The quote at the start of the chapter is from William Shakespeare's play Julius Caesar. Act 1, scene ii, line 195.
Author's Note: Sincerest thanks to Juliane, tenacious muse, Ayod Botla, Christa Winters, and Kellibus for their help with the scene in Maxwell's office. Thanks are also owed to Thing1, D.M.P., and Rage Point for their help (however unwitting some of it may have been) with the Quidditch scene. Thanks must also go to all my reviewers, particularly my pesterers, the ones who say to me in posts or emails "oh, by the way, JK, when's the next chapter of DD coming out?" I don't know how I'd pull the story through difficult times without you. I also owe my gratitude to the kind denizens of Sugar Quill, The Werewolf Registry, and Gryffindor Tower for their support and advice when I was suffering those most dreaded aspects of writing: writer's block and burnout. And of course, thanks to the marvellous Elanor and TQ.
Typed up with the help of Easter chocolate and Antony Bond's soundtrack (Kasey Chambers' Barricades and Brickwalls, tracks 2, 7, 10, 11, and 12).
Dedication: To my readers and friends. Without you, I am nothing
and Antony is even less.
Chapter Four: The Professors and the Patients
"He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous."
Julius Caesar, Julius Caesar
"Never in all of my ... If I never see those manipulative ..." There was a pause, as though the speaker was uncertain of the next words, perhaps searching for an insult bad enough to use, "SLYTHERINS again ..." SLAM!
The door to the staff room crashed furiously shut, and rattled for a moment before coming slowly to a halt, so great had been the force that flung it. The voice faded as its owner collapsed into a chair with a heavy exhalation, scattering rolls of parchment from the table across the floor as his cloak swept after him.
"Maxwell!" Merlin Talisen cried in dismay as the essays she was marking fell from their organised pile to scatter across the floor. She glared at him as she bent to collect them. McGonagall looked up from her paperwork, fixing Maxwell with a stern look over the top of her glasses; in that glare was a strong rebuke for his shattering of the staff room calm.
"Is there a problem, Maxwell?" From his reaction, Maxwell could well have not heard either of them.
"Bickering, self serving, self righteous, arrogant ..."
"Who is it this time?" McGonagall asked, the sterness of her question reflected in her face.
Maxwell sighed and gave a moan. "My prefects ..."
Talisen smiled inwardly, nodding, her irritation at his scattering of her marking fading now she knew the reason for his behaviour. She dumped the essays on the table, went to the bench, and filled a cup with tea. She pressed it into the astronomer's hands. He glared at it as though it were his prefects, then took a hot sip. He continued to scowl into the murky surface of the liquid.
"What did that poor cup of tea ever do to you?" Talisen joked, but it failed to amuse him; he directed his glare (a particularly vicious one) at her.
"You remind me of your prefects yourself with that look on your face, Maxwell," McGonagall said.
"Well, few could tutor in the Death Glare better than Mr Bond," Talisen added with a wry half smirk.
Maxwell's face hardened and he dropped the temperature of his voice several degrees to drawl "Just plain 'Bond', thank you, Talisen. He is, as you are aware, sixteen, not seventeen." He muttered something furious, redoubling his optical assault on the teacup.
"Did he say that?" Talisen exclaimed. She paused. "You know, I had actually forgotten the exact date of his birth," she added in a dry tone. McGonagall was looking solemn.
"I had forgotten how rotten his entire family is!" Maxwell spat back.
"Do you want sympathetic ears to listen to your prefect problems or not?" Talisen snapped again, displaying her fine redhead's temper. She took a calming breath then added "Or are they Head Boy hassles, judging by your complaints?"
"Both," Maxwell sighed. "Bond has been the personification of the term 'obnoxious spoilt brat' ever since I became his Head of House. He shows up late to Astronomy classes, without a word of apology of course; deliberately disobeys my instructions, especially about when students are to do their work without assistance; accuses me of lacking," here he adopted an icy drawl, "'proper Slytherin spirit'; refuses to show me any respect ... "
"And now he and Chauncey ..."
"Your sixth year prefect, yes?" Merlin said, frowning at Maxwell's news. McGonagall's face was icily cold.
"Yes," Maxwell said heavily. "Bond and Chauncey decided a sniping match in the middle of the common room was the most brilliant idea since sugar quills. From what I can gather, Bond raked a first year over the coals for being unfortunate enough to accidentally let that blasted cat of his out of the common room. Chauncey decided to be the first years' champion and stick up for the boy, so Bond threatened to remove him from the Quidditch team. Chauncey insulted him and deducted fifteen points for abuse of privileges as Quidditch captain, so Bond retaliated by removing twenty points for back chatting." He held his head in his hands, with a piteous moan. "And Bond says I lack Slytherin spirit. Bond was in the wrong, of course, just for a change, but thirty-five points ..."
"But neither of those are things they are authorised to deduct points for, so the deductions don't stand!" Talisen exclaimed.
"They'll lose more than thirty-five points from this. It's the principle of the matter," McGonagall said in a grim tone, frowning. "It seems I need a word with them. Bond especially. And then I'll send him down to you, Maxwell, for it seems you also need words with the boy. Make sure he knows you will tolerate no disrespect. If this continues, he will lose his badge.
"Now, if you will excuse me, I must go find Bond and Chauncey." With a single regal motion, she swept a sheaf of parchment from the table and exited.
Talisen gazed at Vellian, her brow furrowed in thought. He was muttering at a furious rate, with a furious tone. "Maxwell, he needs to learn that simply because you're not Severus Snape doesn't mean he can be outright disrespectful. Make sure he knows he's in danger of losing his badge. I'm not sure there are a lot of people who'd be sad to see it go to someone else. After all," she added, a glint of mischief in her eyes, "I'm sure Minerva could find a worthy Hufflepuff for the job."
The look of horror on Maxwell's face was enough to make putting up with
his complaints worthwhile. Talisen erupted into laughter.
* * *
Maxwell was filled with a quiet determination as he shut the door of his office in the lower levels of the Astronomy Tower. He knew exactly what he would tell that sixteen-year-old upstart Head Boy when Minerva sent him down. By the stars in Orion's Belt, Maxwell was not going to let this ... insolence continue. He was not Severus Snape. He knew that just as well as his infuriating students. But that did not mean he was going to let those slithering Slytherin serpents slide all over him and into his position. He was Head of House. Bond was Head Boy. Maxwell was Astronomy Professor. Bond was a student. A brilliant one, admittedly, for no-one could deny it, but still merely a student.
Maxwell sat behind his desk, staring into the mesmerising flames of the crackling fire. He could clearly remember Bond's father from school. His son bore startling similarities to him. Maxwell had only the frightened, awed, and above all, impressionable memories of a first year, but amongst the strongest in that confused jumble of recollections were those of the most powerful student in Slytherin. The boy had, if Slytherin rumour was to be believed, spent most of his Hogwarts career waiting in the shadow of his first cousin, Lucius Malfoy, letting him have the crown of the power games.
Yet Jorman Bond XXIV could never be described as weak or inept. He had
merely been content to watch, wait, and learn. And learn he did, for after
Malfoy had left Hogwarts, Bond had quickly ascended to the very top. No-one
had realised just how much he had learned, nor how high he had already
been on the power scale until he was Quidditch captain (not a mark of Quidditch
talent in Slytherin, but rather of power), with none daring to challenge
him. Maxwell's early memories of Hogwarts were like a small child's, or
badly blended paint: a marbled blur, with brilliant specks standing out
from the mass. Jorman Bond XXIV was one of them. Maxwell clearly remembered
the flint-harsh words, the cold face, the aloof stance.
Bond had been a menacing figure to those who challenged him.
Those challenges had been few, but there were some. They were mostly from the Gryffindors in his year. Bond had never been the intellectual (or, to be honest, Quidditch playing) equal of the Head Boy and Gryffindor Quidditch captain, James Potter. In that, he was unlike his son. But Bond's special enemy had never been Potter. Potter had been Severus Snape's favourite despisee. Bond's had been Sirius Black.
Maxwell allowed himself a small smile at the irony of that particular hatred. He had seen the ferocity at Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch matches, where Black had always looked like he wanted to smash Bond's nose with a Bludger. Maxwell also recalled the only time he'd seen the two boys on the ground together, and a small shiver made its way down his back. Bond had been threatening the Gryffindor, who had been ignoring him, and the anger and hatred emanating from each boy had made Maxwell hurry away, and still made him shudder in memory. He had never repeated the experience, which he was eternally grateful for, given later events.
It was these events that caused the irony of Jorman Bond's life and his son's mere existence. There were two forks to the serpent's tongue; Bond had fallen deeply in love with a Slytherin girl in the year above him. She had, Maxwell had been told, been of a chilly beauty, with a family history on her mother's side dating back to the Norman conquest. The perfect wife for any self-respecting Slytherin.
And Antony had tainted blood on either side of his family; for she had been Sirius Black's first cousin.
The other prong was what happened when Black and Bond left Hogwarts. Bond had quickly become a Death Eater, and just before Harry Potter's first defeat of Lord Voldemort, had been arrested and sentenced to life in Azkaban for murder and torture. What a blow it must have been to him to have his school enemy as his superior; the most despised Gryffindor in his year transformed into his master's most trusted servant. And then to spend years in the same prison as him. For the same crime: murder. So alike in the end.
Maxwell gave his grim smile at the irony a few moments more. Then he reluctantly dragged himself from reminiscence and into the present. He needed to think about the conversation he was going to have once Bond deigned the mere professor worthy of his presence. Maxwell would repeat Minerva's words. The boy (which was, after all, all Bond was) was so hopelessly proud of his success that the threat of removing his Head Boy badge was sure to have the desired effect.
Talisen was right. Bond had to learn that, just because he was used to Severus Snape, that didn't mean he could undermine and thus usurp his Head of House's power. Maxwell was going to make damn sure he did learn it. No sixteen year old spoilt upstart brat of a ... a Malfoy was going to do that to him ...
"Professor?" The soft voice held just the slightest hint of strain, as though it pained the speaker to grant Maxwell the courtesy of his proper title. He felt his jaw tense and his face harden as he looked up.
"Yes, Bond?" he asked, injecting the maximum of disdain he could muster into the two words.
"Professor McGonagall sent me to see you." There was the slightest smile playing across the boy's lips, as though nothing in the surely long and furious lecture McGonagall had given him about misuse of power had affected him at all, and receiving an angry tirade from Maxwell would have even less effect. As though he didn't give a damn what his Head of House was about to say.
At that moment, his Head of House was in fact feeling fury well inside his chest. The sheer insolence of the boy! "Yes, Bond. I have no doubt she did," Maxwell said icily. "Please take a seat."
"Oh, it's no problem, professor. I'll stand." That smile was teasing him!
Maxwell began to argue, but the words would not form. He had no real case for grievance, anyway. What difference was it to him if Bond stood or sat? His complaint died away in a single, choked syllable. Bond raised an eyebrow and leaned casually against the wall by the fireplace. The warm light of the flames was in stark contrast to the marble coldness of his face. What was it Maxwell had been about to say?
He paused for a moment, then remembered. "Ah," he cleared his throat; his mouth was suddenly very dry. "Professor McGonagall sent you here because ..."
"Sorry, professor?" Bond looked up, flicking away some miniscule speck he had been picking from his cloak. "What was that?"
"Ah ..." Maxwell was momentarily disoriented, but he persisted, finding his disrupted rhythm again. "Professor McGonagall and I feel that you have been, ah, undermining my authority as Head of House."
"Is that so, professor?" Bond asked, his eyes widening slightly as though in surprise. He put one hand to his face, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger. His other hand was tapping the mantle piece with a regular drumming sound. He was gazing at the wall beyond his teacher's left shoulder with fascination. "How could I have failed to notice that?"
Maxwell had never noticed how tall Bond was before. His mouth had mysteriously lost all moisture. "Prof ..." he swallowed hard, "Professor McGonagall and I felt you need to, ah, well ..." His voice faded away as Bond fixed icy eyes on him. "To, ah ..."
"I need to what?" Bond seemed genuinely curious; he leaned forward, came slightly closer and studied Maxwell intently. "That you ... that ... you need to stop." Maxwell felt a flush rising and fought to avoid Bond seeing the weakness. The smile was back. Bond was taking genuine pleasure from his teacher's discomfort. But Maxwell felt too disheartened to do anything about it.
"Dismissed," he said. Bond waited a moment before detaching himself from the wall and slinking silently off into the shadows.
Even in your victory, you had to pause to silently gloat a moment,
didn't you Bond? Slytherin!
* * *
The Hogwarts Quidditch season had begun in November, with Hufflepuff defeated by Gryffindor with a margin of two hundred and fifty points. The Hufflepuff team had been lost and demoralised following the murder the previous year of their captain and Seeker, Cedric Diggory. Gryffindor's team, however, had been in fine spirits, excepting their new captain, Harry Potter. Potter, from rumour, had not greatly wanted the position, but was the only team member who could offer any consistency as captain; the other experienced players were all seventh years, and would simply be gone the next year. For this reason, in houses where the position of Quidditch captain was not a prize in power games, seventh years rarely became captain, so Potter was it.
In spite of their captain's unwillingness, the team had come together and played well. Now it was time for the next match, and the last of the term: Ravenclaw versus Slytherin. There had been no official announcement as to whom Slytherin would be playing as captain, but none of the seventh years had any doubt. There were dark rumours flitting about regarding a near mutiny two years ago, between Flint's supporters and a band of renegades led by Bond.
It was Raylene and Feena's luck to be sitting near Potter and his band of Gryffindors for the game, in which their friend Melissa was playing Chaser. Because of their place in the stands, they not only got Lee Jordan's commentary, but Fred and George Weasley's tactical analysis of the Slytherin team as a bonus. The six Gryffindors - four Weasleys, Potter, and Granger - were a secretive huddle from the moment they were seated. Every now and then one of them would exclaim in surprise or irritation, and the Ravenclaws could hear what they were saying. Feena was curious; Raylene let her snoop and instead waited expectantly for the match to begin, clutching the banner she and Feena had made for Melissa, giving a goofy grin of exalted expectation into her Ravenclaw scarf.
"You mean you don't know who Slytherin's playing as captain?" one of the Weasley twins exclaimed.
"Bond," the other said, arranging his face into a grotesque, over-exaggerated smirk, glaring down his screwed-up nose. "His royal highness, Antony Bond, king of obnoxious brats."
Raylene gave an appreciative cough of laughter, and Feena beamed. "Mel will love it! Remind me to get him to do it again!" If Raylene had had any food or drink in her mouth, she would have spat it across the back of Ginny Weasley's head in the sharp burst of laughter that exploded from her at the mental image of Melissa's reaction.
There was some more hurried whispering, with Fred and George saying something earnestly to Potter, making small hand movements in their attempt to get the point across. Soon Potter's voice floated above the rustling leaves of the gossip tree. "If he's so great, why haven't we seen much of him before?"
"Easy," Feena said with a smug smile. The Gryffindor huddle turned and gawked at her. "I'm not an alien!' she exclaimed, which made them change their expressions so they didn't imply she was. "Fred, George, surely you've heard him whinging to his cronies in class ..."
A look of pure glee spread across ... was it George's face? "Ah, yes! But Edwards, Flint is so positively unfair," he whined. "He puts me on the reserves bench for no reason ... How could I forget?" he added, laughter in his voice. "Thanks, Feena."
With that, the Ravenclaws and Gryffindors each went back to their own thoughts and conversations. Feena squinted at her watch, fiddled with the knob which wound it, and said, "They'll be out soon."
Raylene grinned. "Hurrah for Mel, finally getting on the team!" Feena nodded her agreement, and was about to speak when the seven blue and seven green dots, led by a single Madam Hooch dot, marched out onto the field.
Lee Jordan commenced his commentary. "And here come the players. There's almost a brand new line-up from both Ravenclaw and Slytherin this year. Both teams have new captains - Ravenclaw plays their Chaser Julian Dreng of sixth year, and Slytherin their Chaser, Antony Bond of seventh." Lee spoke about the other changes to the teams as their members lined up. Raylene could see Melissa standing out on the field with her long hair tied back. Melissa caught Bond's eye, for he was watching her, and tossed her head, flipping her blonde braid over her shoulder. Bond turned his gaze to Dreng, staring at him for a moment before taking his extended hand.
The balls were released. The players mounted their brooms. There was a tense moment when even the Bludgers seemed to hang motionless in the chill winter breeze. The pitch filled with an expectant silence, that of the school paused in waiting. Raylene clenched her fist around the banner, while Feena sat staring intently at the pitch. The whistle blew.
With that short, sharp blast, all was chaos. Players jostled for positions, caught in a breakneck dash for the balls. Cho Chang and Draco Malfoy hovered towards the edges of the pitch, watching each other as much as they searched for the Snitch.
Meanwhile, Melissa had seized possession of the Quaffle and shot off towards the goal posts. She was impeded by the need for some hasty manoeuvres to avoid having her head smashed by a Slytherin-aimed Bludger. Julian Dreng and the fourth year Kristie Sparrowhawk were with her, but so were the Slytherins. Potter and his friends in the stands were whispering at a furious rate. Melissa swerved, ducked, shot higher into the air and passed to Kristie. With the slightest glance at each other, Bond and Chauncey flew straight at the fourth year. She swerved to miss them, and Melissa her team mate shouted something, her face livid. The Slytherins repeated the manoeuvre, and this time in her swerve Kristie was pounded by a Bludger and dropped the Quaffle. A fierce scuffle ensued, the area around the ball being transformed into a flapping flurry of blue and green.
Chauncey shot out one end, his fellow Slytherins racing behind him. The Ravenclaws were in pursuit. Chauncey rolled to avoid a Bludger and made a stylish pass to his captain almost before he had steadied himself. Bond faced Terry Boot, the Keeper. He aimed, raised the Quaffle, drew his arm back ... and shot down a few metres, passing to Montague. The Keeper was confused for only the briefest moment, but it was sufficient. Feena cursed as the Quaffle sailed through the leftmost goal. The Weasley twins sat with set jaws, glaring at the field.
It wasn't long before Melissa, Julian, and Kristie had equalised, but Slytherin's early goal seemed to have given them a morale boost, which in turn made them more aggressive, more cohesive than Ravenclaw. Bond could be seen hollering comments at his team and it was unusual for him to have to tell them again. Whatever his personality flaws, he was an undeniably good Quidditch captain.
Soon Slytherin were up by fifty points. It was obvious even to Raylene, who understood little of Quidditch tactics, that Ravenclaw were becoming increasingly frustrated. She waved her banner harder, screaming encouragement to the point where she knew she'd be hoarse after the game. Julian Dreng called a time out, and the teams took a few minutes to form little huddles on the pitch. Julian looked to be almost pleading with his players, while Bond seemed calm and cool.
When the brooms rose again, the Ravenclaws were using a new tactic: their Beaters, Darren Royce and Andy McNevin, were working in synchronisation to harangue Slytherin's Chasers. One would belt a Bludger towards a Slytherin, and as the player swerved, the second would send the other Bludger straight into their new path. Several times Chauncey almost found himself thrown from his broom, and his team mates were obviously infuriated. Several nasty fouls had soon been committed against Ravenclaw, resulting in them gaining back some of the gap in penalties. Bond called time out. He looked livid and spent a few minutes speaking furiously to his team members, gesticulating wildly. After that, there were no more fouls.
Slytherin scored twice more and Ravenclaw once, to bring Slytherin's lead to thirty. Bond took the Quaffle for another shot at goal. Both Ravenclaw Beaters went straight for the Bludgers, just beating the Slytherins to them. Bond was almost ready to shoot. Andy McNevin sent the first Bludger straight at him. He dodged it, cursing, and Feena cheered. Bond was looking around for Darren Royce and the second Bludger, keeping moving to present a more difficult target. He passed to Chauncey.
Bond never saw the Bludger. In the time between his dodge and his pass, Darren had aimed the Bludger just to his left, and in the eye blink that was the moment between its aiming and arrival, he had moved into its path. With a sharp cracking noise it struck, straight on the back of his head.
The Quidditch pitch went quiet for a moment. Darren's mouth had dropped open and his club hung limply from his hand. Draco Malfoy was gazing in wide-eyed fear, and Claude Chauncey dropped the Quaffle. Nobody picked it up. There was a deafening silence; it seemed like the whole school was holding its collective breath. Feena and Raylene watched, frozen in mid banner wave. They saw, with a mixture of shock and morbid fascination, Bond swaying for a moment on his broom. Then slowly, excruciatingly slowly, he swayed too far to one side, lost his grip, and fell.
The life rushed back into the stadium with an onslaught of noise. Professors
Talisen and Vellian, closest to the ground, were on the pitch in moments.
As Bond hit the ground, there came a ringing, squealing scream from the
Slytherin stands. Lee Jordan swore. Vincent Edwards leapt to his feet.
And Claude Chauncey, with a cool logic to defy any catastrophe, collected
himself and used his Chaser reflexes to capture his fallen captain's broomstick.
After all, escaped brooms had a habit of finding the Whomping Willow, and
it was a very good broom.
* * *
It was incredible how different the hospital wing looked when you were the visitor, not the patient. Or was it simply the length of time since he had last spent hour upon hour staring at those bare walls? Before, it had always been him lying weak in the bed, and his friends crowded around him, fiddling with the covers, fussing over the pillows.
Now it was the opposite situation. He was the worrying companion, his friends were in classes, and in the bed ...
"Remus?" a weak voice quavered from behind him.
"You're awake." Lame, Lupin. Trés lame. That was Sirius' voice speaking in his head, just as it was Sirius' voice drifting from the bed. A voice he had not heard, nor allowed himself to hear for twelve years, from that terrible day in 1981 until he met Sirius again. A voice he had pushed away, refused to accept .... But that was past now. Perhaps neither of them would ever recover from the torment of those years, but at least now ... now, in a time where darkness was ever looming, now at least he had his friends back. All of them, or as many as were still alive.
Even so, those years would always hold their terror. And now, scarred and damaged, could Remus or any of his companions gather the same strength they had fourteen years ago? As people closer to forty than thirty, could they ever have the same energy, inventiveness and sheer belief in their own invincibility as the bunch of naive, wide-eyed teens they had been the first time around? Voldemort was back, the same as before. Maybe he was even more cunning, for he had had long years with nothing better to do than plot his revenge. But those who were to fight him had grown older. They simply weren't as strong as they had once been.
As newly emerged ex-students, they had been ready to seize the world which seemed to be luxuriantly laid out before them. But now they knew it was not that easy. The youthful exuberance and optimism had gone; Remus now bore more physical and mental scars from his curse and the years in isolation, and Sirius woke up screaming in the night. What use could they be? Surely it was too much to hope that Voldemort would take his time to make his second rise to power. It had only been time that allowed any sort of resistance, for as Voldemort grew stronger, so did his enemies. But now he knew the deadly game he was initiating. He was ready to play, and his opponents had grown complacent. Remus shivered.
"Remus?" Sirius' voice was a murmur, only a fragment of what it usually was.
Remus shoved the disturbing thoughts away, smiling at his friend. "How do you feel?"
"Just fine, Remus. As wonderful as you normally feel when you've just been dealt an Aconita Draught by Lucius bloody Malfoy."
Remus felt his smile widen. "You must be fine, Sirius. You're being sarcastic." He dropped his voice. "How do you know it was Malfoy?"
"I smelt him. If you were there, you might have, too."
"Why did you touch anything if you could smell him?"
"He was too bloody devious, that's why. Poisoned the pool out back of the place, didn't he? I didn't imagine he'd think of that. And an odourless poison, too. Peter must have told him I'm an Animagus. Why he hasn't told the Ministry, I don't know. But If I get anywhere near him, he's dead."
Remus didn't bother asking if Sirius meant Malfoy or Pettigrew. It was obviously an either/or situation. Sirius was muttering darkly. In the furious torrent of cursing, Remus caught only a few words.
"Wolfsbane ... werewolf ..." and something unrepeatable. It had not escaped Remus' attention that the main ingredient in the poison that had almost killed Sirius was the very thing which prevented him from being a ravaging monstrosity once a month. Monk's Hood. Wolfsbane. Aconite.
Sirius swore, and Remus was inclined to agree with him. Of course, he was used to people targeting him because of his curse, but still ... Malfoy was beyond the norm.
"I'd forgotten how much I hate Malfoys." Sirius spat with a rough, hacking wheeze.
Remus felt his eyes widen and fumbled for the antidote. Sirius pulled a face, but gave no resistance as his friend poured the vivid turquoise liquid into his mouth. Remus waited for the wheezing to subside, then hurried out of the room to find Madam Pomfrey.
Instead, he found Merlin Talisen.
"Merlin! Where's Poppy?"
Merlin turned to him, and her expression changed from confused and pensive to warm and welcoming. "It's not serious, is it? She's tending to a Quidditch casualty."
"No. I just needed to tell her Sirius's had another relapse. He's okay, she just said to tell her when I get a chance if it happened ... " Remus paused for a moment, then frowned. "Is it a Saturday?"
Merlin gave a slightly lopsided grin. "Yes. Slytherin are currently being slaughtered by Ravenclaw, having lost their captain and tactician to a Bludger in the head. Accidental, of course, and I'm afraid the poor Beater feels quite guilty."
Memories of his days teaching were stirring in Remus, so he asked who the offending and offended parties were.
"Well, the offender was good tactics gone slightly wrong and Darren Royce. The casualty was Antony Bond."
"Quidditch captain, is he?" Remus pondered, mostly to himself.
"Yes," Merlin replied. "And Head Boy, and much as I hate to say it, the best downright Slytherin bastard since Lucius Malfoy."
Remus gave a mournful sigh. "That's a shame. I had hoped he'd stray from that path."
"You've utterly confused our poor dear Defence professor. She can't understand why he's doing it."
"He took up my invitation? Good."
"Look." Merlin pointed up the corridor, to where Poppy had appeared.
Remus nodded and hurried towards her, suddenly thinking of nothing more
than Sirius' condition.
* * *
The end of term was fast approaching. Sirius was making a rapid recovery, with his sense of humour improving every day. Nouvelle had set her class a research task on an Auror and a Death Eater, to be completed over the holidays, and Merlin had come up with what she herself had called "a hare-brained but reasonable scheme."
Dumbledore had called together those members of his old anti-Voldemort team, and had highlighted to the teachers the need for a focus on protecting students from the current situation. Nouvelle had set her research essay partly because of its place in the course, but also to help the students gain an awareness of what it was they were up against if they ever had to face a Death Eater.
Merlin had come up with her own idea. She was going to offer an extra afternoon Potions course for her more talented seventh years, dealing mainly with defensive potions and antidotes. She had approached the relevant students after their ordinary lessons, and they were all eager to join the class. She even sought out Antony Bond in the hospital wing, and even he, after some sarcastic and sardonic remarks, agreed.
On the last weekend of term, she, Remus, and Nouvelle met in the hospital wing to talk to Sirius. Merlin and Remus had taken a short walk just beforehand; most of the students were in Hogsmeade, and those who weren't were curled up in their common rooms by the fireplaces or studying in the library, so they decided to risk it.
They talked of grand things and of gibberish. Until they had met again when Remus had brought Sirius to Hogwarts for treatment, it had been years since they had spoken, and those years had built hurt and a rift between the two. They had quickly sealed the rift once more.
All those years ago, none of Lily and James Potter's friends had known how to deal with the terrible things that had happened that Hallowe'en. Mundungus Fletcher and Arabella Figg drifted their own ways, Arabella to keep an eye on Harry, and Mundungus to become known to the Ministry as a first-class rascal. Nouvelle had simply vanished one morning. It was only much later that her friends and family found out she had gone to France. That had not worked out, so she had attempted almost all of Europe, then tried Australia as a home. She had finally settled in Canada, and had lived there until Dumbledore had requested her help as Defence professor. Merlin had simply faded into anonymity and the Muggle world. Remus, however, had disappeared one day, and not been heard from until his appointment at Hogwarts.
"I was terribly afraid, Merlin, of what the wolf might do," he admitted shamefacedly to her. "I was petrified .... The wolf had so much anger stored away. It was mad at losing its playmates, mad at the world, and mad at me. And my own guilt and shame made it even worse. I couldn't be near anyone I cared for in case of the wolf harming them. And when the wolf finally got over the anger, it was too late. It had been too long, and I was too afraid of what people thought of me."
"Idiot. No-one would have cared," she told him, staring straight into his eyes. She turned to him, giving a reassuring smile with a terrible twist of sadness. "We all needed our own time, Remus. You most of all, for you had lost ... everyone. We each dealt in our own ways. No-one could blame you for that."
"I know that now," Remus said in a mournful, even wistful tone.
They walked in silence until they reached the corridor leading to the lower levels from the hospital wing. Rounding a corner, they came face to face with a student. It took Merlin a moment to recognise him, and when she did, she was rather surprised, for he was behaving in a most unusual way.
"Professor Lupin!" he exclaimed, a genuine smile flickering across his pale face.
"Antony," Remus replied, extending a hand. Antony reached out to take it, but hesitated a moment. Then he slipped something from his finger with a glint of silver and extended his own hand.
Remus smiled. "Removing that is a courtesy your father never bothered to show me." Merlin then saw that Antony had slipped from his finger a familiar object: a silver ring bearing his family crest that his father had worn in his own time at Hogwarts. Remus had a burn scar on his arm from that wretched thing.
"I am not my father, professor." With that, the boy nodded, and replacing his ring, strode away, not even pausing to sneer at Merlin.
"Was he always like that to you, Remus?" Merlin asked, incredulous.
"He's always been courteous, yes," Remus replied.
"That's strange. To me he's nothing but an obnoxious spoilt brat of
a Slytherin."
"He was like that to everyone else." But Remus' tone was vague and Merlin realised whatever the reason for Bond's behaviour, she was not going to get it from Remus.
Sirius and Nouvelle were already waiting for them when they appeared.
It did not take long for the four of them to launch into all sorts of conversation,
dealing with everything from the serious matter of Voldemort's rise to
the frivolous gossip that was social life at Hogwarts. Only one thing was
not mentioned, and that was by unspoken but mutual consent: those fourteen
years of pain and loneliness.
* * *
The last patrol of term was awkward to make an understatement. The winter weather had truly struck, and Hogwarts was in the midst of a snowstorm. The glimpses of white swirls scurrying past as Raylene and her Hufflepuff companion trudged by the windows, cloaks pulled tight around themselves, was enough to make them feel even colder.
Conversation was stilted, and neither girl was focusing much on their patrol, but rather on the two weeks of blissful break which lay before them, or getting back to their own warm common rooms. Raylene yawned, pulled off her glasses, and rubbed her eyes. What an isolated job this was. Admittedly, there were teachers patrolling, as well as the Slytherin/Gryffindor patrol of Claude Chauncey and Robert McAlban (if their house rivalry hadn't led them to kill each other yet), but in the cold midnight, there could just as well have been no-one else for miles.
It was the sort of thing that made you think, patrolling. Especially since nothing ever happened on patrol. Thinking was exactly what Raylene was doing as she made for the Ravenclaw common room at a few minutes after midnight. Thankfully the snow had stopped, and there was some faint light drifting through the windows.
She was planning how to get her holiday homework done whilst allowing time for Christmas and other such happenings when she saw a dark silhouette almost hidden in the shadows, with moonlight falling across its shoulders and its head bowed. She would have stepped forward to see if she needed to use her patrolling authority after all, but something stopped her.
Whether it was the exquisite, ethereal elegance of the figure, or the sense of sadness that seeped into her soul, or perhaps the sudden feeling that she had no place interrupting this solitude, she could not tell. She was about to turn and leave when a quiet voice drifted towards her from the figure.
"How old are you, Raylene?" The voice held a hidden emotion in it, unrecognisable, but noticeable. It took Raylene some time to place it, but the figure turned a little in the moonlight and she recognised its face: Antony's.
She felt a shiver down her spine. Frightened as the thought made her, she knew that she needed to realise that Antony was dangerous. How long had her parents spent telling her, ensuring it was carved on her memory, the dangers of Dark wizards? What could he be thinking, standing alone in the moonlight?
"Why do you ask?" she said, a hint of suspicion in her voice.
"No reason." He sighed, and Raylene felt her heart again twisted by the same feeling of intense sorrow and sadness she had felt when she first came across him.
She had no idea why Antony was asking this; he had never paid any real attention to her as a person before. But there was something about his melancholy, perhaps the dejected hunch of his shoulders or the slight bowing of his head, that made her answer.
"Eighteen in April."
"I'm sixteen. Seventeen on January fifth." He returned to staring out the window. But it was not his usual rude dismissal, nor did it make Raylene feel despised and slighted as such treatment usually would.
He was thinking, and had said all he needed or wanted to. He was not in an evil mind, but instead a thoughtful and mournful one. She didn't pretend to understand, but instead just stood and watched him for a while.
He must have thought her long gone, for in his elegant carved marble profile she saw tiny gleams of moisture on his cheek. He closed his eyes with a hissing breath that sounded almost tearful, put his face in his hands and swore. It was not an angry cursing, rather one of frustration and sheer misery. Two words drifted clearly from him to where Raylene stood.
"Why me?"
With that, Raylene turned. She couldn't understand why she felt so dismayed
by what she had seen, yet she could understand now why she had been compelled
to watch him. She had seen a new Antony Bond, for in the place of the cold,
sarcastic sadist there had been a sixteen-year-old boy. And that final
moment in the moonlight had shown her more than even that. In that glimpse,
she had seen that not only was he merely a boy, but he was alone. Alone,
miserable, and terribly vulnerable.
* * *