***
Dumbledore waved the door shut with his wand. Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a gold,
foil-wrapped package and laid it upon the desk. Christine stared at it, glanced up at Dumbledore,
and looked at the package once again. "May I?" she inquired.
"Please." As she reached for the parcel, Dumbledore used his wand to tap the emerald tea kettle
sitting between them. A sharp whistle emitted from it. "Tea?"
"Yes, please." He poured the steaming liquid into a small mug. She tugged at the ends of the
foil. It rolled open briskly, as if it had a mind of its own--which, Christine mused, it very
well might--revealing..."A piece of cloth?"
"Is that all you see?" He handed her the mug. She sipped slowly, being careful not to burn her
tongue.
"Blackberry! You remembered!" she exclaimed. He smiled, gesturing towards the cloth. Her
attention drawn back to the matter at hand, she stared at the fabric again. "I see...cotton.
No stains or tears...the fabric looks fairly new, really...."
"You're only seeing what your eyes allow you to. Touch it."
Hesitantly, she placed her ring finger upon the edge of the cloth. She let out a small gasp as
gold embroidery spread from her fingertips in a meander pattern. Eyes wide, she withdrew her
hand, and placed her palm flat upon the center of the cloth. Instantaneously, multiple patterns
grew from it--spirals, vines, crosshatches, and others--in every possible orientation and
direction. "What...?"
Instead of answering, Dumbledore took out his wand and placed its tip upon the cloth. An orderly
silver spiral formed about it, moving far more rapidly and with far more precision than Christine's.
He removed the wand, and pressed a corner between his index finger and thumb. A wave leapt from
it, shooting straight towards the center of the cloth until it met one of Christine's vines and
stopped. "This will be of some help to you, I trust."
As usual in her conversations with Dumbledore, it appeared she was missing something. "How,
exactly?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. "You are familiar with the classics, yes?"
Christine nodded. "Tell me about Achilles."
Having absolutely no idea where this was going, she replied slowly, "Achilles was...the epitome
of the classic hero. He embodied the Athenian virtues...helping your friends and hurting your
enemies, being both mighty on the battlefield and lyrical by the fire, seeking immortality
through glory..."
"How did that happen?"
"Immortality? For Achilles, I suppose, it was through Homer, and the poets before him who kept
the story alive."
"So who is stronger--the hero or the poet?"
Christine paused, then let out sharp burst of laughter. "My old philosophy teacher would love
you. Personally, I would propose that neither is stronger than the other. The hero only gains
immortality through the writings of the poet, while the poet can only write epics because of
the stories of the hero."
"So which is stronger--the mind alone, or that in conjunction with a material aid?"
She suddenly realized what he was getting at. "But I can work without a wand, so the analogy
doesn't follow through."
"But can you accomplish the same things? The same spells? Your magical training to this point
has been useful--incredibly so. You have concentration and control that many wizards never learn.
However, you limit yourself." He held up his palm as she opened her mouth to object. She closed
it again, silently. "You have claimed to me before that reliance upon wands constitutes a
weakness. This is true, to some extent; however, there are holes in your method as well. No one,
despite their abilities, is infallible; what happens when your concentration breaks, when you're
distracted? When your emotion interferes with your abilities? The wand and the mind, Ms. Fields,
are codependent."
"And the cloth...."
"As I said, it's an aid. Use the wand and your mind as one to control the pattern. when you can
use both to complete a sufficient pattern, you will understand how important balancing the two
is. Take it with you--it's yours."
"But sir, I couldn't--."
"I'm not the one giving it to you, Ms. Fields. It belonged to your father. You may go now."
She sat back, eyes open in response. "My...."
"Your father. He left it in my care shortly after you were born. Now, I assume you will want to
gather your thoughts before this evening."
The news about the cloth was pushed to the back of her mind in light of more immediate concerns.
"Sir, what am I doing here?" she blurted out.
"We should all ask that question, Ms. Fields." This is like talking to a centaur, she thought.
"However," he continued, "I assume you are referring to your role at Hogwarts?" She nodded.
"Should you wish to continue your magical education here, we can enroll you in classes after
some preliminary testing. For now, we shall have to have your sorting."
"My--sir, are you planning on assigning me to a House?"
"You do wish to be a student here, do you not?"
"Yes, but...I'm twelve years older than your oldest student!"
"I had thought that you, of anyone, would understand that there is far more to be learned
outside the classroom than inside. Besides, you will find your classmates' help invaluable.
If you are to become a student here, you must take the part of one--and that includes living
arrangements, rules, and discipline. Is this acceptable to you?"
Chagrined, she dipped her head. "Yes, sir."
His eyes sparkled as he reached for her hand. Taking it, he said, "There is a little under an
hour till dinner. You will meet Professor McGonagall by the main entrance at that time. She will
show you to the Great Hall for supper and your sorting. Until then, feel free to explore the
grounds. Oh, and Ms. Fields," he started as she turned to leave, "Welcome to Hogwarts."