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Disclaimer: Azkaban, Professor Dumbledore and all references
to Hogwarts are very probably the property of those *delightful* people
at Warner Brothers by way of the inimitable J K Rowling. I am not
making a penny from using them as the backdrop to a story written
for my own amusement and that (hopefully!) of others. So there.
email me
at Sarah.Watkins@onyx.net
Shadow of a Doubt
Chapter
Seven: Manipulation
Author's
Explanation: See the Prologue, Innocence Under Fire.
~ ~ ~
Professor
McGonagall had immediately begun herding the students back into the
castle the moment that Professor Snape had begun to suffocate. Several
of the Slytherins hung back and cheered loudly when Professor Grimalkin
collapsed.
Harry,
Ron and Hermione were horrified by the turn of events they had just
witnessed. Professor Grimalkin's temper had driven him to do an unspeakable
thing - which had ended in him taking one step towards the thing he
feared the most, returning to Azkaban.
"Professor
McGonagall?" whispered Hermione, running to catch up with her
Head of House. "Is Professor Snape going to be alright?"
"Yes,
Hermione," said McGonagall, a tight, thin-lipped expression on
her face. "He will be fine. The Headmaster will intervene, he
has to. It would seem that Professor Grimalkin cast Desino Munimentum
- a cease protection spell on Professor Snape. As the Protection Charm
was part of the conditions of the Duel, Professor Dumbledore is no
longer prohibited from interrupting."
"Duelling
is complicated, isn't it?" Harry whispered to Ron, who nodded
mutely. Ron's face was almost as pale as Professor Grimalkin's had
been just before he had cast that suffocation spell.
The students
were sent to their various classes, except for those who were due
to take Defence Against the Dark Arts or Potions, and life ostensibly
returned to normal. Those seated nearest the windows that faced out
onto the lawns, however, strained to see what was happening.
"We
must get him to the Hospital Wing," said Dumbledore, looking
at the prone figure lying on the ground. Conjuring a stretcher, he
magically raised Anders from the grass and dropped him gently on the
hovering stretcher, which sped away towards the Hospital Wing. "Come,
Severus."
"With
respect, Headmaster," said Snape, "I must once again ask
you to reconsider the logic of employing Grimalkin at this school.
What just happened there..."
"You
know the plan, Severus," snapped Dumbledore, uncharacteristically
shaken. "Just go with it. If we are ever going to prove his innocence,
then we expected this sort of thing."
"Headmaster..."
Snape looked at the angry expression on Dumbledore's face and let
it go. It was not worth discussing at this stage. Leave it for a while
and then broach the subject of Grimalkin's unsuitability. Snape accompanied
Dumbledore as far as the Entrance Hall, where the Headmaster peeled
off towards the Hospital Wing.
The stretcher
bearing Anders had already arrived in the Hospital Wing, much to Madam
Pomfrey's surprise. She had immediately got into action, transferring
him gently from the stretcher to a bed. As Dumbledore walked through
the doors, she questioned him immediately.
"What happened? Is it his pneumonia?" She had been expecting
to see the young Professor in the Hospital Wing at some time - she
had pored over his medical records with extreme unease. The boy had
come close to death whilst he had been in Azkaban, defying, at overwhelming
odds the illness that had threatened to claim him.
"No,
Poppy. He and Severus had a Duel."
"A
Duel? Headmaster, what were you thinking, allowing something like
that to go ahead?" She checked Anders over, noticing the burn
at his throat. "What happened here?"
"His
pendant," said Dumbledore, solemnly. Madam Pomfrey started and
stared at him. She knew the nature of the monitor charm and the hands
that were deftly checking the young teacher immediately drew back.
"You mean he cast a Dark Arts spell?"
"Treat
him, Poppy. There will be an explanation for this."
"Headmaster,
I really don't think I..."
"TREAT
him, Poppy."
His tone
invited no argument. Madam Pomfrey froze in her complaining and, wordlessly,
turned back to her patient. "He does not seem to be deeply unconscious,"
she reported. "His breathing is regular, his temperature is fine...his
colour is bad, though."
Even
as she spoke, the young man began to stir on the bed, and once again,
she drew back. Dumbledore put a restraining hand on her. "He
will not hurt you, Poppy. You have my word on that."
"Headmaster?"
Anders' voice was a croak, and Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey turned
to look at him. The nurse glanced at Dumbledore and immediately went
to his side.
"Professor,
how do you feel?"
"I'm
thirsty," he said, miserably. "So thirsty..."
"He
was drinking a lot of alcohol at the Feast last night," said
Dumbledore, also moving forward to look carefully at the boy. "He
is probably dehydrated. I should have considered that possibility.
Anders, you are a fool. A careless fool!"
"Headmaster!"
Madam Pomfrey was shocked at Professor Dumbledore's callous tone,
conveniently forgetting that she herself had just been about to refuse
to treat him. "Please show a little consideration!" But
Anders had dropped his head.
"What
happened?" asked the young Welshman, unhappily. "I don't
remember anything after that last air spell." He accepted the
large glass of water that Madam Pomfrey had conjured for him, and
downed it gratefully.
"What happened was that you almost killed Professor Snape!"
Dumbledore was full of relief that Anders was alright, and it made
his tone abrupt and angry. Anders looked up at him in shock.
"I
can't have done!"
"Asphyxio?
Anders, you tried to suffocate him! Where were your brains, boy? In
your ego?" Dumbledore reached across and pulled the pendant,
dragging the bemused young Professor up with him. "You have used
a life, Anders. What was going through your head?"
"I..."
Anders looked down.
The smoky
quartz pendant in Dumbledore's hand glinted in the light of the infirmary.
Anders looked at first it, and then the Headmaster in abject horror.
"No,
that's not right, I don't...I didn't...I would never..." His
mouth opened and closed a few times, then, quite startlingly, his
face crumpled and he began to sob. Dumbledore glanced at Madam Pomfrey
and she nodded, moving away to give them some privacy. Dumbledore
let go of Anders' pendant and sat down on the bed.
"I
know you didn't, Anders," he said, and the harshness had gone
from his tone. "I believe - I very sincerely believe - that something
is making you act in ways that are alien to your nature." He
put a comforting hand on the sobbing young man's shoulder. "After
what happened out there this afternoon, I believe that even more."
*
* *
It was,
by now, late November and things had - more or less - returned to
normal. Grimalkin had been released from the Hospital Wing within
a few days and had returned, to many people's surprise, to teaching
Defence Against the Dark Arts with renewed vigour.
"Headmaster,
we must talk."
"Not
now, Severus."
"Then
WHEN, Headmaster? We must discuss what we are going to do about Grimalkin!"
Snape seemed particularly irate about the situation, but Dumbledore
brushed it off.
"I
have told you, Severus. It is in hand." Dumbledore peered down
his nose at the Potions Master and sighed heavily. "When will
you ever learn to trust me?"
"I
trust you, Headmaster," spat Snape. "It's HIM. I don't trust
him further than I could comfortably throw him."
"He
will not act again so soon. I think we have time to work on the next
stage of the plan. Do you want to see this wrong put right, Severus,
or do you not?"
There
was a long, painful silence, during which Snape's black eyes glittered
dangerously. He looked as though he wanted to storm out of the Headmaster's
office, but his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head in defeat.
"Yes, Headmaster."
*
* *
The Quidditch
season had started with a bang for the Gryffindor team. Their first
match, versus Ravenclaw had resulted in Harry catching the Snitch
in a record two minutes ten seconds, and a very dissatisfied crowd
who had been expecting a much longer game. The Gryffindor team did
not care, however, and had returned to their thrice-weekly training
sessions with keen enthusiasm.
It was
not a surprise to Harry to see the lone, robed figure standing mournfully
at the side of the Quidditch pitch on a cold, dank evening, silhouetted
against what was left of the daylight, a cigarette hanging from his
fingers, a look of abject misery on his face. Professor Grimalkin.
Bringing
the Firebolt in to land beside the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher,
Harry dismounted. "Sir?"
"Sorry,
Harry," he said, gazing almost reverentially at the Firebolt.
"I...miss Quidditch, that's all. This is as close as I can get
to playing now." In the chill of the night, his words formed
a mist that hung in the air before him. He looked better than he had
done for a while, Harry noticed. There was even a faint touch of colour
in his cheeks. And there was an expression of...
Something
in the young Professor's face touched Harry. It was the look of a
man who had seen the one thing he could truly use as an escape ripped
away from him. Harry thrust the Firebolt towards the Professor. "Here.
Take it for a spin."
Horrified,
Grimalkin shook his head violently. "I...can't."
"It's
alright. I don't mind."
"No,
you don't understand. I...I'm not allowed. I've been banned."
"Banned?"
Harry was horror stricken. "Banned from flying?"
"Yes."
Professor Grimalkin took another long pull on his cigarette and sighed.
"For five years."
"That's...really
harsh."
"I'd
have preferred the Dementor's Kiss." Grimalkin flashed Harry
one of his rare, shy smiles to show he was joking. Well. Semi-joking,
at best. Harry shook his head.
"Are
you monitored for that like you are for...uh..." He gestured
vaguely at Grimalkin's pendant. The young Professor blushed furiously
and tucked the crystal away down the front of his robes. He shook
his head in the negative and Harry grinned wickedly.
"Meet
me out here after midnight and you can take the Firebolt for a spin."
There
is a saying that like attracts like - and in the case of Harry Potter
and Anders Grimalkin, that saying was more than appropriate - it was
deadly accurate. Both thrust into the public eye unwillingly, both
filled with an almost insatiable need to fly, both excellent Seekers...and
both with an underlying need to bend rules - although Anders Grimalkin
was a lot more cautious.
The Professor
stared lovingly at the Firebolt, then moved his gaze to Harry. It
was clear that he was struggling with his conscience. Finally, his
bright blue eyes filled with something akin to mischief.
"You
got a date, Harry."
He spun
on his heel and walked off into the night. Harry grinned after him.
He LIKED the young Professor - there was something so inherently...innocent
about him. He didn't believe for one moment that Anders Grimalkin
had intended to hurt Snape that day on the lawns. It had been a flash
of temper, nothing more, nothing less. Isn't that what Dumbledore
had patiently explained to the breathlessly excited student body the
following morning at breakfast?
It did
explain something to Harry. Ever since meeting Grimalkin, he'd wondered
how on earth someone so meek and mild could ever have been put into
Slytherin House. It was the temper, no doubt. The Sorting Hat had
been able to detect just how vicious Grimalkin could be and had Sorted
him accordingly.
Harry
watched him disappear into the fading light of the day and grinned
to himself. It wasn't all generosity on his part - he'd like to learn
from Grimalkin. Although Harry had never seen the young man play,
he'd got a reputation as one of the most impressive fliers who'd ever
graced a Quidditch field. He looked forward to seeing if it was true.
*
* *
Hermione
and Ron were in the Gryffindor common room when Harry returned, his
Firebolt tucked under his arm and a faint, mischievous grin on his
faint. Hermione raised her eyebrows.
"What
have you got planned now, Harry?"
"Nothing,"
replied Harry, plopping down into a squashy chair and grinning broadly
at them. "Just a little private tuition with Professor Grimalkin,
that's all."
"What,
like when you studied the Patronus charm with Lupin?" said Hermione,
interested in the idea of extra learning. Harry shook his head, but
said nothing. "Well, what then? Come on Harry, do tell us."
Ron nodded
and prodded Harry in the ribs with his foot. "Don't come over
all mysterious on us, it's like talking to Professor Trelawny on a
particularly bad day."
Harry
leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Grimalkin's coming out to take my Firebolt for a spin. I'm hoping
I can convince him to give me one or two...pointers."
Hermione put a hand over her mouth. "Harry, you can't do that.
He's been banned from flying! If you get caught, you'll both be in
serious trouble!"
"We
won't get caught," said Harry, confidently. "I'll be extra-careful.
I was going to give him the Invisibility Cloak to fly with, then,
if anyone DOES come out, I can just say I was testing the Quidditch
field conditions for tomorrow's practise."
"When
are you planning on doing this?" asked Hermione, a strange air
of sternness about her. Harry reluctantly told her.
"Yes,
Harry, that'll work well," she said, a little derisively. "Testing
conditions at midnight. Everyone will think you've gone mad."
She began to gather her books together. "You just be careful,"
she said, glaring at Ron and Harry. "Professor Grimalkin has
been through enough already without you adding to his troubles."
As she
walked away, Ron snorted. "She fancies him rotten. Don't know
why she won't just admit it."
Harry
watched her go. "I don't think it's that at all," he said,
softly. "We know Hermione's like Dumbledore - she's a soft touch
for charity cases and wounded animals - and I think Grimalkin neatly
slots into one...if not both of those categories."
Ron's
expression softened, and a look of fondness came over his face, the
sort of expression that, if Harry had pressed him about it, Ron would
most certainly have denied it had ever been there. Harry smiled to
himself.
Sensing
that Ron would become embarrassed if he talked about Hermione much
more, Harry the conversation towards their discovery about Grimalkin
and his shadow. Ron's initial reaction that Grimalkin must be a vampire
had ebbed somewhat with the passage of time. In their spare time -
which wasn't much, these days, with their mock OWLs approaching -
they had all visited the library and read many books on the Dark Arts.
Hermione had managed to obtain Professor Flitwick's absent-minded
signature on the Restricted Section permission form, and they had
pored over many huge tomes.
There
was a lot of information about people and their shadows, and the one
thing that had caught Harry's eye had been the chapter in 'How To
Steal Friends and Manipulate People' where it discussed an ancient
Dark Arts charm, now long forbidden, where a powerful wizard could
'capture' someone's shadow and use it in the same way other witches
and wizards used familiars. The effect this would have on the person
whose shadow was missing was long-term madness. The writer of that
particular volume clearly sincerely subscribed to the school of thought
that a shadow was part of a man's soul.
They
talked for a while longer, and then both of them attempted, somewhat
half-heartedly, to do some revision. By eleven o' clock, the common
room was almost empty, apart from a few struggling fifth years like
themselves, trying to cram as much information into their heads as
was humanly possible.
Upstairs,
in the girl's dormitory, Hermione was confiding in Lavender Brown.
"Why
don't you talk to him about it, Hermione?"
"I
couldn't," said Hermione, a furious blush reaching her cheeks.
"I can't just go up to him and tell him I think he's nice and
will he come to the Yule Ball with me."
"Ron's
not THAT scary, is he? Besides, you've been friends since the first
year."
"That's
the point, isn't it? Friends. Maybe that's all he wants. I don't know
how boy's minds work, Lavender. I'm new to this." She sighed.
"Who are you going to the Yule Ball with?"
"Well,"
said Lavender, also reddening. "David Donnelly - the Hufflepuff
boy with that lovely Irish accent? He has been dropping some fairly
heavy hints."
Hermione
smiled, a little sadly. "I wish Ron would drop some sort of hint
that he likes me. How do I get him to open up, Lavender?"
Lavender
shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I wish I knew the
answer to that one, Hermione. It's at times like this that I wish
I had an older brother to confide in instead of three sisters."
She got up and went back over to her own bed, leaving Hermione deep
in thought.
*
* *
Anders
Grimalkin strolled nonchalantly out onto the Quidditch field and looked
around. Harry was nowhere to be seen. He let out a little noise of
disappointment and checked his watch. 12.05.
"Professor!"
Anders
nearly jumped out of his skin as the voice came from the darkness.
He stared around wildly, then stared in disbelief as Harry emerged
from under the veil of the Invisibility Cloak.
"Harry?
Where did you..."
"Don't
ask about it, Sir. I thought you could use it, then you could fly
on the broom without anyone seeing you." He was startled to see
tears form in the young Professor's eyes, and carried on hurriedly
lest the man start to cry. "Here."
He handed
the Firebolt to Grimalkin, along with the Invisibility Cloak, but
Anders was staring lovingly at the broom. "I had one of these,"
he said, wistfully. "Got snapped, of course, after the accident."
He turned it every which way, looking at every inch of it.
"Here."
Harry proffered the Cloak again, but Anders shook his head. "No.
If I'm going to do this, and I get caught, I don't want YOU getting
into trouble as well. You put the Cloak on, then, if anyone comes,
you won't be seen." He put up a hand to stop Harry's protests.
"Trust me. All the other Professors are preparing the mock OWLs.
They won't notice me gone."
Slowly,
Anders mounted the broom. Almost immediately he closed his eyes. "This
feels...so good," he whispered as the Firebolt bobbed gently
beneath him. "I'd almost forgotten..." He opened his eyes
wide and grinned at Harry, an expression that made his face look years
younger. "Well, here goes nothing."
He kicked
off into the air and flew Harry's broom around the Quidditch field
with such an air of consummate ease and skill that Harry, for a moment,
felt jealous of the Professor's talent. That envy soon turned to admiration,
however, as Grimalkin swooped, and rolled and dived, a look of pure
ecstasy on his face.
Finally,
he glided back down to earth and hopped off the broom.
"Thank
you, Harry," he said, a catch in his voice. "I have missed
that."
"Sir...would
you give me some pointers? Some of those dives you did...were so spectacular."
"Harry,
you're skilled enough. I'm sure I couldn't teach you anything you
don't already know." He was genuinely modest, but Harry shook
his head.
"You
could. Definitely. You could give me lessons - pointers, perhaps,
you wouldn't have to get on the broom, so we could do it during the
day...and maybe we can have a few more midnight sessions..."
It was tantamount to bribery, but Harry hoped that Grimalkin would
see it as a highly generous offer on his part.
He did.
A date for their first practise was agreed, and a happy, jaunty bounce
in his walk that had not been there before, Grimalkin walked away.
The title
of that book came, unbidden, into Harry's mind. 'How to Steal Friends
and Manipulate People', and a small wave of guilt washed over him.
(c) S Watkins, 2001
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