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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
Eight: Love, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
Author's
Explanation: See the Prologue, Innocence Under Fire.
~ ~ ~
November
disappeared quietly into the first snowfall of December, and the spirit
of Christmas began to permeate the halls of Hogwarts. The Yule Ball,
scheduled for the night before most students returned home for the
Christmas holidays was fast approaching, and Hermione had still not
plucked up the courage to speak to Ron.
But she
HAD plucked up the courage to do something else.
After
a particularly interesting Defence Against the Dark Arts mock examination
in which Professor Grimalkin had given each of them a tiny fire demon
to practise their element spells on, Hermione held back. The young
Professor was busying himself with returning the tiny demons to their
box when she approached him.
"Professor?
Could I...er...speak to you for a moment?"
He looked
up and smiled brightly at her. She felt her heart skip a beat. This
would be so much easier if he wasn't so handsome! Doggedly, she continued.
"I
have a problem of a...um...personal nature. I wondered if you could...er...give
me some advice from a male point of view?"
His eyebrows
lifted, then he smiled again. "This wouldn't happen to be about
a certain Mr Weasley would it?"
"No!"
she exclaimed, then smiled herself. "How did you know?"
"I'm
not stupid, Hermione," he said, stuffing the last demon into
the box and sealing it with a binding spell. "I have eyes and
I can recognise certain expressions. What's the problem?"
"Well..."
She sat down at one of the desks and put her head in her hands. "I
like Ron a lot...and we've always been really good friends. But..."
He sat
down opposite her. "But you want to be more than friends?"
He was
very perceptive, she thought. Lavender had been right. It WOULD be
nice to have an older brother, and Professor Grimalkin, young as he
was, fit that role rather nicely. Look at him - the way in which he
was looking at her with such heartfelt concern, the way in which his
bright blue eyes showed both sympathy and understanding...she was
impulsively driven to ask him a question.
"Do
YOU have a girlfriend, Professor?"
He was
startled by the question.
"No,"
he said, finally. "Not any more, anyway. I...was seeing a girl
before...before, you know...That Place." He waved his hand dismissively.
"But I don't think it would ever have gone anywhere. I don't
think I was...quite in her league."
That
was the understatement of the year. Charis had been a sophisticated,
cultured beauty who found Anders' small-town ways next to impossible
to deal with at times, and who had demonstrated little or no patience
with his innocent ignorance.
"I'm sorry," said Hermione, blushing. "I don't mean
to pry. It's just...you sound so knowledgeable about these things...I
just assumed..."
"No,
Charis dropped me from a great height the second I was arrested,"
he said, a little savagely. "I HAD hoped she might stick by me,
but two or three weeks in Azk...in That Place...had me no longer caring
about what she thought." He closed in eyes in sudden, remembered
pain and Hermione felt guilty for prodding at his sensitive spot.
She turned the subject back to her and Ron.
"I
want to ask Ron to the Yule Ball, but don't know how."
He smiled,
starting to gather up his books. "Just ask, Hermione - that's
all you have do." He leaned forward, as if letting her into a
great secret. "Let me tell you something about us males. Flatter
our egos, and we're putty in your hands. You're a nice girl, Hermione,
a smart, clever girl - I think Ron would be delighted to accompany
you to the Yule Ball. But he won't ask you. He's too proud."
She had
blushed furiously at his compliments and gave him a shy smile. "What
if he says no?"
"Then
you ask someone else. Try it. Be tough. You have absolutely nothing
to lose."
Inwardly
he was smarting. Who was he to give advice on matters of the heart?
He'd not exactly been successful in that arena. As Hermione left,
he reflected on what had been the only girlfriend he'd ever had. Charis
Powell, a failed witch, had latched onto him whilst he had been playing
Seeker for the Cardiff Chargers, and he had been totally fascinated
by the blonde bombshell who seemed devoted to him.
His Quidditch
career had been blossoming, and took up much of his time. He found
himself with money for the first time in his life, and spent it by
buying Charis extravagant gifts, which she accepted ungraciously,
looking at them with bored disinterest before throwing them over her
shoulder. It hurt Anders more than he could express to see her unhappy,
and he would immediately offer to buy her bigger, better and more
expensive if it would make her smile.
But still
she seemed unhappy.
After
he had been arrested, but was still in the hospital recovering from
his broken ribs, she had come to visit him. He'd gazed up at her cold,
impassive face, hoping that she would say she'd come to stand by him,
but she had something much less pleasant to say to him.
After
she had left, he had cried non stop for a day and a half.
And he
had never opened his heart to anyone else again.
Viciously,
he berated himself for lingering on what was past. Charis had never
loved him the way he'd loved her, that much was obvious. She'd just
been out for whatever she could leech from him. He envied Hermione
and Ron. Two young people, whose only real issue was that they were
awkward around one another. He had no doubt things would work out
for them.
Sighing heavily, Anders packed up his books and left the Defence Against
the Dark Arts classroom.
"Professor."
He turned
at the familiar drawling voice. Draco Malfoy, who had more or less
seemingly given up on attempted verbal bullying of the young Professor,
stood in the corridor, flanked by his usual henchmen.
"What
is it, Mr Malfoy?" said Anders, his voice almost bored.
"What
were you doing in there with Granger? She came out looking extremely
happy, Professor. You ought to be careful. You wouldn't want people
to get the wrong idea about you, now, would you?"
Anders
stared at him in utter disbelief, but Malfoy hadn't finished.
"Of
course, if you were to, say, make sure that our marks in the Defence
Against the Dark Arts examinations were supremely high...then I'm
sure no rumours would ever start."
The young
Professor's eyes narrowed.
"Blackmail,
Malfoy?"
"Sir!
What a terrible thing to accuse me of!" There was something so
malevolent, bordering on evil in Malfoy's eyes, that Anders shuddered
involuntarily. "Just think about it, that's all I'm saying."
With
a motion to Crabbe and Goyle, he slunk off down the corridor, leaving
Anders standing, books in his arms, staring after him, a look of guilt,
worry and anger mixed on his face.
*
* *
"Ron?"
Ron had
been hard to track down. Hermione had finally found him, in of all
places, the library, where he was hard at work, revising for an Astronomy
exam that he was due to take that night. He looked up as she approached
his table and grinned at her. It was unusual for Ron to be without
Harry - who was out beating his Quidditch team into shape, and Hermione
decided to seize the moment as Professor Grimalkin had suggested.
She slid
into the seat next to him and looked at the books. "You...er...enjoy
Astronomy, don't you?"
"Yes,"
said Ron, watching her closely. He had a feeling he knew what this
was about. He had been building up courage for weeks now to ask Hermione
to the Yule Ball. He'd asked Harry if he could test the water and
find out whether she would be interested, and now she'd come to tell
him, 'thanks but no thanks'.
Hermione
fidgeted uncomfortably.
"I
find it...it's always cold standing on top of the tower at midnight.
I prefer Arithmancy. It's warmer."
"Yes,"
said Ron, almost miserably. Why wouldn't she just get it over with?
At that
moment, the library door swung open, and Professor Grimalkin wandered
in and went up to the desk to speak with Madam Pince, who seemed rather
flustered to be in the company of the handsome young Professor, and
who was patting at her bun in a rather flattered way.
Ron and
Hermione watched, both twisting pieces of paper between their hands.
Then,
at the same time, they both blurted out, "Will you go to the
Yule Ball with me?"
"You?"
"Me?"
"You
asked me?"
"I
asked you?"
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
Professor
Grimalkin saw their mutual glee from the corner of his eye and smiled
in a slightly bitter, twisted sort of way. Good luck to them. He wished
them more luck than he had ever known. He took the book that Madam
Pince returned with and slunk out of the library.
*
* *
Harry
stared at the book Grimalkin handed him. "Basic Broomstick -
A Guide for the Beginner." He looked up, his eyebrows raised.
"With due respect, Sir, I'm not exactly a beginner."
"No,
Harry, you're not. But when someone flies as well as you do, it becomes
all too easy to forget the basics of broomstick flying. So study that
book, and you'll be surprised just how you can improve simply through
practising the simple stuff. Trust me."
They
were standing out in the snow, Grimalkin shivering slightly through
his thin, worn robes, and Harry had just landed after showing what
he was capable of. He'd been full of himself, convinced that Grimalkin
would say what a good flier he was, but he'd been quite literally
brought down to earth with a bump.
He took the book, almost in embarrassment. But he understood the logic
of what the young Professor was saying. It was the same principle
that most of the Professors applied to all branches of magic. Remember
the simple things and the rest will follow naturally.
Harry
flipped through the book and told himself that if it would make him
into the best Seeker ever, then it had to be worth doing. A cough
came from the Professor and he glanced across. Grimalkin did not look
too well.
"Are
you alright, sir?"
"Yes,
yes, I'm fine, Harry. Just a little...cold, I guess." He pulled
his robes around him more tightly, for what little good that did.
"Now why not try that dive again?" He pulled a few golf
balls from his robe pockets. "Let's practise Snitch catching."
He smiled and coughed again. Harry looked at him in concern again,
but mounted the broomstick. Grimalkin threw golf balls into the air,
and Harry dived to catch them, often just missing crashing into the
ground.
For his
part, every time Harry came plummeting towards the ground, Grimalkin's
heart leaped into his mouth. The scene was so reminiscent of the moment
he and Peterssen had come plunging down from the skies during that
Quidditch match.
~Didn't
even get that right, boy,~
"Sorry?"
Anders glanced up at Harry. "Did you say something?"
"No,
Sir," replied Harry, looking at the young Professor in confusion.
"I
thought I heard you...no matter. That'll do for today. It's getting
a bit too cold out here now. Are you going home for the Christmas
holidays?"
"No,"
replied Harry, grimly. "The Dursleys - my aunt, uncle and cousin,
who I live with, prefer me to stay here during Christmas. Don't like
to have me around."
Anders
nodded, sympathetically. He knew THAT feeling as well. He smiled.
"Well, maybe we can fit in another couple of lessons between
now and the new term. You have great potential, Harry."
Harry
beamed broadly at the shivering young Professor, then his smile faded.
"Sir? Are you SURE you're alright?" There was a strange,
distant expression on the man's face, and he turned away and walked
off without another word to Harry.
"Suit
yourself," muttered Harry, picking up his Firebolt and heading
back into the school.
He headed
for the Gryffindor Common room, more than a little surprised by the
Professor's odd behaviour, but put it to the back of his mind as he
headed through the Fat Lady's portrait and straight up the stairs
to his dorm. He stashed the Firebolt under his bed and then, after
an embarrassed pause, put the 'Basic Broomstick' Guide under his pillow
where it was not on display to everyone else. Fancy Professor Grimalkin
giving him that book.
"Hey,
Harry," said Ron, who had entered the dormitory at that moment.
His red-haired friend looked suspiciously pleased with himself, like
a dragon who'd got the last of the charcoal. Ron threw himself down
on the edge of Harry's bed and sighed contentedly. "I did it,"
he said, triumphantly. "I asked Hermione to the Ball, and she
said 'yes'."
Harry
grinned. "Finally!"
Ron stared
at him. "What's that meant to mean?"
"You
two should have got together YEARS ago," he said. "I've
never seen such a perfect match since Dudley met Pansy Parkinson at
King's Cross last year!"
Ron let
out a snort of laughter. "The expression on your Uncle Vernon's
face when he realised that his Darling little Dudders was going all
pie-eyed over a witch was priceless."
They
laughed together, enjoying the memory. Harry's cousin had not slimmed
down with the advance of the years, indeed, if anything, he was more
rotund now than he had ever been in his life. Part of this was down
to Aunt Petunia: although she had genuinely tried to stick to Dudley's
diet sheet, she had given in to Dudley's well-rehearsed look of quiet
starvation by slipping him the occasional pork pie or packet of bourbon
creams.
*
* *
And Anders
Grimalkin?
Harry's
reference to not being wanted around by his relatives had released
another memory that had been locked up in the young Professor's confused
mind. He walked around in something of a daze, ignoring the chill
of the snowflakes that settled in his hair, on his nose, on his robes,
and finally stopped walking when he was clear of the castle.
Since
the incident with Snape, his lost memories had been returning one
at a time - and most of them were memories he fervently wished he
had simply never regained.
Like
this one.
The Quidditch
trials had gone excellently, he had felt, remembering it like it was
just yesterday, and not five years ago. He'd performed the standard
dives and Snitch catches with more than impressive effect, and one
of the judges had even clapped loudly, to the chagrin of the others.
They would contact him in two days, they said, but even he could tell
from the smile on their faces that he was in. His career was going
to take off - quite literally.
Thus
it was, he entered his family home in Ebbw Vale enthusiastic and eager.
He bounced happily into the kitchen, to find his father sitting, glaring
at the noise his son had made. All the good intentions of resolving
his differences with his father drained away as Anders met the cold
stare of the dirty, unshaven, gaunt man in front of him.
"You're
back, then."
"Yes,
Da."
"When
will you be leaving?" The older Grimalkin turned his attention
to his newspaper, ignoring Anders completely. Suddenly angry, Anders
turned on his heel and stormed upstairs to his room. He slammed the
door shut and threw himself moodily down onto his bed. Only a few
short hours ago, he had been on a high like he had never known. And
with less than ten words, his father had taken the wind completely
out of his sails.
He lay
on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The
house was filthy, as if Dafydd hadn't cleaned in weeks, and the smell
of stale beer was offensive to the young man's nose. With a sigh,
he rolled over and stared at the photograph of his mother next to
the bed. "Mam...I don't know what to do for the best any more."
The photograph,
unlike the wizarding ones he had gotten used to, did not respond in
any way, but there was still something unusually calming in the expression
of the pretty blonde in the picture. Anders loved that photograph.
He had taken it the summer holidays before she had died, and there
was something sad and unhappy in her face that touched him deeply.
Staring
at her image calmed him down, and he began to plot out his future.
He had to stay here for a least a couple of days until he heard from
the Cardiff Chargers. If he got on the team...then he could move out.
He'd seen the notice board in the dressing rooms. There were plenty
of other young Quidditch players looking for room mates. At least
he'd be among his own kind. He could check in on his father from time
to time...everything would be fine.
He got
back up and went downstairs. Dafydd hadn't moved an inch and barely
glanced up as Anders entered the kitchen and began tidying.
"Well?"
"I'll
leave day after tomorrow, Da. But in the meantime, let me do something
to help." He flicked his wand out and waved it. Immediately,
the kitchen began to take care of cleaning itself. Dafydd muttered
something under his breath.
"What
was that, Da? I didn't hear you."
"Showing
off in front of me again, are you, boy? Because you can do all this
fancy wizard stuff and I can't, is it?"
"No,
Da, I..."
Dafydd
had got to his feet. He was taller than Anders by at least two inches,
and Anders was 6'4". He was skinny, but powerful across the shoulders,
and had a punch that Anders had been on the receiving end of too many
times. "I want you out of this house, do you hear me? You're
a stain on my good name. The lies I've had to tell about you to people."
His breath stank of beer, and Anders knew he should get out of the
way now, but something in him brought his utter defiance to the fore.
"Da,
I only need two more days, then I'm gone. Two days, do you hear me?"
His own voice was raising in anger and he clenched his hands into
fists of his own.
"I
want you out and I want you out NOW!" Dafydd roared, taking a
step towards Anders who considered casting a freeze spell on the man,
but he had made it his policy never, ever to use his magic against
Muggles. To help them, yes. But against them...? Never. He put the
wand down on the table.
"There.
Now it's just you and me and no magic. You want to have this discussion
in a civilised manner, or are you going to talk with your fists as
usual?"
Dafydd's
face, already purple with rage, darkened even more at his words. "I'll
teach you some respect, you little..." He raised one fist, but
instead of ducking, or moving away as he'd always done in the past,
Anders stood his ground. This seemed to confused Dafydd.
"I'm
not a little kid any more, Da. I'm eighteen years old now. Not a student,
not a child. I'm a man."
Something
flashed across Dafydd's face at Anders' words, and he smirked knowingly.
"You're a brat. You can stay for two days. But no more."
His fists loosened and he patted Anders' cheek with a little more
strength than was necessary. "And get the dinner on, I'm that
hungry."
"Yes,
Da," said Anders, turning away from his father, angry, hurt and
confused. He hated the man so much, but loved him because it was his
father. He would never, ever resolve that paradox.
Not ever.
And then
had come the news - just before he had entered Azkaban - that his
father had gone missing whilst abroad, presumed dead in an air crash.
And that wound with his father had never been healed, and it never
would be healed.
Sighing
heavily, realising for the first time just how cold he was, the young
Professor walked slowly and unhappily back to the castle.
(c) S Watkins, 2001
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