PAWNS
We are either Kings or Pawns of men….
Napoleon Bonaparte
Be calm. Be calm.
She repeated the mantra in her head, and for the most part she was outwardly calm. Her face was impassive, her steps smooth, hands relaxed at her sides. The picture of calm – but she wasn't. Her eyes gave her internal struggle away. Darting about, looking for anything, something to help her get away. She had considered the windows, but they were high up, not ideal for a quick escape. Perhaps if she…
"Stop that."
Her step faltered and she stopped, startled. She frowned and tried to keep her voice calm, "Stop what?" she snapped failing miserably.
"Trying to figure out a way to escape." Caleb answered matter-of-factly, unmindful of her hostility. "You have a far more pressing matter to consider than improbable escape."
A growl escaped her throat, low and threatening. But her escort remained unmoved, staring at her unblinking. She quietened down, looking away from him. He was right of course. She had avoided even thinking it. Nobody liked to think about death, especially not their own.
"Come, the master is waiting." Caleb gestured calmly.
She should have struggled, fought back – Caleb was alone and she was well rested, she certainly had a chance, but then what? Fight her way out? That didn't seem plausible – she had glimpsed a little of where they were, it was a veritable fortress. Guards patrolled the premises and she could feel certain presences within and around that gave her pause. She would quickly be killed; quickly and violently.
She took a step and another, her footfalls heavy and they seemed to echo even on the carpeted floor. The door ahead loomed, dark and foreboding. Fear gripped her, terror filled her and turned her veins to ice. There was a sound, a loud pounding, a drum of war perhaps – no, that was her heart hammering.
Something shoved her forward and she realised that she had stopped again. Her feet turned to lead, her breath coming in fast and loud.
"None of that now." Caleb's voice was a harsh whisper in her ear. A cold hand gripped her shoulder and spun her around.
She barred her teeth, reflex more than anything. Before she could do more, run or attack she did not know; her back met the wall and she lost her breath.
"You do your ancestry injustice child. Where is your fire? Where is the girl who sent us on a merry chase across Europe?" he asked, his voice stern but soft. She looked back at him, eyes full of so much pain, fear and regret.
"He will kill me." She whispered and slumped, the fight having left her. Caleb's hard visage softened, a tad.
"And what of it?"
"What?" she asked befuddled.
"So what if he kills you. Worrying about it won't change a thing, what will happen will happen." Caleb shrugged, letting her go.
"Your path is set," he continued, staring down at her. "But how you walk that path is up to you. Will you grovel or will you make peace with it?"
There was silence after his impromptu speech. Selene stood there blinking, her eyes unfocused and misty. She was shaking, she felt raw and frenetic, her hands trembled and she couldn't focus. It was the subtle rattling at her wrist that brought her back to reality. The slightly uneven beads of her bracelet sparked with warmth and comfort, feelings she associated with one person these days.
She bit back a sob, quickly wiping her face with the back of her hand. She had promised him that they would see each other again. It had been optimistic but foolish, so foolish.
"Come," Caleb's voice was much gentler, even if the hand at her elbow was firm.
The heavy door opened without a sound and closed behind her with finality. It took her a few moments to look up and she was met with a surprise. Her trek with Caleb had allowed her to see the aesthetic of the build, rich dark woods, thick carpets and heavy curtains – it leant a gloomy mysterious atmosphere for the place. This room, office, was different; light and airy was her first thought. Large floor to ceiling windows dominated one side, the top panel open to the breeze, and there standing in the sun was her executioner.
Tall, with a slim build, he did not look like much in his simple grey suit. Yet the way his jacket strained across his shoulders as he turned spoke of hidden strength. She took in his olive complexion, neatly trimmed beard and crew cut. He looked normal, human – until she saw his eyes, an unnaturally vibrant electric blue, much like her own. He took a step towards her, hands spreading out magnanimously.
"Selene." His voice was a smooth baritone.
"Victor." She found her voice was firm, much to her surprise.
He eyed her, searching and made to step forward.
"Don't!" she said quickly, raising her hand, her bracelet glowing.
He stopped, wary, and for a moment she relaxed and then he was in front of her. She gasped and tried to backpedal but his hand clamped down on her arm like a vice. He raised her arm, her wrist level with his eyes.
"My, my, what an interesting trinket. Where did you get it, I wonder?" his fingers drifted closer to the beads, tracing the faint symbols on them but dared not touch them. He could feel the magic thrum, raging under the surface, hissing and furious.
Without warning he let her hand go and watched almost amused as she stumbled back, finding her footing. She glared at him and cradled her bruised arm.
"Even with that little weapon of yours, you are at a disadvantage…" he begun smug.
"Then get on with it!" the words burst out of her unexpectedly. He stopped and stared at her, his face closing off.
"If you're going to kill me then just do it, don't gloat…" she growled out, her neck bared.
"Kill you…?" he begun but a commotion drew their attention.
The door slammed open and a woman decked in red swept in, her long hair trailing behind her. Victor sent a glare at Caleb who was poking his head in. Caleb shrugged in answer. Victor sighed exasperated and resigned.
"Mother, I did not expect you here." He said in greeting, moving towards the aristocratic woman.
"Of course you didn't. Is that not why you scheduled a secret meeting?" She smiled pleasantly, patting his cheek. He grimaced at the gesture but said nothing else.
She turned towards the other occupant and her face morphed into a warm smile.
"Selene, child."
Selene found herself enveloped in a hug, it was warm and carried a scent of spice. Before she could extricate herself, she was released and was staring at a pale face, broken by ruby lips and vibrant eyes. The look in the woman's eyes was warm almost motherly. Selene blinked and shook her head; it was all too much.
"Stop. Wha-what is this? What's going on?" She took a few steps back, putting distance and furniture between them and herself.
The woman turned to the male amongst them, her face disapproving. Victor had the grace to look contrite.
"How could you not tell her…" she begun.
"You interrupted me." He pointed out but quickly scowled as she glared at him. Satisfied that her child would not disturb her again she turned to the young girl. Again she looked at her warmly, willing compassion to exude from her very being.
"Selene," she began, gentle and making no attempt to close the distance. "You are safe here." She said firmly. "Whatever impression you may have gotten was false – you are safe here."
Selene looked at her, looking for any falsehood and deceit. She looked beyond the woman, to Victor – he was looking on, his face giving little away. Selene worried the beads of her bracelet and welcomed the soothing warmth they exuded.
"Okay." She answered with more confidence than she felt.
They had moved from the office and into the parlour. Selene found herself nursing a mug of hot chocolate, sipping occasionally to settle the knots in her stomach. The woman, Emilia, was sitting across from her, her own mug resting on a stool beside her. Victor was standing a little aways, lurking and watching.
"You must be quite confused." Emilia began prodding.
Selene nodded, unwilling to say much of anything. She found that she could not quite place the woman's accent, but it did have a strange lilt to it.
"Caleb and his partner – they were sent to retrieve you…" Emilia began.
"They hunted me." Selene interrupted.
"Perhaps you shouldn't have ran across half of Europe." Victor said derisively.
"They killed my mother!" Selene bit back. "Was I supposed to just stand there and let them kill me?"
"Caleb was sent to protect you, he was not the one who attacked your home." Emilia said calmly.
"Oh and I'm supposed to just believe that? Believe you." Selene was standing now, clutching at her mug so hard it creaked, cracks breaking the surface.
"Did you actually see him attack your home? Your mother?" Victor snarked.
That question stopped her short. She could remember the attack quite vividly – she would never forget her mother's ferocious but ultimately futile stand against those three, she could still see Caius being cut down, his lifeblood painting the walls. She would never forget any of them, their faces, their voices, they had kept her up for countless nights. But Caleb, her captor and his sadist partner were not among them. But that did not mean they were innocent, for all she knew they could have simply waited outside, acting as reinforcements. She said as much.
"That could be true." Emilia began, and Selene found herself almost pleased. "But why would we then go through all the trouble to bring you here? Why not just kill you?"
Selene had no answer to that. If they were going to kill her, it would have been far easier to kill her when they had cornered her and take her head as proof. They would only bring her here if they needed her, if her life was worth something.
"What do you want?" Selene sighed, dropping down to her chair. she ran a hand across her face, she was drained. She missed the pitying look Emilia favoured her with. Emilia moved slowly, crouching down before the tired girl. Selene peered at her wary.
"We are your family, Selene; we only wish to protect you." Emilia put a soothing hand on her knee, willing the young girl to understand.
"Plus, you are the kingmaker, so I suppose you are worth the effort." Victor interjected, making his thoughts plain. Selene almost wished she was still a fugitive, at least then things were simpler.
He sat, waiting, trying to be patient and not fidget – from the unimpressed look he got he knew he had failed at that. He offered a smile, trying to ease the tension, only one of the panellists offered something back, forced and ill at ease.
The sound of parchment shuffling drew him back to the here and now.
"Interesting." Minerva said, putting the files down and looking at the blond-haired man.
"I like to think I've lived an interesting life…" Lockhart offered another smile but Minerva merely stared. Lockhart's smile became strained.
A cough cut through the tension, drawing attention to the man on Minerva's left. Minerva quickly nodded for her colleague to speak.
"So you believe that all the adventuring you've done for the past decade or so, will translate into teachable material?" the man did nothing to hide his scepticism.
"Well of course it will Lovemoore!" the woman at Minerva's right was quick to interject.
Lovemoore grimaced and shared a look with Minerva. They weren't supposed to show such blatant bias.
"Ms Alair if perhaps you would let the applicant answer the questions himself, we could get through this promptly." Minerva said sharply. The other witch flushed, quickly nodding.
"Now," Minerva turned once again to the man sat before them, "If you could answer the question that was posed."
"Certainly Minerva…" Lockhart flinched at the sharp glare he received. "Apologies, Professor McGonagall." He coughed awkwardly.
The man took a few moments to find his centre again before he proceeded to explain.
"I passed through this great institution many years ago and between then and now I have had quite the varied career, as my file clearly shows. My time working with the ministry gave me structure and procedure but my adventures gave me chaos and unpredictability…" he looked at his audience then, gauging their reactions. Alair seemed enthralled while Lovemoore was listening intently nodding appropriately. Minerva though was passive, her face unreadable.
"These circumstances mean that I can at the very least convey to young budding minds the simple realities of our world something that is hard to do from a simple textbook despite our gifts." Lockhart finished smoothly.
Alair made to say something but a sharp look from Minerva stopped her short. Lovemoore looked at him intently for a few moments before nodding.
"I can see your point." The man eventually said.
"I agree with Lovemoore, but I do have other concerns." Minerva shuffled some papers searching.
"What would those be?" Lockhart asked almost magnanimously.
"You own a few businesses…a nightclub if I am not mistaken being most prominent," Minerva started looking up from the papers. Lockhart nodded and so she continued.
"Being a professor here is a fulltime commitment, it is not something that you can be and then not from one moment to the next."
"I am aware of that professor, this is not simply another notch on my belt, so to say – though it would be a nice notch. This is something that I put quite a lot of thought into. My business ventures can sustain themselves with very little day to day input from me." Lockhart said nonchalantly
"Temperament is also a concern…" Lovemoore added. "Children, bless them, can be little beasts and that's before you add in the simple fact that they can switch your fingers and ears if they throw a tantrum."
"Yes, while I wouldn't put it like that," Minerva stared quite pointedly at Lovemoore but the man merely shrugged.
"We can't have you acting like a child when you are meant to set an example for our students." She finished and found her mind casting to their potions professor, before she quickly dismissed the thought.
"Not to brag, but I am a celebrity." Lockhart smirked.
Lovemoore rolled his eyes, "Is that what he is?" he muttered beneath his breath. Minerva heard him and held back a smirk.
Lockhart, oblivious, continued, "I've met my share of crazies, and I handled it quite well. This shall be no different."
The three panellists looked at each other for a few moments before Minerva turned to look at the man before them.
"Well, I think we are done here." She stood, prompting everyone else to do so. She held out a hand to Lockhart, which he was quick to grasp.
"Thank you for coming in Mr. Lockhart. We shall send you our decision as promptly as we can." She said politely.
"The pleasure was mine, Professor – it was nice being back in the castle." The man said and Minerva for the first time thought he was genuinely sincere.
He exchanged a handshake with Lovemoore and then Alair, quickly extricating himself from her grip before he departed.
"So what do we think?" Minerva asked the other two.
"I think he would be a solid hire." Alair's answer was prompt. Lovemoore snorted.
"That's no surprise." He groused.
"Excuse me?" Alair asked, her nostrils flaring quite impressively.
"You near enough jumped his bones…" Lovemoore started.
"I did not!" Alair flushed both in anger and embarrassment. "You take that back right now."
"If we could keep this civil!" Minerva barked her magic sparking about her. The two flinched as they felt the older witch's magic lick at their skin. Minerva sighed irritably as the two settled down.
"Alair you're a grown woman and professional act like it."
"Yes Professor." Alair answered subdued.
"And you," Minerva rounded on Lovemoore. "Stop baiting her or being a jealous prick, either grow a pair or shut up."
Lovemoore flushed, and worked his jaw, his eyes firmly avoiding looking at Alair who was looking at him with renewed interest.
"Now I'll ask again, what do we think?" She looked at them, her eyes daring them to say anything unneccessay.
Alair raised her hand hesitantly.
"Yes, go ahead." Minerva prompted.
"Of all the candidates we have interviewed in the last week, Lockhart shows the best qualifications and experience. His work in the ministry was quite stellar and his activities afterward did see him honoured with an Order of Merlin." Alair said concisely.
"As much as I hate to admit it, she's right. He is the best candidate so far and I don't hold out much hope for the next batch of interviewees. What happened to Quirrell spooked applicants and that's saying something considering the amount of shi-stuff that's happened over the years." Lovemoore added his own two knuts. The man seemed reluctant to even offer that little praise.
"I can agree with you on both fronts," Minerva shuffled her papers, her brow creasing, "But…" she stopped, thinking.
"Yes?" Lovemoore prompted, wondering what the Vice head was thinking.
"It strikes me as odd; don't you think." Minerva began, "The man is successful, he has the money and he has some form of celebrity. Would you give that up to teach?"
"Well, the man is a bit odd." Lovemoore hedged. Alair gave an exasperated huff.
"Honestly Lovemoore could you be anymore childish?" Turning to Minerva she continued, "Its not all that odd I think, Hogwarts is the premier magical institute of the British Isles – arguably of Europe as well, there is a certain glamour attached to teaching here."
"Like he said," Lovemoore picked up the thread, "It would be a nice notch on his belt."
"I see, perhaps you're right. Shall I add him to the top of the maybe list then?" Minerva asked and got two firm nods.
"Right," she glanced down at her watch. "Let's call the last one in for the day shall we." She let out a tired sigh, she hated interviews.
The crowd roared, clutching at the flimsy looking wire; they pushed and heaved, eyes wild with mad delight, urging the sight before them. The wire circled around a hexagon, going up two stories, enclosing a makeshift ring. The floor was worn concrete, pitted and stained from years of use. Inside the ring two men fought, the poor light lending their bloody profiles a primal savagery.
Above this fanfare, shadowed from view, up a private box sat the host and his guest.
"I see Greyback has not lost his touch," the guest commented taking a sip of his wine. The man let out an appreciative hum at the taste.
"Yes, I should thank you for smoothing out that unpleasant business of his." The host said, not taking his eyes off the fight; watching as his prized fighter pinned his opponent to the floor and began raining wild blows on him.
"Think nothing of it Nott," the guest waved a dismissive hand. "Our interests are aligned and we are friends after all."
"Friends? My, my, Lucius, I didn't know you held me in such high regard." Nott gave his blond-haired companion a sardonic grin. Lucius paid him no mind.
The fight was getting fiercer, the smaller man had managed to kick Greyback away and staggered to his feet; he was favouring his left side. The crowd roared, urging them, banging on the cage. The man shook his head – a cut above his right eye was dripping blood, mingling with his sweat, he tried to blink it away to no avail. Greyback hung back, unmindful of his own bruises, watching his opponent, waiting.
The man wiped his eye and, in that moment, Greyback moved, sweeping low, hoping to catch him by surprise. Yet, at the last second the man dodged, jumping aside adroitly. He spun around arm out, nails primed hoping to swipe Greyback, but the prize fighter rolled forward avoiding the blow. The fight continued from there back and forth each getting in blows.
"You don't typically visit my little leisure centre, what was so urgent hmm?" Nott gave his guest a sideways glance. Lucius was quiet for a few moments before casually moving his right sleeve away.
Nott turned fully, eyes wide as he glimpsed the reddened skin and black etchings there. The mark was faint, but not as it had been years ago after the Fall. Nott looked at back at Lucius, willing him to explain.
"Some time ago, I received a message, as you can see it left quite an impression…" Lucius drawled, letting his sleeve fall back in place. He suppressed a grimace as the fabric scratched at the still sensitive area. When would the damned thing heal, he thought? Nott stared at him, his lips suddenly dry.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Nott finally asked.
Had it been anyone else Lucius would have been greatly offended and there would have been consequences. But this was Nott, they had history. So Lucius looked him in the eye and gave him a sharp firm nod. Nott let out a long breath, and downed his drink in one go before slumping in his seat. He sat up suddenly and looked at Lucius, eyes bright.
"So what's the plan, shall we get the old crowd together?" the man asked almost eagerly.
"Not yet," Lucius said lightly, "There are certain things we have to put in place before He may return."
"Such as?" Nott asked, leaning back into his seat.
"We must secure certain resources and remove certain players off the board." Lucius said blandly.
"Typical Malfoy response." Nott made an irritated sound. "Keep your cards close to your chest, but tell me why you are here."
Despite the loud frenzied crowd below them, the little plop the book made on the table was loud, ominous; it settled between them, a presence on the edges of their minds, whispering, nudging. Nott hadn't seen Lucius pull it out. Curious and without thought, he reached for it.
"Ah, ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you." Lucius warned as Nott's fingers brushed the book's frayed edges. The man recoiled as if burnt. Nott's eyes cleared and he shook his head, confused. Wary now he peered at the book not merely with sight – his magic reached out, cautious, and careful. A light touch was all he needed; there was something quite malicious and familiar about that book.
"I need you to pass this on to your agent," Lucius pulled out a velvet lined pouch and careful not to touch the book quickly slipped it inside.
"Who is the target?" Nott asked almost distractedly as he gingerly picked up the secured artifact. He never saw the cruel smile that graced Lucius lips.
"A nosey self-righteous fool." Lucius glanced down at the ring. "Ah this is quite the display." He said catching Nott's attention.
Down in the ring the fight was concluded. The floor was bathed in blood; the smaller fighter was kneeling before Greyback, only held up by the latter's grip on his head. His face was bloody, eyes swollen shut. He was missing an arm, the appendage having been torn off – it was a few paces away still twitching, the source of all that blood. Greyback was looking up at the private box, his face a bloody rictus, his enlarged canine glinting, eyes alight with unholy savagery. Nott stood, coming forward to the viewing area. The moment his shadowed form became visible the crowd quietened down, the tension rising.
Nott stood there, staring between the downed fighter and Greyback; the young man had put up a good fight. Finally coming to a decision, Nott raised his arm, the tension rising with it. Making a fist, he then jut his thumb downward. The crowd roared, booing and baying for blood. Greyback growled in anger and looked ready to rip out his opponent's throat.
An oppressive pulse of power rammed into him, causing him to flinch. Disgruntled, he let his opponent drop spitting in disgust he left the ring. A section of the impenetrable cage opening up to let him out, the crowd gave him a wide berth.
"Mercy?" Lucius asked as Nott returned to his seat.
"This isn't the time to waste good fighters, his arm is only a slight inconvenience." Nott responded watching as men entered the ring to carry the unconscious man away – one of them was kind enough to pick up the torn appendage, albeit gingerly.
Lucius stood to leave and Nott gave him an appraising eyebrow.
"Keep this business between us, I wouldn't want some of the others to get excitable; this is the time for subtlety, we are playing the long game here." Lucius warned.
"Sure, you're the boss, at least for the time being." Nott said smirking.
Lucius let out a noncommittal hum before sweeping away, plans running through his mind.
Padma tried her best not to feel guilty. This was necessary, she told herself. Not many would get such an opportunity, such training at her age. She was aware of all that and yet the sight of the bird piteously trying to flap its broken wing filled her with guilt.
"Well I hope the gravity of the situation has dawned upon you, young lady." Ashraj said sternly.
Padma nodded, her eyes never leaving the bird. She found her fascination strange; she had seen things far stranger and morbid than this – the burnt troll came to mind quite quickly. Yet, despite that, she found herself guilty, guilty not for the bird's pain, but because she found herself excited. She was finally doing this. And all it took was a bird getting its wing snapped, she thought morbidly.
"Do you remember the wand movement?" Healer Ashraj asked.
"Yes." She brought out her wand, feeling it thrum and warm. She demonstrated, the motion smooth and calm. She had practised endlessly of course.
"Good." Warmth crept into his voice and Padma tried not to preen under the praise.
"Proceed." He moved behind and to her side, observing.
Padma took a deep breath, a sudden nervousness overtaking her before she stubbornly stomped on it. Her wand rose and she pulled on her magic, her intent clear.
"Immobulus." The incantation was crisp and clear and the effect immediate.
The bird was enveloped in a soft blue light and all its outward motion stopped. There was a rustle of cloth at her side.
"Now remember what I told you, suffuse the area with your magic, let your intent be clear…"
Padma let the healer's instruction guide her as she brought her hand forward, her magic pooling at her palm. Gently she touched the bird's wing and willed her magic to surround and suffuse.
"…feel the appendage, the feathers, the skin, the muscles and tendons, the bones…"
Padma could feel them, it was like another sight, and it was here her gift proved a boon to her, as the sensation was not dissimilar. She could feel the appendage, the skin tight over the swelling, the dislocated bones and the muscles strained over them. She could feel the tiny vessels and the blood flowing through them, there was something there as well, subtle and hidden.
"…now move the bones, coax them back into place, slow and gentle…."
Padma pulled herself from her examination, and filled her magic with intent, to heal, to help. Slowly, the bones moved, the muscles parting almost gratefully, even as she coaxed the vessels to relax. She lost herself in that state, unperturbed by time. Until she opened her eyes and saw the bird whole, its wing at its proper angle. She turned to her teacher.
"You did well my dear." Healer Ashraj smiled at her in turn.
Padma beamed and opened her mouth to say something and promptly threw her head to the side. Her stomach heaved as it emptied its contents. Ashraj was beside her in moments, moving her hair to the side and rubbing soothing circles at her back.
"This is normal, the meld can be quite disorienting. Breathe my dear, breath. It will pass." The healer soothed. A flick of his hand saw a cup he had prepared earlier come drifting towards him. He passed it to his young student.
"Drink." He intoned, gentle but firm.
Padma, in no state to protest, took the cup absently and drank. She was glad she did – the drink cleared her sore throat, tasting of citrus and honey, it soothed her churning stomach.
"Thank you." She said after a while, having sat down for the time being.
"You are welcome." Ashraj smiled, before moving to the table.
He waved his hand at the sick staining the floor, clearing it away. He then turned his attention to their patient. He waved his hand over the bird, frowning a bit as he did, the charm had been stronger than he imagined, curious. Putting the thought behind him, he examined the bird, it seemed unsure of what had happened. It slowly tested its wing and found itself pleased. It chirped and flapped its wings and darted out the open window.
"Does this always happen?" Padma asked.
The healer hummed, moving about the room, putting things away. Padma was not offended; she was used to his ways. Finally, he seemed to have found a suitable answer.
"Yes and no. It depends on what sort of healing one is doing." He turned to her and sat across form her.
"You mean the style?" Padma asked unsure what he meant.
"Yes but no," the healer again answered. Obviously seeing her confusion, he elaborated.
"There are different ways to heal of course, passive and active healing and western styles often differ from eastern and that's not even going into the various practices of Africa or the Americas. But despite the differences, there is quite a bit of crossover. The biggest is that internal healing costs far more than external." The healer stopped to see if she was paying attention before continuing.
"Cuts, abrasions and the like differ from internal injuries. The deeper you have to go to heal something the more active your involvement, the more of yourself you have to put in to connect. I'm sure you felt some similarity to your empathy."
Padma startled at that, she had felt the similarities of course, she just didn't think he would mention it -how could he know?
"You are not the first empath to become a healer." He smiled at her.
"So does it happen every time a healer goes deep?" she asked frowning. Her books had hardly mentioned this. Perhaps that was deliberate, if you knew you were going to throw up every time you healed someone, far fewer people would join the profession,
"Eventually one adapts and it almost becomes easy, second nature for the skilled." He said amicably almost amused, before his expression turned pensive.
"But that is not easy for empaths." He remarked.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"You may not be the first empath to become a healer, but you are one of the few." He began slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Your magic is attuned to others, you feel more, you take in more. It can be dangerous in this profession."
"Is that why you were reluctant to train me." She finally asked.
"Yes." He said honestly. Padma tried not to let her disappointment show, she failed miserably.
"But you said I was not the first, so it is possible." She grasped at her hope.
"Yes certainly, as your mother proved." Ashraj said almost nostalgic.
Padma tried not to think too much about that, instead she focused on her dreams. The irony of her dream being her mother's footsteps not escaping her.
"But it takes time and patience. The fact that you are still young may prove a boon perhaps, as your power grows alongside the skill." The healer smiled at her and Padma tried not to laugh in relief.
The old healer looked at his watch and sighed.
"Our time is up, and I would rather not have your grandmother send the guards to retrieve you again." The man frowned in disapproval.
Padma chuckled self-deprecatingly. She had been late to return the other day and guards had stormed the healing houses, searching for her. It had caused quite the commotion and Padma had been quite embarrassed even before her grandmother had given her a tongue lashing. She stood and bowed to her teacher.
"I will see you tomorrow, Healer Ashraj." She said respectfully
"Tomorrow my dear."
His smile was nostalgic as he watched her go, waving to the other healers and patients. He remembered another young girl, so full of passion and drive, who had walked through his doors wanting to learn the healing arts. History comes full circle.
Hadrian could very well understand why Neville had an apparent fear of his grandmother; the regent of House Longbottom was an intimidating sight. Despite the celebration, the woman was wearing dark colours, her face stern and severe. Neville was stood beside his grandmother, trying his best not to fidget.
Under the woman's gaze Hadrian almost felt like he should do something about his messy hair; Hermione was busy straightening the unseen creases from her clothes. Still he was here to make an impression and so he steeled himself, straightening up, he gave a bow; not so low as to seem subservient and not too quick to be rude. Those etiquette lessons were getting put to use.
"Lady Longbottom," Hadrian felt Dudley shift behind him and suppressed a grimace.
"Thank you for welcoming us into your lovely home; this is Hermione Granger and this is Dudley my cousin."
Hermione fell into a curtsy, the technique perfect but stiff. Dudley almost raised a hand in greeting before remembering he was meant to offer a bow. His attempt was less than graceful.
"Be welcomed honoured guests," she panned her eyes across the three children before settling her eyes on Hadrian.
"Neville has been beside himself with excitement." Here a little warmth entered the woman's voice and Neville flushed, embarrassed.
"Come on guys." Neville gestured and led the three out of the room and to the party area.
"Oh thank goodness, I thought she was going to turn us into frogs or something." Dudley burst out once out of earshot.
"Dudley!" Hermione said, quickly looking to Neville.
Neville snorted, clearly amused, "She tends to give that impression, you get used to it."
"You're alright Nev," Dudley said smiling at the younger boy.
"So who got here before us?" Hadrian asked.
"Pretty much everyone." Neville shrugged leading them out onto the grounds.
The summer sun shone down on the lawn and the festive seen before them. Wizards it seemed went all out on parties. Streamers hung in the air, tails fluttering around a large gazebo; it dominated most of the yard, its shade protecting a large spread of food and other goodies. Around the structure children ran, chasing after massive bubbles and sparks of all colours and sizes. Music seemed to float from all around, soft and unobtrusive.
"Guys Hadrian's here." There was a call, Hadrian never saw from who before they were surrounded by familiar faces.
"Happy birthday Hadrian!" voices chorused and Hadrian found that his smile came easy.
He found Neville standing in an out of the way hall staring up at a wall – to be more specific a tapestry. Curious, he stared up at the tapestry; he knew nothing of textiles but he could tell it was of exquisite make, a beautiful blend of reds, browns and greens, threaded with gold and silver and there at each intersection was a name, Longbottom.
"What is it?"
"Its my family tree, it goes back generations." Neville answered, the note of pride evident in his voice.
Hadrian traced the branches his eyes finding Neville near the bottom, the newest branch. Above his friend's name were two overs; Frank and Alice Longbottom. A quick glance to his side showed that was exactly where Neville's eyes were glued. Hadrian felt awkward and shuffled a bit uncomfortable. He and Neville had never talked about the latter's parents, but Hadrian could guess that they must not be around anymore, what with the way Neville only talked about his grandmother and great uncles.
"Hey Nev, here." Hadrian pulled out a wrapped box from within the depths of his enchanted pockets. He had been thrilled when the runes had held on his clothing.
Hadrian ignored how Neville startled, having forgotten that he was not alone.
"I wanted to give you this in person you know, without the others." Hadrian said looking down feeling shy all of a sudden.
"Oh." Neville looked thoughtful. "Mimsy." There was a soft pop and an elf was before them, her soft blue dress making a slight swish.
"Could you get me that gift I put aside?" Neville asked soft. The elf nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes, young master Neville." The elf squeaked and snapped her fingers. Neville found himself holding a colourfully wrapped box.
The two quickly exchanged their items, sharing a grin. Hadrian ripped his and found a tome; Druids, A Culture and Language. Hadrian flipped through the pages quickly and found himself smiling as he looked at the runic language within.
"Thanks Nev, I'll probably spend hours on this; it could be a massive help." Hadrian said enthused.
Neville grinned in response and then unwrapped his present. He unveiled a wooden box and when he opened it found it inlaid with velvet and snug inside was a glass sphere. Neville's eyes widened and then he frantically looked at his friend.
"How did you…?"
"I saw you drooling at it in your magazine this other day." Hadrian grinned, quite proud. Neville hadn't been drooling of course, but he had been staring at the picture with such a fascinated expression that Hadrian thought it obvious what to get his friend.
Neville looked at his friend, genuinely surprised that he had noticed something he had never even brought up, before he shook his head, Hadrian was weird like that. He looked back at the sphere or rather the plant ensconced within, floating in the saltwater, a pale blue flower with stamen like pearls; Poseidon's Bloom, his mother's favourite flower.
"So…" Hadrian started before he found himself crushed in a hug. Startled he almost fell but quickly regained his footing, bemused he nevertheless wrapped his arms around his friend and if Neville let out a chocked sob, well Hadrian most certainly didn't hear a thing.
Hadrian was stuffed full of cake and his legs were burning from all the running he had done at Longbottom manor. Getting up the stairs had been a chore and a half. He wanted his bed and he wanted it now. So he could be forgiven for freezing at the sight that met him when he opened his door.
The room was in disarray, paper and feather strewn about, his desk had been pushed to the side, his books all over the floor and there in the middle of all this chaos was his familiar and an unfamiliar elf, fighting. The two were making an unholy racket, and Hadrian was thankful that his aunt and uncle were away for the evening, having decided to spend the day relaxing.
"Bad birdie, nasty birdie, give Dobby the mail!" the elf shrieked, trying his best to steal the small box bound to Hedwig's foot, but she was having none of it. Her beak flashed out, finding fingers and arms.
In that moment, watching his familiar send an icy gust at the interloper, he found clarity. Disparate little things came together and clicked and his mind shrieked, Thief!!
"Duff!" he barked out and then three things happened.
Dobby startled, surprised to see the owner of the room present. There was a pop and an older elf appeared.
"Master Hadrian, you…" the elf started and stopped, taking the scene in. "Interloper!" the elfin steward shrieked and lunged. There was a collision, a grunt of pain and expletives and in seconds the other elf found itself bound and gagged. Hadrian blinked, impressed, the old elf was sure damn efficient.
Hadrian stared hard at the caught elf, Duff had plopped the elf on the chair and surrounding the chair was a circle of rune stones, glowing faintly with magic; Hadrian wasn't taking any chances and neither was Duff. The older elf was off to the side, glaring at the younger elf, muttering under his breath. Hedwig was sat at the poster of the bed, still very agitated, the air in the room had turned frosty and cold.
"So…" Hadrian began fingering his wand. "You're the one who has been taking my mail. Why?"
"To steal Potter secrets, I suspect." Duff said menacingly. The usually diminutive elf seemed to swell with anger; fists clenching and unclenching.
The other elf shook his head frantically, the only movement left to him.
"So who sent you elf?" Hadrian asked. But the bound elf remained quiet, eyes wide with fear.
"He cannot tell you master Hadrian; an elf keeps their masters secrets." Duff said a begrudging respect colouring his tone. Hadrian sighed frustrated, what was he supposed to do here.
"We must tell your godmother master Hadrian. Perhaps she could…"
"No." Hadrian cut off the older elf. He startled surprised at his own tone. He sent Duff an apologetic smile.
"After what happened at the end of the school year I don't want to take the risk. I don't know how both aunt Petunia or Minnie will react…" Hadrian stopped noticing how much the captured elf was shaking his head, trying to get his attention. Hesitating a moment, Hadrian gestured towards Duff.
The older elf scowled, but still acquiesced, snapping his fingers, the captured elf found himself gag-less.
"The great Harry Potter, shows mercy to Dobby and lets him speak even after he wronged him, oh the great Harry Potter is a wonderful wizard." The elf burst out in a single breath.
Hadrian gave Duff a wary look, but the old elf shrugged, unconcerned.
"Your name is Dobby, you said…?" He asked hesitantly.
"The great Harry Potter says Dobby's name…!" Dobby exclaimed, looking ready to burst into tears.
"Oh quit your yapping you intruder, yes my master is great, but we don't have time to hear you go on and on about it." Duff threatened magic crackling along his arm.
"Why were you taking my mail?" Hadrian prodded. Dobby looked to say something but Duff grunted and the younger elf hesitated, clearly choosing his words.
"Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts, he is in danger."
Something cold dripped down Hadrian's back and he tensed; the words carrying a weight to them he couldn't ignore. Either the elf was deluded, crazy and wrong or he was crazy but right. Something told him it was the latter.
"Danger from what?" the question came from Duff, his tone gruff. The old elf had been suitably concerned when he had learnt of his young master's altercation with the possessed teacher.
"Dobby cannot say…"
"Then you are of no help then, are you?" Duff said derisively.
"No! Dobby helps, he warns, he makes Harry Potter think he is not wanted…" the elf stopped when there was a spike of magic.
"That's why I haven't been getting letters." Hadrian whispered, his voice trembling. "I thought Padma hated me, I didn't write her – but it was you." Hedwig barked angrily and the temperature in the room dropped, Hadrian's icy glare manifesting physically.
"Dobby had to, danger lurks in the shadows. The great Harry Potter must be kept safe, he is too important."
"And what about my friends, what about them huh?" Hadrian asked but the elf remained quiet, mute.
Hadrian let of a frustrated sound, a cross between a sigh and grunt. Why did this have to happen to him anyway. He felt a familiar weight on his shoulder as Hedwig alighted silently on her favourite perch. She bumped her head again his and feelings of understanding and comfort flooded him.
"Thanks girl." He reached up to stroke her feathers. "Duff, can you make it so that he can't come here again?"
"I can."
"Can you also find him when you need to?"
"I can."
"Good, get him out of here." Hadrian then turned to the elf, Dobby, he reminded himself. "I-I guess I'm thankful that you tried to warn me, thanks for that." No matter how uninformative that really was.
"But if I any more of my mail goes missing, any stuff of mine or I think you're interfering, well Duff can find you and he will deal with you." Hadrian said, his eyes hard and full of promise.
Before Dobby could answer Duff clicked his fingers and the bound elf found himself gone as if he was never there. All he left behind was a circle of stones and a chair within.
"Do you think I was suitably threatening at the end there, Duff." Hadrian asked as he made to pick up his used stones. Examining them he noted that there was still quite a bit of energy in them; good his design was becoming more power efficient.
"Oh, certainly master, quite good for your first time." The old elf went about setting the room in order.
Despite the light hearted banter, their minds were certainly focused on much more serious thoughts. This time, Hadrian promised himself, this time I won't be caught unaware. A memory flashed across his mind, a memory of crackling lightning, burnt blistering skin and screams. He would be ready.
AN: I'm back after that rather long hiatus. It was a bit touch and go for a while there. Anyway this chapter doesn't have much in the way of action, but it lays down some concepts that I would like to explore as the story progresses...and the story will progress that much I guarantee.
Feel free to read and review, constructive criticism is welcome. Until the next one.