infallible. I do personally believe that it has been wrong on the odd occasion over the last sixty years that I've been working here."
Rose balked at the word 'sixty', though she tried not to show it. The wry amusement in Dumbledore's eyes suggested she had failed.
"But we are all the shapers of our own destiny, and there are no set rules that dictate how a sorting ceremony should go. Certainly, there have been numerous examples of people breaking family traditions and setting out on their own path. Though –" And here he hesitated slightly, as though wondering whether to carry on before continuing, "– perhaps in this case, it is more about family than it would first appear."
She cocked her head to one side, at first unsure of what he was implying. But then it occurred to her – her mother. Rose knew very little about Mrs Prewett. She had died when Rose was three, and Mr Prewett had barely mentioned her since. All she knew was that she had inherited her round face, red hair, and big brown eyes. All four of the siblings had the same red hair in fact, though only Molly and Rose could claim to resemble their mother. It was something that Rose was oddly proud of. And the fact that they were both Slytherins! Why, they were more similar than Rose had ever thought.
"I think so too."
Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Great minds…" He paused, but then: "I understand things are difficult right now. I also understand how easy it can be to be led astray by our friends."
She blushed. She really didn't want to think about it.
"But I encourage you to see this not as an ending, but as a fresh start. Before you were simply following the flow of the river, but now you have the chance to cut your own path. I'll be quite interested in who you choose to be from now on."
Rose rather liked that analogy, and appreciated the second chance, though she couldn't find the words to say so. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind. They fell into a comfortable silence, and the only sounds that broke it were the crackling of the fire and the satisfied chirrups of the phoenix.
The car ride on the way home was a lot less tranquil. Mr Prewett, after being told rather firmly that Rose would not be switching houses under any circumstances, had been left in a foul mood. The August rain which had suddenly broken and ended the streak of hot weather that had been hanging over the country since early July, did nothing to improve the situation. As it thundered onto the windows of the car – Mr Prewett didn't care for the Knight Bus, and he didn't believe in apparating with anyone under the age of seventeen – Rose thought that each drop was just another nail in her coffin as her father stewed over her 'behaviour'. After twenty minutes of the silent treatment, she thought they had perhaps gotten over the worst of it, until Mr Prewett said, very suddenly:
"They were right, you know."
It was a trap, Rose knew, but she felt compelled to take the bait. "About what?"
"About your so-called 'friends'."
This was something she definitely didn't want to talk about, and so she rested her head against the passenger seat window and refused to say anything, in the hopes that Mr Prewett might magically forget her. It did not work.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yes…"
"Don't take that tone."
Rose didn't think she'd been taking any tone in particular, but decided it was better to keep her mouth shut. Her father raged on.
"I've always thought they were absolutely despicable people, and they've shown themselves up well and truly now. I absolutely forbid you to see them again."
Rose thought this rather a moot point considering that Delilah and Yelena weren't speaking to her anyway, but said nothing.
"By even associating with them, you've embarrassed me, your brothers, and Molly. Thank goodness Arthur was able to see past this whole unfortunate scenario and understand that we don't all go chasing after pureblood fanatics in the Prewett family."
Again, Rose said nothing. She would have apologised if she felt it were any use, but as she had tried a hundred times, she knew that it wasn't. Her father opened his mouth to say something else, but then thought better of it, instead gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white and shaking his head, muttering under his breath. It took a few moments for Rose to register what the words were, but then they reached her: Your mother would be ashamed.
Something in Rose that had been lying dormant suddenly cracked. The car, which had been grumbling on at a steady fifty miles an hour, suddenly ground to a halt, as though the engine had spontaneously disintegrated. (In fact, it had – the pile of ash that had once been an engine had fallen onto the rural and abandoned Devonshire road a few metres behind them). When Mr Prewett turned, bewildered, to look at his daughter in confusion, he saw that she was sat upright at last, hunched forward, her hands grasped around the bottom of her seat. She looked quite deranged, and he felt his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach.
"Rose…?"
"Don't ever say that again."
His breath caught in his throat as she turned to glare at him, her dark eyes shining with contempt. She had been in these sorts of fits before, but never had one been directed at him. But he wouldn't run – she was his daughter, after all, not some schoolchild that she could boss around. He remained firm.
"I'll say it if it's true – I know your mother better than you do."
It had seemed clever at the time, but after seeing the expression on his daughter's face, he regretted it immediately. She looked, for want of a better word, livid. She had gone deathly pale, and for one of the very few times in her life, he could see the resemblance to –
"WHY WOULD I BELIEVE YOU WHEN YOU NEVER EVEN TOLD ME SHE WAS A SLYTHERIN?"
She was shouting now, but that was the last thing on Mr Prewett's mind. Instead, he was watching her right hand as she balled it into a fist, and how as soon as she did so he started to feel the seatbelt constricting around his neck.
"I didn't – I didn't think it was relevant," he gasped between tortuous breaths. The fire in Rose's eyes blazed on.
"RELEVANT? HOW COULD IT NOT BE RELEVANT? YOU MADE ME OUT TO BE A FREAK!"
The lack of airflow was causing him to go a bit foggy, but he still found consciousness enough to internally curse Slughorn. He had known that she was too emotionally unstable to handle the information. With the last breath he could muster, he managed to splutter:
"Rosie – please –"
And all of a sudden, the fire was extinguished. With a frightened yelp, she opened her palm, and the seatbelt went lax, allowing Mr Prewett to fall forwards and begin choking profusely. Rose's breath began to shudder, and she stared at her hand in horror.
"Dad – I'm sorry – I –"
"It's okay Rose, it's –" He coughed some more. His throat felt raw. "It's okay, I was being too harsh, I should never have –"
But before he could finish, he heard the passenger door slam. His head snapped up to see his daughter running, full pelt, towards the forest. With all the energy he could muster, he scrambled over to the passenger side and opened the door again, screaming after her. "ROSE! WAIT!"
But it was too late. In a flash of red hair, she disappeared into the forest.
When she finally regained consciousness, it felt as though a two-tonne bus had been dropped onto her head. She couldn't open her eyes because of how heavy her lids felt, so she ran through her other senses. Her mouth was dry, and her nose stuffed up completely, but she could feel soft sheets against her legs. The last thing she remembered was passing out next to the river, and yet here she was, somehow, in a bed. She wondered who had found her – her father? An old fisherman? Dumbledore?
The real answer was a lot more boring than that, as she found out only a few moments later as the sound of Molly's voice drifted across to her from her bedside.
"I still can't believe you found her."
She sounded like she had been crying, and Arthur didn't sound much better when he replied. "Neither can I – something told me to just follow the roses bushes, and there she was…"
Rose could feel her sister's fingers lace through hers, and how she worried her thumb against Rose's knuckle. "She always was good at Herbology. Ridiculously old magic though, leaving a crumb trail in the wildlife. Who taught her that?"
"I don't think anyone did – unintentional magic manifests very strangely."
Molly held in a sob. "When you came out of the forest carrying her, I thought she – I thought she was –"
"So did I, until I felt her breathing."
They fell into an unhappy silence, and Rose felt incredibly embarrassed. She had never meant to upset poor Arthur and Molly. Mr Prewett had just made her so angry, and after that it was all a blur, as though someone were playing some film at triple speed. She wondered how much trouble she was in, and if Mr Prewett was alright.
"Molly, I really think we should see a healer about this."
"You heard what dad said, Arthur – if we take her in, he'll never speak to us again."
"But Molly, this isn't ordinary accidental magic," her husband insisted, speaking with increased urgency. "The roses, perhaps – but strangling her father? On purpose or not, it's too powerful for a thirteen-year-old witch. If Dumbledore knew –"
"Well, Dumbledore doesn't know, does he!" Molly snapped, gripping her sister's hand even tighter. "And he's not going to know, it's none of his business."
"But what if she hurts someone –"
"She won't! She wouldn't –"
"Molly, she already has –"
"Enough."
The last was a new voice – her father's. It came from across the room, meaning that they were most likely in Rose's bedroom given the position of what must have been the door. Molly and Arthur fell sheepishly quiet as the sound of her Mr Prewett's footsteps approached the bed. He placed a tentative hand on her forehead, to check her temperature.
"Enough. Rose is fine, she just needs rest. She had a blip, like any teenager, but once she gets over this cold, she'll be fine. Likelihood is she'll won't remember any it."
If Arthur disagreed, he was too intimidated to say so. Mr Prewett continued, and Rose noted how hoarse his voice sounded.
"And if she doesn't, well then we're not going to bring it up ever again – and we're certainly not going to mention it to anyone else, not even Fabian or Gideon. Godric knows the poor girl has enough going on at the moment. Understood?"
The newlyweds mumbled a quick agreement, though neither sounded particularly thrilled. Mr Prewett sighed.
"Anyway, I don't want either of you in here disturbing her anymore. Go and get yourselves a cup of tea, I'll sit with her for a while."
"Oh but, Dad, your throat –"
"– is not exactly going to be strained sitting in a room with someone who's asleep, now is it? Off with you."
Molly didn't appear to have anything to say in response to that. The young couple shuffled out of the room, though as soon as they closed the door behind them, Rose could hear the tell-tale hissings of a whispered argument. Meanwhile, her dad sat down in Molly's recently vacated seat. He hesitantly placed his hand on hers for a moment, before deciding against it and instead opening what sounded like a newspaper. With his attention presumably distracted, Rose was able to let out a single tear, which went unseen as it slipped down her cheek.
