BURNING NEWS
I'm sure you've all noticed, as we have, that our toad-in-residence has been even more irritable and easily set off than normal, and have been asking the question: why? We also wondered this, and did some digging to find out that, though the numbers of students receiving detentions are above average, none have faced the detention which usually results from Umbridge's ire. At first, we wondered if this was merely due to the fact that she tends to save her "special detentions" for cases where she's deeply upset; however, after some investigation we found that some of the detentions served in the past week have been for this type of offense, and still: no quills.
Though we have no exact confirmation, a conversation reportedly overheard between Umbridge and Filch involving a locked office door and something burning has led us to suspect that Umbridge's contract quills are not only unusable, but have in fact been entirely reduced to ash.
/
Andrew nearly laughed aloud at the article in that day's Herald—the writing itself was more informative than funny, but it closed with another mini game drawn by Dean Thomas, this time challenging readers to light an illustrated match and set quills ablaze without burning down the whole room. Down the table, Andrew saw Jack miming the act of striking a match for Miles, explaining the Muggle replacement for Incendio.
Adrian sat down across from him and reached for the Herald, using the code word to get to the hidden message. His brows rose at the title, then sunk in concentration as he read. Finishing, he handed it back to Andrew, making eye contact as he did. Andrew saw his own amusement reflected back, but there was something deeper in Adrian's eyes, a sense of satisfaction.
"Good, yeah?" He asked, trying to gauge Adrian's reaction.
"Definitely—the game's a nice touch. Really brings the story to life." He smiled, and it was one of his old smile, the ones Andrew had barely seen this year but that he knew, that he'd seen time and again over the past seventeen years, and that was the problem. He wanted to be happy at this glimpse of old-Adrian, but all he felt was a sinking stomach, because this was the I-did-something-clever-and-got-away-with-it smile.
"Must have been dangerous, if it did happen. Breaking into Umbridge's office." It wasn't a question, but it hung heavily in the air between them regardless. Adrian's smile only grew.
"Must have been—they got away though, whoever it was. So I'd say the danger was worth it."
"I guess it was," Andrew agreed, unsure of what else to say. He didn't want to confront his friend at all, but especially not when he wasn't sure he was right.
Aren't you? A voice in his head asked.
No! He argued back. There's no way to know for sure, and it would be wrong to assume…well, anything.
"All good, mate?" Adrian asked, looking concerned—and wasn't that ironic, in light of Andrew's suspicions. Now, however, here at the breakfast table, wasn't the time to get into things.
"Yeah," Andrew said, managing a smile. "Just thinking about lessons this week—I've got a meeting tonight, for Transfiguration help." Adrian's brows rose—Andrew was by no means the best in the year at Transfiguration, but his work wasn't poor enough to warrant extra classes either. Thankfully, however, he didn't question it, instead picking up the Herald once more, this time scanning through the official articles before pulling out a quill and beginning to fill out the crossword.
Andrew took a piece of toast from the center of the table and, after a generous topping of jam, began to eat, trying to convince himself that everything was normal—that, at least, was something he was good at pretending.
/
"You will need to recall who you are if you wish to remain yourself in the transformation—not only your body, but your mind. And for that, you will need to focus." Andrew winced at this last word, hastily scribbling down the key points the Professor had spoken of.
"I think you will find, Mr. Fawley, that private lessons are only helpful to a student who pays attention to their content."
"I know, it's just—that is…" Andrew's justification fell off before it began, and he chose instead a simple "Sorry, Professor—I'm listening now."
"I think we've done quite enough—you'll need to finish Halfstep's book before we can discuss the theory. Have a cup of tea while you figure out any questions you need to ask before you go." She waved her wand and a tea service floated over to the table, setting to action as soon as it landed. Andrew scanned through the notes he'd made, thorough up until the final few minutes.
"I think I've got most of it—Halfstep was clearer in this section." He took the teacup that had marched its way in front of him, sipping it as he continued to read.
"You said I need to focus on body and mind—what about heart or—or soul—or whatever you'd call it." McGonagall looked vaguely approving, and Andrew felt a bit of pride, as though he'd somehow made up for his earlier error.
"In my studies, I often called it the self. That is a separate case—while your body will change and even your mind alter, slightly, becoming more…streamlined, I suppose you could say. Your self, however, remains constant. It will be your anchor when transforming—that is in Halfstep's final chapter."
"Got it—I think that's all, really, except…" he paused, then hastily pressed on before he could second-guess his instinct. "I do have another question—just…not related to animagi." She nodded for him to continue, sipping her own tea. "I…I need to have a conversation with someone—a friend. And I've needed to for a while, but I've just kept telling myself that everything will work itself out and it will be okay, but I think—I think it's getting worse, but I can't—I don't…" he trailed off helplessly, and the office was nearly silent for a few moments, the only noise coming from the scratch of a quill on a stack of parchment behind the Professor, grading second-year transfiguration quizzes. Finally, McGonagall gently pushed her mug away from her, looking Andrew in the eye.
"I have been head of Gryffindor house for many years, now. In that time, I have learned much about what it means to represent the traits that house takes pride in—boldness, chivalry, nerve. Any one of those lessons might be used each day, Mr. Fawley, but that which I find myself learning again and again is that bravery rarely means taking great chances or seeking glory; it is found rather more often in the choices we make every day, and in taking the risk of caring enough about the world and the people around us to try to make it and them better."
"And does it ever get easier—making those choices?"
"Every time," she told him, her eyes gentle in a a way he hadn't seen before. "Because every time, you can turn back on the times before, and get that bravery from all the choices you've already made."
"And if it doesn't go well? If I make a choice and it still doesn't make things better?"
"Then you make the bravest choice of them all—to go on trying, no matter your success."
/
"Thanks for coming, all of you—I know we're all busy with NEWTs and applications and, well, everything else."
George snorted. "Sure, we're busy—this coming from Head Boy and Quidditch Captain Diggory."
"Well I'm busy," Jack put in. "I'm supposed to be doing rounds right now, as you both know." He nodded to Cedric and Corrie at this statement.
"Yes, well—it was how we could be sure no one would turn us in."
"Devious—I support it," Fred put in.
"You two have had a bad influence on him," Corrie told the twins in a tone suggesting it was a complement. Fred waved her off while George put on a face of exaggerated innocence which even a mountain troll would've been able to see through.
"Yes, yes—anyway, I asked you all to meet because I've been thinking about something—a group. Before Professor Dumbledore left, he told me about the group that's been fighting You-Know-Who and his supporters. He—well—he asked me to join, and I told him no."
Corrie's surprised "You told him no?" Overlapped with the George's outraged "We had to beg our way into the Order!"
"That was more on account of Mum, though," Fred pointed out reasonably.
"But you said no?" Jack prompted.
"Not that I don't agree with their goal—" Cedric quickly defended himself. "It's just that I think someone has to look out for everyone else, you know? Not just to try to uncover the whole operation or—or kill You-Know-Who, but help the kids and the people living normal lives in the Wizarding World."
"Like the DA?" Corrie asked, and Cedric paused to consider.
"Yes—and no. The DA has the right perspective. But as much as the name says it's an army, we all know it isn't. It's a school, a place to learn. What I have in mind is something different: people who are ready, and who are willing. And I wanted to talk to you first because I trust you all. I want your thoughts."
"I think," Jack said slowly, "that you're right—that someone needs to think about the ordinary people."
"I don't know what we'd do for now, " Corrie said thoughtfully. "With limited official power, You-Know-Who has been using surprise, mostly. There aren't many actual actions we could take—still, it wouldn't hurt to be on guard."
"The Hogwarts Guard—catchy," George put in, breaking away from the whispered conversation he and Fred had been having.
"We, however, will shortly be forming our own offshoot—the Diagon Alley Guard, you could call us."
"Shortly as in…" Jack asked.
"We haven't decided yet, officially—sometime in the next few weeks, once we have all the materials together."
Cedric was pretty sure he should feel concerned about the havoc the twins would shortly be wreaking on the school he was, after all, supposed to be helping maintain order in, but he the thought of Dolores Umbridge trying to stop them from an elaborate getaway brought a smile to his face unbidden.
"We have premises, and enough material to open a shop—if we continue our campaign for the little man after Hogwarts, there's a lovely back room that could be used for meetings."
They all fell silent at this, realizing the weight of what they were saying, what they were promising, what it would mean to live with a guard up to danger, ready to leap into action if it meant defending the people who needed them.
We should be talking about jobs and Quidditch and what NEWTs we're worried about, Cedric thought, we're just kids—and he thought about Cassius Warrington, dying before his seventh year, and the DA teaching third years to defend themselves and running an underground paper, and he felt how unfair it was to live in a world that forced them to choose sides in a war another generation had begun.
All the students at Hogwarts—they're all just kids, he thought, and remembered why he wanted this, what made it worthwhile.
"Patty would join us," Jack put in, breaking the silence.
"Kim too," Corrie added. "And Marietta and Cho, once they're out too."
"We're to think of the Gryffindors, then? Lee, of course—and Angelina and Alicia."
"And Katie," George added, "Though she's got another year, same as Marietta and Cho."
"Gil might," Cedric said thoughtfully—"Any more of your lot, Jack?" Jack hesitated before answering, looking conflicted.
"Andrew would join," he finally said. "And Miles and Rissa."
"That's great," Cedric said quickly—a little too quickly, maybe. "We'll talk to them, then."
"The Hogwarts Guard—shame having fun badges like the Inquisitorial Squad would spoil the secret," Fred mused. "They'd be so fun to imitate."
/
If I was meant to be brave, Andrew thought, the Sorting Hat should have put me in Gryffindor.
It wasn't the first time he'd had the thought in the past three weeks, arguing with Minerva McGonagall's voice and avoiding talking about it in their meetings—she knew he hadn't done it, he could tell, even though she didn't know what it was.
It was only the two of them in the dorm, Jack off working on a group presentation and the other Slytherins that usually popped in and out all spending the day somewhere else. Pelbrige—who was somehow denser than Halfstep—swam in front of Andrew's eyes as he tried to push his thoughts down and focus on the theory of animagus transformation.
The lump of thoughts, however, was nothing if not persistent, and Andrew finally gave in.
"Adrian—" Adrian looked up at him, pausing his own reading. "Are you—okay?"
"I can't really complain," Adrian answered, looking slightly puzzled. "Runes homework hasn't gotten the better of me quite yet."
The old Adrian was there again in that last comment, like he had been weeks ago, and Andrew remembered why this all mattered so much—why he cared enough to ask and even to sound like an idiot.
"Yeah, good—it's just…I was sort of thinking of a bigger scale than Runes. It's just…did you burn the quills?" He blurted out, needing suddenly, more than anything, to know the truth of it.
"Yes," Adrian said simply—calmly, as though it didn't matter at all, hadn't been a decision that had rocked the school.
"You—if they'd caught you, you would've been kicked out!"
"I had it under control, Andrew." A note of annoyance slipped into Adrian's tone for the first time, and Andrew almost stopped, wanted to stop—but he didn't, couldn't, because he could see the bigger picture, that it would only take one misstep, one toe outside the line when it was Dolores Umbridge and not Albus Dumbledore doling out punishments, as it had been last time.
"You had it under control this time—but which time will it be? It could've been the fighting, any of it—hell, it could have been the decrees and the paint!" Surprise passed over Adrian's features, and Andrew resisted an urge to roll his eyes—of course he knew about the paint, how could he not, when Adrian had tested that same spell on his bed third year?
"It's like you've stopped thinking about things—you're just going and doing whatever your impulse is without even considering what could happen to you because of it—you never used to do that—"
"And you always did, and look at you now," Adrian cut in, "I could just as easily ask what happened to you, tiptoeing around your parents all summer and then asking McGonagall for help—"
"What, you're upset that I started thinking before I acted?" Andrew snapped—"I grew up, Adrian."
"So did I," Adrian fired back. "I learned that you can't just wait for things to happen—I wasn't willing to just sit around doing nothing while my parents talked about how great Lord Voldemort is." His voice held a tone of finality beneath the anger, echoed as he shut the drapes of his bed with a flick of his wand.
Andrew realized vaguely that he was clutching Pelbrige's book so hard his knuckles had turned white, and he released it, letting it fall to his lap with a soft thump as he laid back, raising his hands to cover his face
"And if it doesn't go well?"—He heard himself, three weeks ago, asking—"If I make a choice and it still doesn't make things better?"
And here he was, living that reality.
Maybe it was a sign. Slytherins weren't meant to be brave; they were meant to be ambitious and clever and resourceful. Cunning, proud. Determined.
He rested on the last for a moment.
Andrew Fawley was not engineered to be brave. It was not a trait he claimed to possess in any great measure—or even any small measure.
But, he thought, perhaps, in certain situations, determination wasn't so different from bravery after all. Perhaps, little bravery though he had, he was wired to do that bravest choice of all—"To go on trying, no matter your success."
Because, in spite of everything that was broken, he wasn't ready to give up on the world, and he certainly wasn't ready to give up on the people in it.