**EDITOR'S ERROR** we apologize for the horrendous error in heading this chapter "The Revenge of Fluffy." It should actually be called "The Revenge of Fluff."
A/N: HAH. FOOLED you. Seriously now, I want to see good ol' Fluffy back in the series sometime. Not likely, eh? There's always fanficdom…
A/N: If you're the type of person who gets mad when people diss Christianity—even evil, genocidal mean people who will one day become Lord Voldie of the Thousand Devoted Fans—then just skip over a few lines in this chapter. I don't want your flames or your righteous indignation. And I don't think I'll be saying anything religious anywhere else in the fic.
Chapter Nine: 1941
Adriana and Paul spent Saturday's breakfast making eyes at each other—or rather, Paul spent breakfast making eyes at Adriana over a cup of pumpkin juice and Adriana spent breakfast deeply absorbed in the 1492 goblin rebellions. Minerva spent the breakfast trying not to make eyes at Tom, who (damn him) had positioned himself directly in her line of sight. Minerva couldn't help but notice that he was quite adept at eating porridge while keeping both eyes fastened straight ahead.
Thankfully, above her head, or Minerva would have been fighting an uphill battle against the Gryff-girl blush. Still, there was no sense in not looking at him at all…
Minerva decided that a healthy compromise was staring at the bowl of a Ravenclaw girl across the table from her. From this focal point, she could just see Tom's face at the edge of her vision. And keep her true intentions less than obvious.
Paul kept up a stream of background white noise, most of it about last week's quidditch try-outs, in which he'd secured one of the Gryffindor chaser positions. Minerva didn't see how she and Adriana could have forgotten the fact, with Paul bringing it up at least once in every conversation.
Not that she wasn't happy for him. But quidditch just wasn't one of her interests. There was nothing wrong with not liking the world's favorite sport. The wizarding world's. Which was practically her only world.
Which didn't make not liking quidditch a sin, for goodness' sake.
Maybe some of her irritation showed on her face, because Paul stopped a long-winded lecture on Gryffindor's prospects against this year's Slytherin team to address her specifically.
"Minerva—hey, Minerva!" Her head snapped up. "Somehow I don't think you're reflecting on the advantages of speed in the keeper."
"Er—does the advantage of a McPrewett at chaser work?"
He rolled his eyes. "Nice try—is there something wrong?"
"What was that about 'not prying'?"
"Surprisingly good comeback," he said easily. "But it's not getting you off the hook."
"I'm fine, Paul."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure."
"You sure you're sure?"
"Godric's sword, Paul, let up," said Adriana, not looking up from her book. Paul put his arm around her.
"And the modern voice of the Founders Four makes yet another triumphal entry into the conversation," he said. Adriana did look up from her book at this point, but only long enough to fwap him atop the head with a spare roll of parchment.
Minerva laughed and turned back to her strategic porridge bowl.
"Is there something on my bowl?"
"Excuse me?" Minerva looked up at a girl across the table from her. The girl—a Ravenclaw, of course, if she was sitting here—looked to be a year or two younger than Minerva, with a dull tree bark-colored sort of hair and grey eyes. Big grey eyes. Minerva dimly recognized her as the owner of the bowl she'd been staring at.
"Is there something wrong with my bowl? You've been staring at it all morning."
"Sorry—er…sorry." True Gryffindor brilliance, that.
"Oh—it's OK—I'm just—" the girl had crumpled at Minerva's apology, and now wore the self-conscious look of a person who had tried and failed to look tough.
"No problem," Minerva said, beginning to feel uneasy.
"No, no problem," agreed the girl. She blinked at Minerva. "But why were you looking at my bowl?"
"Well—I suppose I was just staring off into space."
"Oh—sorry."
"Like I said, no problem."
The girl flushed pink and began shoveling porridge into her mouth. Glad to have that conversation over with, Minerva looked back up at Tom's seat.
And found it empty.
Disappointed, Minerva turned her attention back to her own cold porridge and Paul's continuous quidditch chatter. She stayed with him through the optimal seeker body build (small, fast) and the importance of upper-body strength to the beater and several barely-masked invitations for Adriana to join the conversation. By now it was half past nine and the Hall had begun to clear out.
"Hey—"
Minerva looked up, trying not to groan as she saw the porridge-bowl girl trying to get her attention. The girl was standing up, and from her clear place at the table, she had obviously been gone for a while and come back.
"Yes?" Minerva asked warily.
"Well—" the girl faltered a bit. "You see, I've been given a message to deliver you." She paused, as if not sure whether this should be simply a matter of fact or a cause for embarrassment. Paul lifted an eyebrow at her.
"Tom Riddle says, 'Muggle lit.'"
"Does he, now?" Paul asked, eyes growing angry. "He's that scrawny Slytherin kid, isn't he? You tell him there's no need for insults. You tell him 'Slytherin trash.'"
Minerva was confused for a few seconds before he reached over an apparently catatonic Adriana to put a hand on Minerva's shoulder.
'Muggle lit.' He thinks it's an insult.
How very like a Gryffindor, she was tempted to think.
Porridge-girl cast a nervous glance around, tried a weak smile, and fairly fled for the great wooden doors.
Paul patted her shoulder.
"Don't even pay him mind, Minerva. He's trash, and he's stupid trash if he's insulting you."
"Thanks, Paul," said Minerva with what she hoped wasn't as weak a smile as the porridge-bowl girl's. "That means a lot to me, it really does."
Then she excused herself and hurried to the Muggle lit. section.
* * *
"You're late," said Tom Riddle when she ducked between the bookshelves.
"Sorry—I'd only just received your summons," she said dryly. He grinned.
"Yeah. I noticed that girl sitting next to you at breakfast. Once I'd been in the library a few minutes I saw her come in. A few surreptitious words in the Obscure Charms aisle and I had a personal messenger."
"She didn't need much convincing."
"I think she likes me."
Minerva pouted in jest before she could stop herself. Tom laughed.
"You're prettier, though, don't worry."
"Glad to have a discerning eye around," she shot back, mostly to cover the blush radiating out from her cheeks.
"Pout at me again. It was cute."
"Tom—"
"All right! On to safer territory."
They were silent for a few moments.
"I wish we had more classes together," said Tom offhandedly, and Minerva laughed.
"What?" he asked, looking annoyed.
"Imagine—imagine a Slytherin saying 'I wish we had more classes with the Gryffindors'," she got out. "Or vice-versa. I was thinking about the same thing." Tom relaxed slightly and smiled again. So he did know she wasn't still mad at him.
"Yes, it's pretty upside-down," he agreed. His eyes shifted toward the end of the aisle, out toward the open space at the front of the library. "You know, I happened to notice a nice, out-of-the-way table out there when I came in. Do you want to sit?"
"Sounds good."
Minerva cast a surreptitious glance around the library as they sat—it was mostly deserted, just a few people working on homework scattered among the tables. Nobody was near the table they had selected.
"What do you bet—any Gryffindors in the bunch?" Tom indicated the rest of the students with a chin-nod.
Minerva grinned wickedly. "I'd know them—and no."
"Pity," said Tom unconvincingly. "And how shocking, too."
Ah. Here was her opening. Minerva shifted her weight slightly, then said what was on her mind.
"You know, it's fun for a while, but I don't understand why you stick with this feud," she said. "And don't tell me you're just trying to be a good little Slytherin, because that won't cut it."
"Why not?"
"Because—beside the fact that you don't do things in order to be a good little boy"—here he grinned innocently, which she ignored—"—with you it's personal," she said. "Just the way you talk about it." She paused. "Yet you still like me."
"Is that a challenging tone I hear?"
"Come now—I'm simply curious," she said.
He frowned. "You're mocking me."
"I'm imitating you."
"Why?"
"I asked you first."
"What did you ask again?"
"Why the Gryff-Slyth feud is personal for you."
"And why I still like you." He paused. "OK—really long lecture on the way. Run if you will."
"I'm game," she said, grinning.
"OK—it's really less of a Gryffindor-Slytherin feud for me as a clash of worldviews—really," he added, seeing her skeptical eyebrow. "Come now, Minerva—I'm not that shallow. You have to know that. And you have to admit that simply hating someone because of the school house they're in is about the most shallow thing one can do."
Minerva nodded, surprised and pleased.
Tom continued. "You've been reading my copy of Hogwarts: A History, so you know how the houses started. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw were the school founders, and they sorted the students among themselves according to attributes—according to mental attributes. Gryffindor took the brave. Hufflepuff took the hard workers. Ravenclaw took the clever. And Slytherin took the cunning.
"That's what I like about the Founders Four—they definitely knew what they were doing. It would have been easy for them to sort by other factors—subject interest, talents, even magical ability level—but they didn't. They sorted by personality. And it's personality that sets the four houses apart, and what makes each unique." He stopped to take a breath.
"Go on," said Minerva, grinning. "I'm liking what I'm hearing. And it sounds like you've wanted to say it for a while."
"I've been sorting it out in my head," he replied, then laughed at the unintended pun. Minerva smiled.
"Anyway—back to the four houses. The Founders Four made a wise choice, because it was the personalities of their students that would determine the future of the school more than anything else. It was their attitudes, their ideas, their unique take on the world that things would boil down to in the end. That being said, there are some divisions you can notice almost immediately in this school." He turned around to indicate the rest of the library, which was still mostly empty with scattered groups and isolated students.
"Do you usually see a Gryffindor doing extra research?" he prompted.
"Er—"
"Except for you—you are an exception."
"Er—no, then."
"Exactly. It's the way the personality types are broken up. Here's my theory—" he turned back to her and leaned forward, as if he were drawing her into a conspiracy of some sort. Minerva leaned forward as well.
"Here's my theory—it's what the Founders Four placed the most value on. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff: bravery, courage, foolhardiness if I may say it"—she didn't contradict him, so he continued—"loyalty, hard work, steadfastness—they were chiefly concerned with the heart. Now Ravenclaw, and my own Founder Slytherin—cleverness, scholarship, ambition, cunning, wit—they were chiefly concerned with the mind." He sat back, looking satisfied. "That's my theory."
Minerva sat up too. "That's it?"
He blinked. "'That's it?' Yes, that's it. Isn't that enough?"
"Well, it certainly makes sense—I'm surprised I'd never caught that before," she allowed. "But I don't see why you make such a big deal about it."
"Such a big deal about it? It's two entirely different mindsets! No wonder Godric and Salazar got into such a row! And it's carried through to today, with noble exceptions," he said, nodding magnanimously to her. "Imagine a world of Hufflepuffs. They're followers: it's what their House praises as good. It's good to be loyal to someone, to work hard no matter what…have you ever read the Bible?"
"Yes," she said, quite miffed. Who hadn't read at least some of the Bible?
"All right then. The ideal Hufflepuff is like the ideal Christian: hard-working, loving, fair, "righteous", loyal to God, and utterly robotic and unquestioning."
"That's a pretty broad statement—and unfair."
"Is it? Are Christians supposed to question God?"
"Er—no…"
"There," he said, nodding in a self-satisfied sort of way. "Now Gryffindor—"
"Oh, goodness," Minerva said with mock-dread, burying her head in her arms. "I suppose we're Satanists then?"
He laughed, gratifying her. "No. No religious analogies this time, I promise. By the way, are you Christian?"
She shrugged. "I used to—well—no," she said, realizing he'd be much closer to figuring out she was Muggle-born if she said anything about church. It wasn't unheard-of for wizards to claim religious affiliation in the traditional Muggle sects, but Minerva had discovered during her time in the wizarding world that very few did—probably a throwback to the days of witch-hunting.
"Me either," he said. "I just wanted to see if—well, if I was making you uncomfortable." Minerva had a feeling he'd been testing her for girlfriend-worthiness, but it didn't bother her that much. She'd really only gone to church a few times since she was a little girl.
It suddenly occurred to her to wonder how he'd had access to a Bible. Some wizards, sure. An old pureblood family…
"Anyway," Tom continued, "Gryffindor: bravery. I guess this sort of gets back to what I was talking about a few days ago—an unthinking admonition."
"I remember," she said. She'd lost some sleep over that, and she told him so.
"Good," he said shortly, and she glared at him. "What I mean," he amended quickly, "is that I'm glad you're thinking about what I said. Bravery alone is stupidity. If you've read your history you'll even see what came of Gryffindor's bravery: he perished in battle." Minerva flinched, remembering.
"He went out against a large foe without proper preparations. Is that the kind of bravery your House advocates? Or is it just the empty, day-to-day admonitions to remember Gryffindor and be courageous. 'What is popular is not always right' or something or other. Those things you hear every day, so often that they mean little to nothing."
"Well," Minerva countered, "what moral virtue did Slytherin stand for, may I ask?"
"Oh," said Tom, clutching at an imaginary wound. "You're aiming to kill now, you are. I realize Slytherin has rather a bad reputation." He paused for her to grin at the understatement, frowned at her in mock-sternness, and continued. "But Slytherin sought out students who questioned. That's what I like about him. You always hear that Slytherins are rule-breakers, but that's because we're some of the only people who question anything around here. We like to work things out for ourselves."
"And Ravenclaws?"
"They're cut from the same material, but they're usually tamer about it. They're usually devoted more to the academic sphere."
"Not as adept at amorality, eh?"
He looked hurt. "Minerva—"
"Did that hurt you?"
He held the hurt look for a moment, but then let it melt away, to be replaced with a grin. "Not at all."
"I somehow didn't think it would."
"'Amoralist' is a nice insult as far as it goes. But you tell me, Minerva: what is morality?"
"Well—"
"Isn't it a personal thing? I mean, unless you're a member of a religion, and then you're bound to your own set of arbitrary rules."
"I don't think you're being quite fair," Minerva said. "I understand your bone-to-pick with arbitrary rules—I myself am tempted to overstay curfew—" he grinned at her, and she continued considerably more encouraged, "—but there are some rules that can't be broken."
"Such as?"
"Such as kindness."
"To whom?"
"Well—everyone, I suppose." She knew she was faltering, and he knew it too. Note to self: never debate philosophy with a Slytherin ever again.
"How about someone who's just put your best friend in the hospital wing?"
"Er."
"'Er.' My thoughts exactly."
"But Tom—"
But Minerva was interrupted at this point by a boy bumping into their table.
"Hey—watch it!" said Tom.
"Sorry," grunted the boy, and Minerva recognized him as Rubeus the bicorn kid. He gave her a grin, which she returned, and continued shuffling toward the bookshelves. When he turned around, she noticed the end of a very nasty-looking scratch poking below the fabric of his robes on his right wrist. They waited until the boy was out of sight.
"I would sincerely like to know," Tom began softly, once Rubeus was out of earshot, "how he got that scratch. Do you know him? I've seen him around, but only last year. He looks like a sixth-year."
"His name's Rubeus," Minerva replied. "He's a second-year. I only met him once, at the beginning of last year. He'd accidentally wandered into old Knutworth's bicorns, and gotten himself into a bit of a situation."
"He's heading toward the 'magical creatures' section."
"I'd noticed that myself. And on a related note, it's definitely nice to see someone who knows the library as well as Adriana and me." She flashed him a grin. "Must be that Slytherin focus on the mind."
"It must be," he said, sounding distracted. He was still looking in the direction Rubeus had gone. "Anyway," he said, snapping himself out of his little trance, "I enjoyed talking to you just now."
"So did I," she said, and found she was telling the truth. Some of it had been the normal things she'd been hearing every day for three years; some of it had been outrageous; some of it had been downright heretical had wizards cared about such things the way Muggles did.
"It was fun." She paused. "Surely you're not leaving just now?"
He laughed. "I actually had meant to talk with you about something totally different just now, but you know—let the winds blow where they may."
"What did you want to talk about?"
"Well," he said, looking more serious, "I think I know a place where we can meet and not have to worry about being seen together. I mean, we're going to have to keep an eye on—Rubeus, did you say? We're going to have to keep an eye on this kid to make sure he doesn't try to put two and two together. If we still care about the secret," he added with raised eyebrows. Minerva sighed.
"He's in my House—I can probably keep a loose watch on him. Now where could we meet?"
He grinned again. "It's a secret," he said in a sing-songy voice. "I'll show you tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Yes. Eight o' clock."
"Where?"
"Meet me off the Entrance Hall, to the left of the Great Hall."
"Ah, a secret sojourn by night."
"By moonlight," he added playfully.
"Sounds good. I'll be there," she said.
"See you then," said Tom as she got up to leave. "And watch the tall kid when he leaves the library, will you?"
"Done," she said, and flashed him another smile before leaving.
* * *
Minerva spent the rest of the morning—there wasn't much of it left, actually—finishing a sheet of calculations for Arithmancy. After lunch, she returned to the library with Adriana, where they alternately scoured the History and Transfiguration shelves. Adriana had an idea that they could do some joint research on the history of the International Society of Transfigurers, but Minerva was really more interested in the discipline itself and not its history. Adriana finally got herself a book entitled Transfiguration: The History of an Art and quoted from it liberally while Minerva memorized hand positions from the fourth-year textbook. She was quite keen to get on to some simple Wandless Transfigurations by the end of the year, so a strong base in the traditional methods was imperative, as Professor Dumbledore had stressed to her.
"The first major treatise on Transfiguration—at the time called Transformation, Forced Metamorphosis, or Changing Stuff Into Other Stuff depending on the area of the world—was by Stephen the Switcher, a Briton who had traveled to Egypt to study under the great wizards of the age, in 1024."
"'Stephen the Switcher'?" asked Minerva, successfully turning a roll of parchment into a large quill pen. "I suppose that was because of his area of expertise?"
"I suppose—unless, wait, here it is. He liked to amuse himself in his free time by performing Switching spells on people—he finally got into a lot of trouble by switching one of his professors' noses with a large snake."
"Oh, goodness," said Minerva, shrinking the feather down to the size of a pinhead.
"Yes. He was thrown out of the university, but he traveled to Rome, and during his course of studies there he wrote Transfiguration, not only standardizing the discipline's forms but its name. Egypt, of course, after this turn of notoriety, wanted him back."
"Did he go back?" asked Minerva, Engorging the feather to the size of a small cat.
"Yes. And watch that feather, too, it's starting to tickle my arm."
"Sorry. Has Dumbledore shown your class the new Mass Transfiguration technique they discovered this summer?"
"No," Adriana said, raising her eyebrows. "Are you holding out on us now, Minerva?"
Minerva grinned. "No. I was just early to class one day, and he showed me. Very complicated wrist motion, sort of a cross between Position One and Position Five. He turned a large number of dust motes into leaves."
"Interesting," said Adriana, going back to her book. "Anyway, around this time Transfigurers' Societies began to form, but the current International Society of Transfigurers wasn't founded until 1500."
"Long time," said Minerva, shrinking her feather down to normal size and turning it a bright electric blue.
"Long time for what?" said a large red object next to her. Minerva pushed her horn rim spectacles back in place and the large red object refocused itself into Paul, back in from an early quidditch practice.
"Hello, Paul," said Adriana without looking up from her book. "How was practice?"
"Hello, Adriana," said Paul, not looking up from taking off his chasers' gloves. "Practice was fine. How was the library?"
"Oh, it was fine."
"That's just fine."
"Have you two decided to not speak to each other again?" Minerva asked. "Because that got really annoying last year, what with all the one-word answers flying around."
"I don't know—have we?" Paul asked, looking up and flashing Adriana a grin that was sure to dazzle. Had she been looking up.
"I'm willing to maintain communication if you are," Adriana said.
"Alright then—we're still talking," said Paul to Minerva.
"Er—that's good."
Paul leaned over to inspect her book. "Position three, eh? I never quite got that one."
"Good for color and size changes," Minerva said, with just a trace of self-satisfaction. Paul grimaced.
"Teacher's pet."
Minerva smirked, and reflected that that really hadn't been as bad an insult as Paul had no doubt intended. At least, not for her.
"Quidditch jock." That had come from Adriana, who put a warning finger in the air at the precise moment when Paul's mouth opened to deliver a counter-offensive. Still looking at her book, she said, "I think it's about time for supper. How about you?"
"Good idea," said Minerva, still marveling at the timing of the finger.
"Any books to put away?"
"Yes. See you in the Great Hall?" Minerva said, getting up to leave.
"Very well," Adriana said, sounding distracted. Paul moved to get up, but then hesitated.
"We'll catch you there," said Paul. Minerva smiled at him, if a bit confusedly, and left for the library door. As she reached the threshold, she turned around, and saw Adriana and Paul each leant over the table, conversing in low voices. Well, then.
She turned to leave.
* * *