Wish You Were Here
Anthony ran across the grounds, hoping against hope that the pounding of his feet would drown out the jeers from behind him. It sort of worked. After a while, his running feet on the squelchy ground were all he could hear, but his head still /rang/...
*What did I do? What did I DO?*
He came to a stop at last when he could no longer run, and found himself to be at the edge of the forbidden forest. He had to physically stop himself from turning and running back. Instead, he planted his heels and wrapped his arms around himself; and, watching his breath curl away into the cold night air, he reminded himself (not without considerable vehemence) that if he went back they'd tear him to pieces. He wished he'd remembered his cloak. It was very damp and chilly out here. Then again, there wasn't much time to think of necessities when you had a pack of boys, each one twice the size of you, baying for your blood. Your /half/ blood. Your /common/ blood. *Your filthy, dirty, muddy blood...*
So, as he had nothing else to do, he walked a little way (very tentatively, utterly aware as he was of the stories the headmistress told them all, and the severe warnings she gave concerning anyone straying near them), and came suddenly to the edge of a little, inoffensive-looking thicket. It was nestled under the doughty boughs of the forest's usual monstrous oaks, but not choked by them; strangely serene, as if nothing fearful ever came here.
He stepped between the slender trees, and touched the trunk of one, marvelling at the smoothness of its white bark. He looked up at its silver leaves and golden flowers, and realised with a thrill of fantasy that its colour was no trick of the moonlight. For a while, he simply stood, looking at the marvellous trees, lost in his own memories; remembering things half a short lifetime ago, climbing trees he shouldn't, getting covered in scratches, getting leaves in his hair, feeling joyful and timeless.
(By now, you may note that his thoughts were no longer ones of bitterness or fear. This is from no enchantment other than that of his own mind's: intense whimsy and wonder can do that to a person.)
He looked down at last, and realised his feet had carried him to a small clearing. By the slight glow that seemed to emanate from the - most wondrous - trees, he saw many markers of stone, covered in ivy and moss. From here, he could not see what was engraved in them, but he knew from their lay, and from the cairns of stone they headed, that they were graves. However, this was not what made him stop in his tracks and stifle a gasp; no, what did that was the fact that his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was standing in front of the middle stone, apparently lost in thought.
Anthony ducked behind one of the beautiful trees, cursing silently. Upon seeing his teacher he had suddenly remembered why he was out here in the first place, and that it was cold, and night, and past curfew. His hindbrain was telling him to run like a jackrabbit and damn the consequences, because this was obviously a personal and private moment. However, his higher brain was telling him to stay exactly where he was; partly because he was wary of marauding classmates; partly because if his teacher caught him he was unlikely to be appreciative of any excuses (and of catching the professor in a moment that, by someone like him, might be seen as weak); but mostly out of rabid curiosity. This was a side of his DADA teacher that he had not known existed.
The argument was ended abruptly, and perhaps luckily, by a simple narrative convention. It was at this moment, maybe by some subconscious adherence to his hindbrain's urgings, that Anthony's right foot moved back, entirely of its own volition, and - wouldn't you know it, in a forest, too - it met a twig, which snapped. Loudly.
*Oh, buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbastard! Argh!*
Cringing so badly that it was possible that he might actually have been shrinking, Anthony saw through guilt-squinched eyes as the professor's bowed head snapped up, eyes flashing angrily. When they set on the cowering Anthony, the boy thought his teacher might actually draw his wand and curse him. It certainly hadn't escaped his notice that the professor's hand went - apparently automatically - to his side.
Anthony stumbled hurriedly forward, an apology spilling from him before he even knew his mouth was open. "I'msorryprofessorIdidn'tmeanto-" at this point he tripped over his own tongue and was forced to start more coherently. "I didn't know you were here professor, I really didn't mean to, to..." He trailed off, ensnared in a gimlet gaze that seemed to fill the world.
His teacher did not remove it from him, nor did it soften even the slightest, but at last it seemed he was allowed to look away, and so he did. The professor spoke then; his voice was quiet, but glacially cold.
"What are you doing here, child."
It wasn't a question, you notice. It truly was a statement, a knowledge of what the future would hold. And what that would be was a damn good excuse, boy, or heaven help you.
Flushing wish shame and guilt, Anthony stammered, "There were some boys... they were chasing me... I, I ran outside so they wouldn't find me, and I ended up here. I didn't mean to disturb you, professor, truly I didn't - I didn't know you were here!"
The professor looked deeply unimpressed, and colder than ever, but apparently his explanation had been enough. He looked at the ground, and then at the mounds in the glade. Anthony followed his gaze with burning (though, he knew, ill-advised) curiosity - and then his teacher's eyes snapped back to his own, making him gasp. After a tense moment, the professor spoke.
"What do you know about the War of the Phoenix, boy?"
Anthony ran across the grounds, hoping against hope that the pounding of his feet would drown out the jeers from behind him. It sort of worked. After a while, his running feet on the squelchy ground were all he could hear, but his head still /rang/...
*What did I do? What did I DO?*
He came to a stop at last when he could no longer run, and found himself to be at the edge of the forbidden forest. He had to physically stop himself from turning and running back. Instead, he planted his heels and wrapped his arms around himself; and, watching his breath curl away into the cold night air, he reminded himself (not without considerable vehemence) that if he went back they'd tear him to pieces. He wished he'd remembered his cloak. It was very damp and chilly out here. Then again, there wasn't much time to think of necessities when you had a pack of boys, each one twice the size of you, baying for your blood. Your /half/ blood. Your /common/ blood. *Your filthy, dirty, muddy blood...*
So, as he had nothing else to do, he walked a little way (very tentatively, utterly aware as he was of the stories the headmistress told them all, and the severe warnings she gave concerning anyone straying near them), and came suddenly to the edge of a little, inoffensive-looking thicket. It was nestled under the doughty boughs of the forest's usual monstrous oaks, but not choked by them; strangely serene, as if nothing fearful ever came here.
He stepped between the slender trees, and touched the trunk of one, marvelling at the smoothness of its white bark. He looked up at its silver leaves and golden flowers, and realised with a thrill of fantasy that its colour was no trick of the moonlight. For a while, he simply stood, looking at the marvellous trees, lost in his own memories; remembering things half a short lifetime ago, climbing trees he shouldn't, getting covered in scratches, getting leaves in his hair, feeling joyful and timeless.
(By now, you may note that his thoughts were no longer ones of bitterness or fear. This is from no enchantment other than that of his own mind's: intense whimsy and wonder can do that to a person.)
He looked down at last, and realised his feet had carried him to a small clearing. By the slight glow that seemed to emanate from the - most wondrous - trees, he saw many markers of stone, covered in ivy and moss. From here, he could not see what was engraved in them, but he knew from their lay, and from the cairns of stone they headed, that they were graves. However, this was not what made him stop in his tracks and stifle a gasp; no, what did that was the fact that his Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was standing in front of the middle stone, apparently lost in thought.
Anthony ducked behind one of the beautiful trees, cursing silently. Upon seeing his teacher he had suddenly remembered why he was out here in the first place, and that it was cold, and night, and past curfew. His hindbrain was telling him to run like a jackrabbit and damn the consequences, because this was obviously a personal and private moment. However, his higher brain was telling him to stay exactly where he was; partly because he was wary of marauding classmates; partly because if his teacher caught him he was unlikely to be appreciative of any excuses (and of catching the professor in a moment that, by someone like him, might be seen as weak); but mostly out of rabid curiosity. This was a side of his DADA teacher that he had not known existed.
The argument was ended abruptly, and perhaps luckily, by a simple narrative convention. It was at this moment, maybe by some subconscious adherence to his hindbrain's urgings, that Anthony's right foot moved back, entirely of its own volition, and - wouldn't you know it, in a forest, too - it met a twig, which snapped. Loudly.
*Oh, buggerbuggerbuggerbuggerbastard! Argh!*
Cringing so badly that it was possible that he might actually have been shrinking, Anthony saw through guilt-squinched eyes as the professor's bowed head snapped up, eyes flashing angrily. When they set on the cowering Anthony, the boy thought his teacher might actually draw his wand and curse him. It certainly hadn't escaped his notice that the professor's hand went - apparently automatically - to his side.
Anthony stumbled hurriedly forward, an apology spilling from him before he even knew his mouth was open. "I'msorryprofessorIdidn'tmeanto-" at this point he tripped over his own tongue and was forced to start more coherently. "I didn't know you were here professor, I really didn't mean to, to..." He trailed off, ensnared in a gimlet gaze that seemed to fill the world.
His teacher did not remove it from him, nor did it soften even the slightest, but at last it seemed he was allowed to look away, and so he did. The professor spoke then; his voice was quiet, but glacially cold.
"What are you doing here, child."
It wasn't a question, you notice. It truly was a statement, a knowledge of what the future would hold. And what that would be was a damn good excuse, boy, or heaven help you.
Flushing wish shame and guilt, Anthony stammered, "There were some boys... they were chasing me... I, I ran outside so they wouldn't find me, and I ended up here. I didn't mean to disturb you, professor, truly I didn't - I didn't know you were here!"
The professor looked deeply unimpressed, and colder than ever, but apparently his explanation had been enough. He looked at the ground, and then at the mounds in the glade. Anthony followed his gaze with burning (though, he knew, ill-advised) curiosity - and then his teacher's eyes snapped back to his own, making him gasp. After a tense moment, the professor spoke.
"What do you know about the War of the Phoenix, boy?"