Robin didn't care for quidditch. He was more of a wizard's chess sort of person, or perhaps on a slow day, gobstones. He liked taking his time with things, to consider every possible move, to ponder. However, the boys at Beauxbâtons always liked quidditch very much, and so Robin spent an inordinate amount of his time practising his flying skills so that he might fit in. It was a lot of hassle – he was a terrible flyer.
And so it was, when the old man came to the garden gate that fateful day in late July, Robin was the first person to see him. Though he was quite high up at that point, and hidden amongst the treetops to avoid being spied upon by nosy Muggles, Robin got the distinct impression that the old man knew he was there. He flew down immediately, worried that the stranger might tell on him: his mother had warned him many times not to go that high. His feet hit the grass as the old man held the door open for none other than Madame Maxime herself. Robin was very confused, as he was almost certain he wasn't supposed to have any lessons today, but was much too shy to question the headmistress. And so, he simply waved. The headmistress smiled back warmly.
"Ah, Roban –" for that was always how she mispronounced his name in her thick accent, "– I 'ope you are not wasting your 'ole day up in ze sky? You 'ave much work to be getting on weev."
Robin blushed. "Oh – non, not the whole day. Mais je dois pratiquer –"
"Ah, ah, ah!" she interrupted him, crossing the lawn in her dragon-leather boots to wag her finger in his face. "No French today. Our guest speaks English, and so must we."
"Oh. Right." Robin wasn't sure what to say in response that. He was quite used to being the only English person in a five-mile radius, save his mother, and though she had taught him her mother-tongue well, he never spoke it to anyone other than his family. He eyed the stranger with suspicion. "Hullo."
The stranger bowed his head in greeting. "How do you do, Mr Prewett?"
Robin blinked. "How do you know my name?"
"When you get to my age, you tend to know a lot of things."
Robin didn't find that answer satisfactory at all, and as he dismounted from his broom, he gave the stranger a look of great mistrust. The stranger seemed unphased, however, and the gentle glint in his bright blue eyes never wavered. Robin had seen many wizards around and about the school, but none had ever quite dressed like this. The old man was in deep purple robes with stars and moons embroidered into the seams. He also had a long silver beard that he tucked into his belt, something that Robin was surprised Madame Maxime allowed him to get away with. She was always very strict with the dress-code for people who lived in the Palace or its grounds.
Madame Maxime was, in fact, in a very strange mood. When she was tutoring him on how to write and add and recite, she was a force to be reckoned with. But now, when he looked at her, he noticed that an expression of trepidation was etched into her face. She didn't even appear to notice how rude he had just been to their visitor, and simply readjusted her fur coat.
"Petit Roban, where ees your maman?"
This, at last, was something that Robin could confidently identify as being just like normal. "She's in the herb garden – she's making that essence of Murtlap you were asking for, but apparently she need rosemary because rosemary makes it smell nicer…"
But he was barely able to finish his sentence before Madame Maxime had breezed past him towards the arch of roses that blocked off his mother's precious potion materials from his makeshift quidditch pitch (otherwise known as the rest of the garden). The old man remained. Robin couldn't tell if this was better or worse, and he shifted uncomfortably from one food to the other. The stranger smiled comfortingly again.
"That's a very nice broom you have there."
Robin glanced down at his Cleansweep 7. He supposed it was – he hadn't given it much thought. He said so, and the stranger chuckled quietly.
"Not a great quidditch fan then?"
He shook his head. "No – it's just the one my cousins told me to get. I need to get better at flying or I won't be able to join the quidditch team when I start at Beauxbâtons next year. And then - well, then I'll be the least cool person in class."
This seemed to pique the man's interest, and he cocked his head to one side. "You have cousins?"
"Yes, seven of them."
"And are you very close?"
The broom conversation had been alright, but Robin thought once again that things had become very odd all of a sudden. "I guess. I don't see them that often."
In order to discourage the old man from asking anymore questions, Robin decided to start inspecting his broom handle very intently for scuffs. The stranger appeared to grasp the message, as he made no move to break the silence. Fortunately, they didn't have to stay in the awkward situation for much longer before Robin's mother finally emerged.
As far as Robin was concerned, at the tender age of eleven and three months, his mother looked much as she always had done. Her hair was tied back into its usual messy bun, and she was wearing a high-necked, corseted black dress which resembled most of her wardrobe. Robin often thought it made her look like an Edwardian mourner, and certainly she was very imposing as she strode across the lawn towards them, a shadowy pillar that stood out amongst the colourful French countryside. But to Robin, it was much of a muchness. Though he appreciated his mother was a very intimidating Potions Master, he was quite immune to the impression she gave, and to him she looked much the same as she ever did.
No, it was the stranger who was shocked by what he saw. It had been eight years since he had last laid eyes on Ms Prewett, and he was saddened, though not necessarily surprised, to note that age had not been kind. Though she was not the skeletal wreck she had been in the weeks post her release from Azkaban, the young woman looked closer to forty than her actual thirty-one years. A certain sallowness in the cheeks had developed, making her dark brown eyes look oddly sunken, and there was a permanent frown between her eyebrows. The resemblance to Molly Weasley, though still present, had significantly diminished, and in its place was an unfortunate haughty expression.
Robin realised that his mother did not seem particularly pleased to see their visitor either, and she eyed the old man rather coolly from where she now stood a few metres away. At first it seemed like no one would say anything, but then, rather abruptly, his mother managed, "Robin, go inside please."
Robin, who had not yet managed to work out a single thing that was going on, was outraged. "But mum, I –"
"Roban, do not be deefficult!" said Madame Maxime crossly. Robin jumped, not expecting the admonishment to come from that direction. "Eef your mozer says you need to go inside, zen you should listen!"
In a very odd moment of desperation, Robin hoped that perhaps the old man might step in – but he was too busy staring at Ms Prewett with a calculating gaze. With great resentment, Robin traipsed his way back to their cottage, determined to try and lip-read what he could of the conversation through his bedroom window.
None of the adults moved an inch until the little boy was safely in the remit of the house. Then, it would be fair to say, all hell broke loose.
"How dare you come to my house!" Rose hissed, her face turning blotchy and red with fury. "How dare you. And you!" She turned to Madame Maxime. "You promised me!"
The headmistress had the decency to look very ashamed. "Rose, I am sorry, but eet really deed sound serious –"
"I gave Maxime very little choice in the matter," said Dumbledore humbly, cutting his friend off before she could dig herself further into a hole, "so I'm afraid all your anger should be directed at me."
"Well I can assure you that won't be too much trouble!"
She swivelled on her heel and stormed back towards the herb garden. Dumbledore called after her.
"Rose, I would not come if it were not of the utmost importance!"
"Shove it up your –"
The last word was lost in the large crash caused by Rose kicking a metal watering can into the shed in a fit of fury. She disappeared beyond the trellis, leaving the two school masters to look at each other wearily. Robin heard the noise as he clambered up the stairs, but by the time he reached his bedroom window, there was nothing to be seen (much to his chagrin).
"I warned you zat she would be like zees…" Madame Maxime said quietly, as she righted the watering can with a flick of her wand. "I do not understand why you will not leave 'er alone. 'Ave you all not done enough?"
Dumbledore sighed. "My dear Maxime, if I thought it was for the best, I would."
Maxime – who thought it certainly was for the best – said nothing more on the matter. "Well I 'ope you don't zink zat I am going to get 'er back."
Taking the hint, Dumbledore set off towards the herb garden on his own. As he did so, he glanced up at the window of the cottage to see the small face of Robin staring back at him. He lowered his half-moon spectacles in wry amusement, and the face immediately dropped below the sill, so that all that remained visible were some auburn curls. For a second Dumbledore worried that perhaps the child might have overheard – but after resting his hand lightly on the cottage wall, he ascertained that there was a powerful muffling spell over the whole building. It had been frequent practice for Order members to do just this during the war to protect their homes, and the headmaster supposed that old habits did not die easy. With steely resolution, he stepped through the trellis himself.
He was surprised to note that Ms Prewett was not there. Her basket of rosemary had been discarded next to the planter where she had been informed of her visitor, and Dumbledore could see that she had been in such a rush that she had left her sheers in the soil. Upon quick investigation, he discovered a stable door nearby that had been left ajar. It led to the kitchen, where he found a distraught Ms Prewett scrubbing a dirty pan with steel wool as though her life depended on it. Her magic was rushing from her hands into the metal, and both the pan and the wool were glowing red. It was mildly comforting for Dumbledore to see that, despite the physical changes, her fierce temper remained. It reminded him that the little girl he had spent seven years reprimanding was still in there somewhere.
She didn't acknowledge him when he stepped into the kitchen. This did not worry Dumbledore, and he took the time to take in his surroundings. It was a quaint little room, filled with dried flowers and other plants used for potion brewing and healing. They were all hanging from what he assumed had intended to be a saucepan rack, now repurposed. It gave the space a rich smell, and the wood-oven in the corner gave it smoky undertones, though it was burning low on such a sunny day. He was intrigued to discover that most of the décor was of the knickknack variety – there was a novelty mug collection, and a stack of different sized cauldrons in the corner. There were only three pictures, all on the fridge: one of Robin a few years ago, sitting under the Christmas tree in the Beauxbâtons grand hall; one of Robin as a two-year-old, with jam all over his face; and the most recent, a family portrait of the Prewetts and the Weasleys from the Easter holidays, taken in the garden. It was a good sign, indicating that Rose had not completely forgotten about her old life in Britain, but Dumbledore was equally dismayed to realise that there was not a single picture of the Potters. He consoled himself with the idea that perhaps there were more photographs elsewhere, but somehow he didn't quite believe it was true. He had expected no record of Black, of course – but no Lily and James? It didn't bode well for the conversation they were about to have. Not even a picture of –
"I would appreciate it if you would just tell me what you want so we can get this over with."
Dumbledore straightened his back as he finished crouching to inspect the youngest Weasley son's pet rat in the photograph. "I came to deliver this."
He reached into his robe pocket and produced a letter. It was creamy parchment, and the address on the front read in emerald-green ink:
Mr Christopher Prewett,
Chalet des plantes,
Palais de Beauxbâtons,
Les Pyrénées,
France.
Rose gave the letter a withering look. She didn't need to see the wax seal on the reverse to know what it was. "Keep it. My son won't be attending your school as long as I'm still breathing. Now if that's all –"
"I think," Dumbledore interrupted calmly, determined not to let her brush him of so easily, "that you realise this isn't all I came to say."
He took her pointed silence as an invitation to continue, well aware that he would get no better opportunity.
"I assume it will come as no shock to you that you son isn't the only child who has been invited to start at Hogwarts this year," he said as he pinned Robin's acceptance letter to the fridge using a spare magnet. She could revisit it when she was less enraged.
"If you're not taking on more than one student in a year, then I'd advise you to reconsider your business plan," she retorted icily. He chuckled, which he knew would only further irritate her.
"Astute as ever. But I was referring to one child in particular."
She paused in her scouring to take a deep breath, before continuing.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
They were wasting time. "I am talking about Harry Potter."
The temperature in the room may as well have dropped five degrees. When Rose eventually responded, it was in a stony voice. "And why would that be of interest to me?"
It was not the reply that Dumbledore had been hoping for, though he aptly carried on as though it was of no surprise. "Forgive me if I am wrong, but are you not his godmother?"
She set the pan onto the drying rack with a little more force than was necessary before taking up a dirty plate. "That depends on who you ask."
The retort confused Dumbledore. For a rare moment he doubted himself – had his source been wrong? Had it been Marlene McKinnon? Mary MacDonald perhaps? He felt absent-mindedly for the other letter in his pocket, the one he was yet to give, as though seeking reassurance. No, it was definitely Rose. She and Lily had been inseparable. It could be no one else. Remus would surely have known. So what did she mean?
"I'm asking you."
She let out an empty chuckle, that more closely resembled an exhalation. "Well then I'm afraid you're in the wrong place. I gave up any rights I had to being in Harry's life ten years ago."
"Oh really?" This was going to be more complicated then he had anticipated. "May I ask why, exactly?"
"I wasn't exactly given a choice," she muttered through gritted teeth. The plate, Dumbledore noticed, was sparkling clean already, though she continued to scrub. He frowned.
"If you're referring to my leaving Harry with his aunt," he said gravely, "I believe I explained to you quite clearly at the time why that was so important, and it does nothing to diminish your relationship with the boy –"
"I'm not talking about that."
Dumbledore was unusually at a loss. Molly and Arthur had been reticent to talk about Rose to him, and had warned him she might not be receptive to the cause, but they had said nothing of this concerning development. Severus, too, never mentioned anything of the sort, though it was fair to say that the two had not been interested in speaking to one another for many years. If Remus had known something, he hadn't admitted to it.
He decided to be honest. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to, but allow me to reassure you that I, and many others, consider you to be a valuable figure in Harry's life."
He expected another snippy reply, but she was oddly quiet as she set the plate aside and began to dry her hands. It was not exactly promising, but it was a start, and he watched her carefully as she looked at him for the first time since he had entered her house.
"I'm going to have a cup of tea, will you have some?" she asked abruptly.
Dumbledore inclined his head to indicate that he would indeed, and so she flicked her hand. The kettle moved to the sink, where it filled itself with water and then settled above the fire. At the same time, the two chairs at the kitchen table pulled themselves back, inviting the old headmaster to take a seat. He did so, and after faffing about for a short while preparing a milk jug and sugar bowl, Rose did too. Only a metre or so away from him now, Dumbledore could see in greater detail the frown lines that had been etched into her face much too soon.
They sat in a not unawkward silence for a little while longer, until the kettle whistled indignantly and it was summoned to the table, where it emptied its contents into a teapot. They made themselves a cup each, though Dumbledore noticed that the tea that came when Rose poured the teapot was fruity and herbal, whereas for him it was rich and sweet. It appeared the milk and sugar was entirely for show.
After a deep sip, she said firmly, "What is it that you want?"
It was clear that in order to have a fighting chance at convincing her, he would have to be as forthright as possible, and so he said, very bluntly, "I want your son to attend Hogwarts."
"Well, I'm afraid that's out of the question." She was not snapping anymore – she seemed to have run out of energy to be angry. She was simply brusque. "Beauxbâtons is our home now, and I won't allow him to be far from me. It's not safe."
Dumbledore nodded. "Precisely. And that is precisely why Robin must come to Hogwarts – so that you can be together."
For the first time in their meeting, it was Rose who was confused. Her head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes at her old headmaster. "I don't follow."
"Ah, well you see, Rose, the reason that I must have Robin attend Hogwarts is because I need you to agree to come back."
She almost spat out her tea. When she had recovered, she stared at him as though he had grown another head. "I'm sorry?"
"I need you to come back to Hogwarts."
"For what purpose?"
"Madame Pomfrey is retiring, and I find myself in need of a new nurse."
She shook her head in disbelief as she mopped up the spilt tea from the table. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I have no interest in returning to Britain. There are plenty of qualified healers in the UK, I suggest you ask one of them."
"None as qualified as you."
"Exactly," she huffed. "Wouldn't you say I'm a little over-qualified? What on earth could possess me to leave my job here as Potions Master for a role that doesn't even involve teaching?"
For the first time, Dumbledore had seen a complaint coming. "Yes, I can understand your concern. If the Potions Master role at Hogwarts was empty, I would offer it to you, but alas it's been filled for many years now, as I'm sure you're aware."
He expected her to grimace at the mention of Severus, but her expression did not change. Perhaps she did not know.
"Well then there's no incentive for me to come and work for you."
"Oh, but there is."
He reached into his pocket, and produced a small photograph. It was a Muggle one, taken by Arabella Figg when she had last had Harry at her house. The young boy was smiling awkwardly at the camera as he pretended to enjoy holding up one of Arabella's many cats so she could get a better picture. Had the boy known that the whole thing had been a ruse so that Mrs Figg might pass on the photo to Dumbledore, he would have been even more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, the photograph served its purpose – Harry's resemblance to James was striking. The headmaster knew, as he passed it to Rose and she looked upon it, that the young woman noticed too. Her gaze immediately softened, and she bit her lip ever so slightly.
"I intend for him to begin in September, if I can ever get one of our letters past the Dursleys."
For the first time, a wry expression graced Rose's face. "I suppose they're still not too fond of magic."
Dumbledore sighed. "Quite. In fact, Harry has no idea that he's even a wizard."
This made his companion look up again. "What do you mean no idea?"
"I mean just that. I'm afraid that Vernon and Petunia decided it would be prudent to keep everything magical from him. It's been quite the struggle, though I've sent Hagrid to tell the boy himself."
"Is that…" Rose hesitated as she tried to digest everything that she was being told. "Is that wise? Hagrid isn't exactly known for his subtlety…"
Dumbledore couldn't help but chuckle at this. Professor McGonagall and Rose Prewett had never been particularly on board with one another, and yet he often noticed a similarity. Ten years ago, Minerva had said the same thing almost word for word. Rose barely registered his laugh, however, too focused on the photograph. It seemed a good time to push the point home.
"Be that as it may, he will be there for Harry. And hopefully, when he arrives at Hogwarts, there will be others who are there for him too…"
Perhaps it was a little heavy-handed, but it seemed to do the trick. Rose frowned. For a while she said nothing, but then:
"I swore I would never go back."
It was said very timidly in comparison to her tone from even just a few moments ago, and Dumbledore sensed they were reaching the heart of the problem now.
"I know you did, and I can hardly blame you – but Rose, that was eight years ago. Things have moved on, and people have started to forget. I would be surprised if any of the students even knew your name anymore. And there is nowhere safer than Hogwarts for you and your son."
He was convincing her, he knew. He considered going in for the kill, but changed his mind. It was best to let her come to the conclusion on her own. Throughout the conversation he had been sipping steadily at his tea, and now he finished the last mouthful. When he was done, Rose tried to hand the photograph back to him, but he resisted.
"No, no, you keep it. I will leave you to mull things over, though I would appreciate your answer by owl in a week or so."
She nodded thoughtfully, not saying much. It seemed a good time to complete his other mission.
"Before I go," he said, reaching into his pocket to produce the other letter, "I was asked to pass this onto you."
"What is it?" she asked curiously as she took it from him, but then her expression soured when she saw the handwriting in which someone had hastily scribbled Rose. "Oh."
Dumbledore regarded her over the top of his glasses. "You'll understand that whatever is inside of that letter is completely separate from our conversation, and that I have no part in it. I simply went to him for some information on where you might be, and after confessing he had no idea, he asked me to pass this on."
"You didn't tell him where I am, when you found out?"
"No – Arthur and Molly impressed upon me that you preferred to keep it a secret."
It had been a favour for a favour, and it had seemed a little harsh to refuse the request at the time, though Dumbledore was regretting it now. Rose was grinding her teeth, and for a moment the headmaster wondered if he had ruined all his hard work. But then, she set it on the table unopened and smoothed out her brow. "Of course. You can let him know it's been delivered."
Dumbledore nodded. "On that note – I must leave you. I have a long flight home, and as much as I wish I could just apparate across the border, I think the French Minister for Magic might have something to say about that…"
She did not pester him to stay, but nor did she seem relieved at his departure, leading the headmaster to believe that he had made great ground since his arrival. As he made his way to the door, Rose stood and held it open for him. Dumbledore sent her a genuine smile.
"I await your owl."
She smiled back, and though it was hesitant, Dumbledore was confident he would not be disappointed. He stepped outside into the garden, and only turned back to say:
"Oh, and perhaps you could alert your son to the fact that first-year students at Hogwarts aren't allowed brooms – so he may be better off focussing on wizard's chess."
Rose let out a small laugh. "I think that will be music to his ears!"
The headmaster waved, and strolled out to the bottom of the garden, heartened by his success and ready to fill in Madame Maxime. Had he stayed in amongst the herbs a minute longer, he would have caught Ms Prewett throwing the unaddressed letter into the kitchen fire.
