For a moment, Anthony was so surprised that he honestly could not speak.
After the moment had lengthened almost to passing, he spoke at last. "W-
well, sir, I know that it ended, um, about twenty years ago-"
"Seventeen. To the day," the professor corrected curtly.
Feeling that it would lengthen his life-span considerably to keep going, Anthony followed this up. "And there was a bad wizard called V- Volde-"
He stopped, unable to say it and greatly surprised at this. True, he had never tried, but his parents had always told him to never believe all that 'you-know-who' nonsense. He attempted to glare at his traitorous tongue, which resulted in a twitch at the corners of his teacher's mouth.
"Voldemort," he said softly, looking back at the graves. "Yes, boy, you are correct. He was a-" again that twitch, which made Anthony feel, to his own immense curiosity, simultaneously stupid and pleased; "- a very 'bad wizard'. And a powerful one, too. He was nearly immortal, did you know that, boy? Avada Kedavra would not fell him - well, it could, but he'd just be back again in another decade. More lives than a cat, and as indestructible as a cockroach."
"I didn't know that, sir, no," Anthony said quietly. This seemed even more of a private moment than he had first considered. These were obviously bitter memories, and long-buried ones.
The professor regarded him again, the stern look more contemplative than harsh. "Say on, boy. Is that all you know?"
"No, sir," Anthony said, quickly. He racked his brain for the details that his father and uncle had always told him. "The final battle was here," he said slowly. "Over there," he pointed through the beautiful trees, "by the lake. Harry Potter finished him. And professor Granger was there, and... Ron Weasley? And the teachers were there, too... they called them..." he faltered. Damn, his brain had petered out. At a time like this! He could usually recall it all off the top of his head...
"The Order of the Phoenix."
Anthony, who had been lost in furious rumination, jerked his head up suddenly. The voice had been so soft that he was not sure he had actually heard it. He looked at his teacher in confusion, trying to discern whether his ears had in fact been deceiving him... but no, he decided, looking at his teacher's profile, he had heard correctly. "Sir?"
Anthony barely stopped a flinch as the professor's sharp gaze seared him again.
Looking hurriedly at his feet, Anthony decided that the best way to avoid the gimlet gaze was to keep going. He managed to mumble, "Yes, sir, that was it. The Order of the Phoenix." He balanced his chances, and put in, quietly, "I heard some of the students died. And some of the teachers, too."
This time Anthony couldn't have stopped the flinch if he'd had a full-body bind put on him, coming to the instant (though blindingly obvious) conclusion that this had been entirely the wrong thing to say. Pinned under the steely weight of his professor's Look (never before had anything been more deserving of the capital letter), Anthony felt as if every minute detail of his mind was being flayed away for speculation.
"Really," the professor snarled. "Is that what you heard? And do you know their names, boy? Do you know who they were?"
Anthony felt about an inch tall. No, he had no idea who those people really were, though he had a feeling some were buried beneath those mounds. As such, he had no right to be here. This was a place of mourning, and of remembrance for those who could. But this was before his time. He was wise enough to know that this was no place for him.
"No, sir," he said, his voice as small as he felt.
The gaze did not lift, and it did not lessen in intensity, but the anger was slowly replaced by an expression that Anthony could only describe as bitterness. The glare was, very slowly, replaced with a faraway look that he had not known his teacher was capable of.
"Then let me teach you, boy," he said quietly.
****
The professor moved silently towards the boy, noticing him stiffen, and then passed him by, through the thicket of beautiful trees; they had the curious effect of calming and heartening him, while terrifying and cowing other parts of him that still lingered long after. Strangely, though not at all surprisingly, the discomforting feeling always centred on his left forearm. After a tense second (which he totally ignored, of course), he heard the boy follow.
He stepped out onto... oh, he would forever think of it as the battlefield. He hadn't had a clue, then, what side he was really on. He'd thought he was already decided, but always there was something nagging at him, telling him that maybe it wasn't so clear-cut. Until it came to the last battle, which no-one had been prepared for; then, it had been truly decided.
He stopped at the edge of the lake, trying without success to quash the surge of horrific memories that always assailed him here. He held them back just long enough to grit a sentence out to the boy standing, bewildered, next to him.
"Here. This is where Hagrid died." And he closed his eyes.
The Potter boy had been stock still for a moment, and then in a blur of movement was at the fallen half-giant's side, shaking him in a terrible urgency to wake he who could not be woken; for it was clear he was dead. Three killing curses, shouted in gleeful unison, had seen to that.
Another, taller, black shape had sprinted through the chaos towards him, pulling him from danger with a deceptive strength for one so thin and generally unhealthy-looking. Potter, typically, fought to return to his friend's side, and had nearly succeeded when the man's other hand clamped upon his other shoulder and forcibly turned him to meet his eyes. "Let me go!" Potter had screamed, seemingly heedless to the tears streaking down his face, or of the bedlam around them. "Let me go!"
"Leave him, boy! You can come back to him later. He's dead, you are of no use to him now. The rest need you to fight."
"What's the point?!" the boy screamed. "If they're all going to die anyway, just because of me, then what's the bloody point?! We may as well give up now!"
It had been the wrong thing to say; this man had no time or tolerance for pity or doubt. Eyes burning with a fire and ferocity that would have made a full-grown lion stop in its tracks, the man said, in a voice like stone, "You will not give up. We are not going to; and you have no excuse in your self-pity. Not everyone here today will die unless you leave them to. We will fight until either we or they are all dead, because the alternative is unthinkable." And he slapped the boy's dropped sword into the trembling hand and leapt back into the fray.
The one who watched them did so with a strangely detached feeling. He still was not sure what his feelings were, and from behind the wall, huddled with the younger children, he watched. When he had first seen the man break ranks with the other side, to step to Dumbledore's side with ice in his stare and fire in his hand, the boy's primary thoughts had been of great confusion. Not angry, betrayed bewilderment, which he had expected in a situation like this, but of honest confusion, as if he could not quite conceive of what was happening. Had he been aware of the attack, he would have been right there in the ranks, but as it was, he was just another one of the children who watched as the headmaster (the old fool, he amended quickly) and all the heads of house threw up a firewall to protect them. He had looked it up later. Those of light would be able to part the flames just long enough to pass unharmed, but anyone of evil would perish.
All he knew at the time was that there were many children of eleven and twelve years who could not protect themselves should they need to. And while he was no fool Gryffindor, he would not leave any of his own house to die.
"Professor?"
The tremulous voice mercifully broke through his thoughts; he could practically feel the glazed look sliding from his eyes. Turning his stern face towards the boy who stood at his side, who now gazed back with far less fear than before, he felt he should have been annoyed, but he felt a great need to teach this boy. Against the protests of his teacherly hindbrain, he moved on, until they stood on a little hillock.
"There to the east is where the Death Eaters marched on us. There in the West," he turned and pointed, "is where the dark creatures came..."
The battle was at its height, both sides evenly matched only because many of the students had broken through the firewall to fight alongside their teachers; though, occasionally, it was to fight alongside the Death Eaters. The watching boy still sat behind the barrier, undecided and afraid. One of the smaller girls was crying, so he did his best to hush her. This earned him fish-eyed looks from the others, but he just shrugged defensively and turned away.
And then a cry went up, and all looked to the West - for there stood Voldemort, arms raised and eyes triumphant, and before him rose a great tumult of chaos and horror. Harpies swept in a foul cloud across the bloody sky; great black wolves tumbled across the torn ground; slimy, worm-like dragons roared and stamped; trolls dragged their clubs behind them; and all manner of dark beasts poured forth in a torrent of darkness. This impression may have had something to do with the setting of the sun behind them, but it was no less terrifying a sight for all the logic in the world.
"Seventeen. To the day," the professor corrected curtly.
Feeling that it would lengthen his life-span considerably to keep going, Anthony followed this up. "And there was a bad wizard called V- Volde-"
He stopped, unable to say it and greatly surprised at this. True, he had never tried, but his parents had always told him to never believe all that 'you-know-who' nonsense. He attempted to glare at his traitorous tongue, which resulted in a twitch at the corners of his teacher's mouth.
"Voldemort," he said softly, looking back at the graves. "Yes, boy, you are correct. He was a-" again that twitch, which made Anthony feel, to his own immense curiosity, simultaneously stupid and pleased; "- a very 'bad wizard'. And a powerful one, too. He was nearly immortal, did you know that, boy? Avada Kedavra would not fell him - well, it could, but he'd just be back again in another decade. More lives than a cat, and as indestructible as a cockroach."
"I didn't know that, sir, no," Anthony said quietly. This seemed even more of a private moment than he had first considered. These were obviously bitter memories, and long-buried ones.
The professor regarded him again, the stern look more contemplative than harsh. "Say on, boy. Is that all you know?"
"No, sir," Anthony said, quickly. He racked his brain for the details that his father and uncle had always told him. "The final battle was here," he said slowly. "Over there," he pointed through the beautiful trees, "by the lake. Harry Potter finished him. And professor Granger was there, and... Ron Weasley? And the teachers were there, too... they called them..." he faltered. Damn, his brain had petered out. At a time like this! He could usually recall it all off the top of his head...
"The Order of the Phoenix."
Anthony, who had been lost in furious rumination, jerked his head up suddenly. The voice had been so soft that he was not sure he had actually heard it. He looked at his teacher in confusion, trying to discern whether his ears had in fact been deceiving him... but no, he decided, looking at his teacher's profile, he had heard correctly. "Sir?"
Anthony barely stopped a flinch as the professor's sharp gaze seared him again.
Looking hurriedly at his feet, Anthony decided that the best way to avoid the gimlet gaze was to keep going. He managed to mumble, "Yes, sir, that was it. The Order of the Phoenix." He balanced his chances, and put in, quietly, "I heard some of the students died. And some of the teachers, too."
This time Anthony couldn't have stopped the flinch if he'd had a full-body bind put on him, coming to the instant (though blindingly obvious) conclusion that this had been entirely the wrong thing to say. Pinned under the steely weight of his professor's Look (never before had anything been more deserving of the capital letter), Anthony felt as if every minute detail of his mind was being flayed away for speculation.
"Really," the professor snarled. "Is that what you heard? And do you know their names, boy? Do you know who they were?"
Anthony felt about an inch tall. No, he had no idea who those people really were, though he had a feeling some were buried beneath those mounds. As such, he had no right to be here. This was a place of mourning, and of remembrance for those who could. But this was before his time. He was wise enough to know that this was no place for him.
"No, sir," he said, his voice as small as he felt.
The gaze did not lift, and it did not lessen in intensity, but the anger was slowly replaced by an expression that Anthony could only describe as bitterness. The glare was, very slowly, replaced with a faraway look that he had not known his teacher was capable of.
"Then let me teach you, boy," he said quietly.
****
The professor moved silently towards the boy, noticing him stiffen, and then passed him by, through the thicket of beautiful trees; they had the curious effect of calming and heartening him, while terrifying and cowing other parts of him that still lingered long after. Strangely, though not at all surprisingly, the discomforting feeling always centred on his left forearm. After a tense second (which he totally ignored, of course), he heard the boy follow.
He stepped out onto... oh, he would forever think of it as the battlefield. He hadn't had a clue, then, what side he was really on. He'd thought he was already decided, but always there was something nagging at him, telling him that maybe it wasn't so clear-cut. Until it came to the last battle, which no-one had been prepared for; then, it had been truly decided.
He stopped at the edge of the lake, trying without success to quash the surge of horrific memories that always assailed him here. He held them back just long enough to grit a sentence out to the boy standing, bewildered, next to him.
"Here. This is where Hagrid died." And he closed his eyes.
The Potter boy had been stock still for a moment, and then in a blur of movement was at the fallen half-giant's side, shaking him in a terrible urgency to wake he who could not be woken; for it was clear he was dead. Three killing curses, shouted in gleeful unison, had seen to that.
Another, taller, black shape had sprinted through the chaos towards him, pulling him from danger with a deceptive strength for one so thin and generally unhealthy-looking. Potter, typically, fought to return to his friend's side, and had nearly succeeded when the man's other hand clamped upon his other shoulder and forcibly turned him to meet his eyes. "Let me go!" Potter had screamed, seemingly heedless to the tears streaking down his face, or of the bedlam around them. "Let me go!"
"Leave him, boy! You can come back to him later. He's dead, you are of no use to him now. The rest need you to fight."
"What's the point?!" the boy screamed. "If they're all going to die anyway, just because of me, then what's the bloody point?! We may as well give up now!"
It had been the wrong thing to say; this man had no time or tolerance for pity or doubt. Eyes burning with a fire and ferocity that would have made a full-grown lion stop in its tracks, the man said, in a voice like stone, "You will not give up. We are not going to; and you have no excuse in your self-pity. Not everyone here today will die unless you leave them to. We will fight until either we or they are all dead, because the alternative is unthinkable." And he slapped the boy's dropped sword into the trembling hand and leapt back into the fray.
The one who watched them did so with a strangely detached feeling. He still was not sure what his feelings were, and from behind the wall, huddled with the younger children, he watched. When he had first seen the man break ranks with the other side, to step to Dumbledore's side with ice in his stare and fire in his hand, the boy's primary thoughts had been of great confusion. Not angry, betrayed bewilderment, which he had expected in a situation like this, but of honest confusion, as if he could not quite conceive of what was happening. Had he been aware of the attack, he would have been right there in the ranks, but as it was, he was just another one of the children who watched as the headmaster (the old fool, he amended quickly) and all the heads of house threw up a firewall to protect them. He had looked it up later. Those of light would be able to part the flames just long enough to pass unharmed, but anyone of evil would perish.
All he knew at the time was that there were many children of eleven and twelve years who could not protect themselves should they need to. And while he was no fool Gryffindor, he would not leave any of his own house to die.
"Professor?"
The tremulous voice mercifully broke through his thoughts; he could practically feel the glazed look sliding from his eyes. Turning his stern face towards the boy who stood at his side, who now gazed back with far less fear than before, he felt he should have been annoyed, but he felt a great need to teach this boy. Against the protests of his teacherly hindbrain, he moved on, until they stood on a little hillock.
"There to the east is where the Death Eaters marched on us. There in the West," he turned and pointed, "is where the dark creatures came..."
The battle was at its height, both sides evenly matched only because many of the students had broken through the firewall to fight alongside their teachers; though, occasionally, it was to fight alongside the Death Eaters. The watching boy still sat behind the barrier, undecided and afraid. One of the smaller girls was crying, so he did his best to hush her. This earned him fish-eyed looks from the others, but he just shrugged defensively and turned away.
And then a cry went up, and all looked to the West - for there stood Voldemort, arms raised and eyes triumphant, and before him rose a great tumult of chaos and horror. Harpies swept in a foul cloud across the bloody sky; great black wolves tumbled across the torn ground; slimy, worm-like dragons roared and stamped; trolls dragged their clubs behind them; and all manner of dark beasts poured forth in a torrent of darkness. This impression may have had something to do with the setting of the sun behind them, but it was no less terrifying a sight for all the logic in the world.