Disclaimer: Well, I think we all know by now that I am most decidedly not J. K. Rowling. Nor am I affiliated with her, AOL Time Warner, Bloomsbury Publishing Plc or any of the publishers of Harry Potter worldwide. I don't have permission to do this. I'm just a fan having fun, and I'm certainly not making any money.
As always, Merlin Talisen is mentioned courtesy of my sister, the lovely TQ.
The epigram is from William Shakespeare's Hamlet, act III, scene ii, line 373. The quote in the main body is from the same play, act II, scene ii, 278.
Author's Note: Not much to say, really, except the usual thanks to Calliope, TQ, and Elanor. Thanks are also due to the folks at Livejournal who helped get me motivated. Hugs to you all.
Happy New Year!
As the end of the holidays approached, Antony began to realise how fortunate he was that he had the escape of Hogwarts. He knew that he could expect a meeting with Voldemort soon, to receive instructions on how best to carry out the Dark Lord's wishes at school. But after that, he surely could not be expected to attend Death Eater meetings, and he would not have to maintain his façade under the constant pressure that was his fear whenever he was in Lucius's presence. He had been foolish not to understand how lucky he was to have had Hogwarts, for there he did not have to lie so constantly; there a mistake could be explained and forgiven, and he had worked so diligently at his image that it was now taken for granted by his fellow students.
However, he could not escape the possibility that Lucius would return. He was uncertain if, after the enormous toll his effort had taken on him on the day of his induction, he would be able to manage such a feat again. His fear led him to shut himself in his room. He spoke neither to Kilby nor to his mother, and remained moodily silent at meals, reflecting on his situation rather than on the social pleasantries of mealtime chatter. In his place at the head of the table, he would sit, straight-backed, caught in the endless chain of wealth and manners that had ensanred his ancestors for hundreds of years. In the dining room, at the old, mahogany-carved table, just himself and his mother with Kilby scurrying into and out of the room bearing great platters of too much food, Antony felt that he could just as easily have been a part of the Elizabethan world he so often lost himself in. Indeed, he wondered, as he took the occasional sip of fine wine that his mother obviosuly expected of him, was this how Hamlet had felt when in the immediate presence of Gertrude? Had he felt the same anger, resentment, and betrayal? For to Antony, the tragedy seemed all too life-like.
After each meal, he would return to his room. To distract himself from the harsh reality of his life, he engrossed himself in schoolwork, particularly the questions Professor Vector had given for Arithmancy and the translation of an ancient passage for Professor King's Ancient Runes class. When his work was finished, he sat at his desk with the Arithmancy textbook open and blank rolls of parchment before him, making precise, calculated marks and notations as he derived equations and solutions.
To the untutored eye, Arithmancy was no more than magic with numbers, simple predictions. But to someone undertaking a study of the subject, it became far more. A more advanced student began to realise how many branches there were to Arithmancy. There were two main categories, with each breaking into smaller groups. One area was that of the magical powers of numbers and their uses in other disciplines, such as Divination. The other was the far more difficult and mysterious magical theory. This was delving into the technical aspects of magic, discovering the reasons why spells had the effect they did, and deriving theorems and equations to explain them. It was similar to a combination of the Muggle disciplines of mathematics and physics, as Professor Vector had explained. Magical theory was the least favourite sort of Arithmancy for most students; they despised the tedious, precise work. However, it was to magical theory that Antony applied himself during the final dragging days of the holidays.
Extension question.
Derive the magical formula for one of the following:
Jelly Legs
Summoning Charm
Basic Transfiguration
Those of you who are particularly eager may like to try all three.
Antony, please note that I do not expect a fully worked derivation for a Cheering Charm as well! Professor Vector had written across his parchment as she checked his final work for the term. Nevertheless, that was what he applied himself to, having completed all three components of the extension question. For he was at home with the numbers. He could trust them. They didn't change, and they had no expectations of him. A brilliant magical theorist was expected to be neither sociable nor particularly anti-social, just good with the formulae. That was one expectation Antony could live up to.
When f= force of spell, p=power of wizard, x=experience,
and v=magical variable,
v=
He paused over the magical variable. The elusive formula was always the most difficult to calculate in any theory. It was unique to each spell, and represented the magical force that made each piece of magic different to any other. Defining that quality was amongst the hardest things any magical theorist could attempt. Some spells had no magical theory, and that was why. It was widely considered that the magical variable of Avada Kedavra would allow the production of a theory, and that from that a magical theorist could derive the magical variable of a potion or spell to counter it, accomplishing something no expert in any other field had managed.
"I was never fond of magical variables," said a cool voice from behind Antony. "They're too elusive for my liking."
Antony started, blotting the parchment, then hurriedly stood, dropping his quill and smudging his parchment even more.
"Lucius!" The man smiled, and Antony suppressed a shudder. The expression was so insincere, almost as though it mocked the idea of a true smile. "What a ... lovely surprise!" The hesitation was a moment too long, and Antony cursed himself.
"I just wished to deliver some instructions from our Master." Antony had to force himself to breathe steadily and quietly. Lucius raised an eyebrow, and Antony offered him a seat, into which he swept with the lethal grace of a jungle cat. "Thank you. Now, to business. Our Master has given me instructions regarding your operations. There is an organisation centred at Hogwarts called the Order of the Phoenix. It is your job to watch for indications of their movements. The headmaster trusts you, so it is likely you will be able to gather some information about the group. He leads it.
"You are to come to meetings whenever possible. However, it is not necessary for you to come when it will, ah, attract attention, shall we say? Any questions?"
Antony shook his head. The Order of the Phoenix - who could they be? Lucius smiled as he stood. "I shall see you at dinner." He frowned over Antony's shoulder at the Arithmancy for a moment, then left. Teeth clenched and eyes screwed tightly shut, Antony violently balled the parchment up, threw it into the fireplace, and muttered "Incendio," watching as the carefully worked numbers and pronumerals crackled and burned.
***
Finally, the day came when Antony could return to Hogwarts. He bad Lucius and his mother farewell, gathering himself for the enormous task of making his sad farewell appear genuine; he forced his face into a mold of downcast sadness so realistic that his mother enveloped him in a final hug before he left, telling him, "Oh, darling, you'll be back soon." That thought was enough to ensure he no longer had to act.
Once out of their sight he ceased to hide his relief and enjoyed the all-too-short time of freedom he had before once again he stood in front of the looming castle, greeted by its towers and their strong, bleak stonework. The castle somehow seemed to want to take on a menace that was not its as it stood against the dark clouds that threatened a snowy night. For here his image was established. It was not in doubt, and failure for a moment could be laughed off and easily explained, as he had managed when Talisen questioned his interest in Shakespeare. He only wished he could have done the same when, two years ago, someone else had made the same realisation. But then it had led to a sort of uneasy comradeship, and a chance to study Defence Against the Dark Arts in his senior years. It had had its uses.
As he mounted the steps and approached the oak doors, he found himself trembling. You wanted to escape, but what does Hogwarts offer? Nosy teachers, unfair teachers, worthless teachers, and a bunch of prying, manipulative, and thoroughly despicable Slytherins. What refuge is that? And it was true. For here, while he was not under the pressure of Lucius's imposing presence, he could not escape into his room for hours. He slipped a hand into his pocket and felt his Head Boy badge there, which brought another wave of panic. He had classes, Quidditch, and his duties as Head Boy. Once again he felt the burning sensation of tears he had felt so often since his birthday. How could he maintain the balance of power, schoolwork, his duties as a Death Eater, and his image? Surely he would fail. Fail and perish. He put his hands on the oak door and rested his head there for a moment, forcing himself to breathe slowly and deeply. Finally, a shaky sort of composure regained, he entered the castle and stalked through the corridors, passing an occasional window which offered a brief glimpse of the cool, moonlit grounds. His doubts began to niggle at his composure once more, and he wanted to shove them from his head, screaming, but did not.
Stop it! he told himself, forcing his feet to stop moving. This is exactly what you've been doing for the past seven years. Why are you so worried? He gazed out on the icy grounds, feeling his mouth set in a harsh line. He took a sharp breath, closing his eyes to shove back the prickling moisture he felt in them.
Yes, I've been playing this power game for seven years. But I'm not playing for approval anymore. I'm playing for survival.
Slowly, he forced his face back into the passive mask his peers knew so well. He pinned the badge back onto his chest, fumbling slightly from nerves, then took a deep, calming breath, composing his emotionless façade. He raised his head slightly, feeling his mouth set itself into a look of snobbish disapproval. He arched one eyebrow. Good. He was ready.
In a swirl of black, he turned and strode down the corridors and staircases. As he descended the last stairs into the dungeon level, he felt the slightest drop in temperature and saw the dimming of the view around him as he left the area of the school with windows behind. Any Slytherin could tell when they were on that floor without even looking; the rest of the school was just that little bit warmer and brighter. He didn't know if any of the other students would notice, but after all, Slytherins did live in the dungeons.
He felt the slightest of smirks creep onto his face as he felt his cloak billow behind him. He had done it. The perfect Slytherin was back, and it was with a commanding, imperious tone that he gave the password. He took slow but confident, regal steps into the common room and watched as the eyes of all his housemates turned towards him. The chatter died. He smiled.
"Oh, it's Bond." A figure unfolded itself from one of the best chairs near the fireplace. Antony saw the slightly longer-than-normal brown hair and caught the faintest hint of accent on the words.
"It's a pleasure to see you too, Chauncey." Antony heard the bite in his voice and felt his smile widen. Yes, he was back, and playing the game just as well as always. Chauncey looked Antony up and down, then scoffed.
"Excuse me," he said, slipping past his housemates and up the dormitory stairs.
"Welcome back, Bond." This time the use of the surname was in an entirely different context. It was said with almost a friendly tone. Antony strode towards the chair the voice had come from, and felt the eyes drift away from him and the atmosphere drop in the tension he hadn't realised was present.
As usual, Draco was curled in Antony's favourite chair. All it took was a stern look and a raised eyebrow to unseat him. Antony sank into the seat, staring at the flames.
"Happy belated seventeenth," the voice which had greeted him said.
"Thanks." He sighed, moving slightly in his chair to find the warmest, most comfortable position. The glow of the flames was warm on his face and he wanted to close his eyes, sit back, and sink into dozy relaxation. But he felt his muscles were tense, and he didn't dare to release the tension, show himself off his guard, comfortable, to his housemates. Instead he stared into the fireplace. The shadows nearest the fire were dancing in time with the flames. Enchanting.
"Have a good Christmas?"
"Yes."
"Could you be any more monosyllabic?" Half joke, half frustration, the words snapped Antony out of his preoccupation.
"Sorry, Edwards."
Vincent shrugged. "Something wrong?" he asked in a low voice.
Antony glanced around the common room.
"Not in front of the entire house."
Vincent nodded. "Ah. Sensitive issue."
"Understatement."
"Antony!" The name rang across the common room.
"Oh, holy hell." Antony scowled. "Do I have
to put up with her?"
Vincent shrugged. "I think she likes you, Bond."
"Thanks for the understatement," Antony said, feeling his voice ooze sarcasm. "Again."
"How were your holidays?" a female voice trilled.
"Hello, Vanitra."
She smiled and slid into an empty chair nearby. Doing his best to appear to ignore her, Antony studied her as surreptitiously as possible. On the edge of his vision, he watched her lean back into the chair, totally aware of her beauty and the effect it had on the males of the house (or most of them). Firelight sparkled on her blonde hair, and her face was smooth and elegant.
Antony sighed. He began thinking again.
As he stared moodily into the flames once more, the common room began to empty. Students were retreating to their dormitories, retiring early so they could start the new term on a bright note rather than a lethargic one.
"Want to talk?" Vincent said when the common room was finally empty of everyone but the three seventh years. Antony shook his head. Vincent winced. "That bad? Well, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Thanks."
Vincent took a step towards his friend and placed a hand on Antony's shoulder. "Bond, your sarcasm ought to be declared illegal," he said, a twist of sympathetic humour in his words. Antony briefly covered his friend's hand with his own and forced a smile. Vincent nodded and tightened his hand ever so slightly, a reassuring squeeze of Antony's shoulder.
When Vincent had also retreated, Vanitra rose and slunk over to Antony. She leaned on the back of his chair, her chin on her hand, and toyed with his hair.
"What's wrong?" she said in a breathy whisper. An acidic response formed in Antony's mind, but he bit it back. He shrugged. Vanitra knelt beside his chair and gazed at him. "Come on."
He avoided her eyes. The shadows around the fire were still dancing.
She wrapped an arm around his waist and gently rested her head on his shoulder.
The common room seemed extremely empty. Antony wondered how the house-elves managed to keep the fire stocked with wood without students seeing them. He felt Vanitra's lips brush against the skin on his neck. In spite of himself, he shivered. But damn it, he hated her!
"If I'm not talking to Edwards about it, then there's no way I'm talking to you," he snapped, shoving past her, not pausing to take in the surely pitiful and shocked expression on her face. He stormed from the common room and up the boys' staircase to the seventh-year dormitory. He opened the door and moved towards his bed. Despite his anger, he felt a pleasant eagerness to lie down, relax at last. He made sure to move slowly, quietly, so he did not awaken the sleeping boys. The only noise in the room was the faint noise of his footsteps and the gentle, lulling rhythm of his roommates' breathing. He pulled off his boots, and fumbled for a book in his trunk, whispering a soft "Lumos". The spell created a gentle glow around his wand, enough to allow him to locate the book. As his hand moved near it, the golden words on the cover changed from An Advanced History of Magical Theory to The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. He smiled, his irritation forgotten, as he lowered the lid on the trunk with a quiet, clicking thud.
"Antony," came a quiet voice from behind him. He started and turned. In the pale glow from his wand, he could see Vincent peering from behind his hangings. "Do you want to talk?"
"No," Antony said, the word almost percussive in its brevity. He nodded goodnight and slid into his own bed, drawing the hangings and opening the book at page 882. He lay back, finally releasing his tension for a moment, until his eyes fell on the page. He rubbed his eyes, then read the line again.
Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.
Antony slammed the book shut, battling feelings of guilt, for even Shakespeare, it seemed, was rebuking him. He peered through his hangings, but Vincent had retreated, so he lay, staring upwards, pondering, through the long hours of blackness.
Antony was the first person in the common room the next morning.
He had lain awake for some time before finally falling into a
light, drifting sleep from which he awoke for no apparent reason
in the early hours of the morning. He saw no point in attempting
further rest, and took his Defence Against the Dark Arts essay
down to the common room for a final read over before the class
he was to present it to later that day. Assuming his team had
remembered his instructions from the end of term, there was to
be Quidditch practice in the dim light of the dawn hours. A glance
out the window told him that the threatened snow of the previous
night had not come, and the practice would be unhindered. He didn't
particularly feel like awakening his team mates, and hoped they
would remember of their own accord.
Sure enough, the next person to appear from the boys' staircases was Claude Chauncey, already dressed in his robes of forest green. Chauncey carried a Nimbus 2001 and took a chair at the far side of the room to Antony, ignoring his companion and instead examining the motions of the flames in the flickering fire. The boy's noble, gently tanned face, framed by his brown hair, was pensive.
The two sat in silence for some time. Finally, Antony sighed.
"Chauncey, can I have a word?"
"One," was the taut response. Antony paused, then smirked. He turned to face Chauncey. Chauncey kept watching the fireplace.
"Quidditch." At that, Chauncey pulled his eyes from the flames and turned to his companion.
"All right. What about it?"
"I wanted your help deciding what the training schedule will be. Because Ravenclaw beat us, we need some significant victories to have even a hope of reaching the final."
"We've got a good Chaser team," Chauncey replied, rising and taking a seat closer to Antony. "Where we mostly seem to fall down, points-wise, is in our Seeker."
Antony nodded, "I know. Can you think of any ways we can train him a bit better? The Chasers are good, but not that far ahead of the other teams that they can win a game alone."
Chauncey nodded, frowning in consideration. He began outlining diagrams on the carpet with his forefinger, pausing over Draco's placement. "We don't have the time or ability to coach him in-depth in Seeker technique. Neither of us is an expert."
"Experts say one of the best ways to train a Seeker is using a magical simulation technique that I'm sure Advanced Charms students such as yourselves could manage," said a matter-of-fact voice from across the room. Chauncey and Antony both looked up, surprised, to see a girl padding across the room towards them. She was already dressed in her school robes, and her hair was neatly ensnared in a ponytail. It fell in gentle waves of brown down her back, except for the delicate wisps which hung to either side of her finely-shaped face.
Antony felt his heart grip with nervousness.
"Alexandra," he said, standing and acknowledging her with a brief nod and an awkward smile.
"Hi, Xandra," Chauncey said, his expression one of much greater ease. "I didn't realise you were going to start coming to Quidditch practice."
"I'm quite entitled to watch," the girl said with a hint of strain in her voice.
"Of course," Antony replied before Chauncey had a chance. "Tell me more about this simulation, Alexandra." She sat with the boys and explained how she'd read in a book on Quidditch training about a spell used to simulate the changing environment of a Quidditch game.
"You can send him off to train in one corner of the pitch and work with the rest of the team at the same time. The spell randomly generates noises and phantom movements to make the situation like a real Quidditch game. I've still got the book if you want to read it."
"Thank you Alexandra," Antony replied, trying to catch her eye. When he succeeded, she arched an eyebrow at him. He felt a hint of red rise in his cheeks and looked away.
"Xandra," Chauncey said. She smiled at him. "Save me a seat at breakfast, won't you? Even if you come to practice, I'll take a while getting changed."
She nodded. "Are you two ready to go?" Both boys nodded. "Fine."
Alexandra spent most of the practice sitting in the stands. She watched each move the Chasers made as they flew. Always anxious about who was watching the team in action, Antony glanced over to the stands several times. She had a faint, forlorn expression on her face. She seemed to be seeing through the boys as they flew, thinking her own private thoughts. Antony thought there was a sort of wistful longing in her face, but he could not stay still long enough to examine her expression closely without risk of being attacked by a Bludger.
When the practise was finished, she exchanged a few words with Chauncey. Antony watched them, seeing the ease with which they interacted. He sighed and turned away. He picked up his broomstick and commenced the walk back to the school. The first day of term hadn't even started, and already he was facing the same melancholy feeling he had battled whilst trapped in the Oxfordshire manor.
"Antony!" He paused and looked over his shoulder. Alexandra was jogging across the pitch, her hair swinging in its ponytail as she moved. She was graceful, not beautiful, but she had an athlete's ease of movement, although Antony had never seen her play any sport. He waited for her, and then began walking again.
There was silence for some time. Alexandra was frowning at her boots. "I-I've been thinking," she began in a soft, hesitant voice, "about what you said to me before the holidays." Antony felt his mouth go dry and swallowed awkwardly. "And I've considered everything but I'm not sure. I think I want to, but you have to face it, you don't have a good record."
Antony stuck his hands in the pockets of his robe and stared straight ahead as he walked. "That's because they're all idiotic, flippant cows."
"Then why'd you ask? Or accept?"
He shrugged. "I hoped perhaps I was wrong in my initial judgement."
"And what's your initial judgement of me?" she asked, halting. He was forced to stop and look at her, at the delicate line of her jaw, the enchanting blue of her eyes, the way the wisps of brown fell across the side of her cheeks. He attempted to quash the fluttering in his stomach, and gently, hesitantly, reached out a hand and brushed the hair from her face.
"I I've been watching you for a long time, Alexandra. You're quiet, you're intelligent, you're funny. That's what matters, not beauty or breeding."
"Says the most handsome, rich boy in Slytherin house."
He smiled. "See what I mean about the sense of humour?"
She tilted her head slightly and examined his face. She put a hand on his chin and scrutinised him. "Yes," she said, her brow bent into a thoughtful frown. "You'll do."
Antony felt his first true smile in a long time.
His happiness from Alexandra's acceptance lasted Antony until lunchtime. As he entered the Great Hall with Vincent after Transfiguration, he saw Chauncey gulping down a small lunch before he stood, bid his friends (including Alexandra) farewell, and hurried from the hall. Antony winced, remembering that he was supposed to be in a meeting with the headmaster and the other prefects. But he could not open himself to the headmaster's interrogation; surely Dumbledore would ask to see him after the meeting and inquire which choice he had made and he could not face the shame of admitting his decision to the headmaster. He knew he could not avoid the day when he would have to share his choice forever, but perhaps he could delay it for a time. Alexandra looked up when he arrived at the table and smiled.
"Don't you have a meeting?" she asked as he sat beside her, Vincent on his other side. He shook his head. "That's funny. The others do." She took another mouthful of her food, flushing slightly when she caught Antony's gaze. "What do you have next?"
"Defence," Antony replied.
"Care of Magical Creatures," was Vincent's response. Alexandra nodded and informed them that she had Potions.
"Is Talesin running an extension class in sixth year?" Vincent asked as he took a piece of roast meat. Alexandra shook her head.
"Why, what's she doing?" Alexandra paused to chew her mouthful.
"She's taking some of the more advanced Potions students and teaching us potions we can use to defend ourselves. In lunchtimes and afternoons."
"That sounds interesting," Alexandra replied. "I wish she was offering it. Claude's always telling me about his uncle the Auror who's teaching him to watch out for potential Death Eaters." It took Antony a moment to realise she was calling Chauncey by his first name. Don't be stupid. They're classmates, after all! But he found he had no appetite, and with a nod to Vincent and Alexandra, he rose.
"I left my textbook in the dormitory," he said. He hadn't really, and Vincent probably knew it. But he said nothing. Antony roamed the corridors for a while, then resigned himself to going to Defence Against the Dark Arts. He was quite early, and he leant against the wall with his hands in his pockets. He studied a portrait on the wall opposite the classroom, watching its occupant flick into and out of the frame. He wished he had a cigarette, for it was all he needed to complete the picture of lazy insolence he wanted to radiate. Insolence was a good way to be left alone.
He saw Raylene approaching from the direction of Dumbledore's office, her silver badge obvious against the deep black of her robe. She slung her bag onto the ground and turned to Antony with a glare.
"Where were you?" she asked, a frown of disapproval deeply written across her face. "Surely Mr Perfect didn't forget a meeting with Dumbledore?"
"No." The word was sharp and brief. He seemed to be using it a lot.
"And I thought I could rely on you to do your duty as Head Boy!"
"You can," Antony bit back. But he was only half-convinced of that fact himself. He knew he had failed to attend the meeting, and that directly reflected his performance in his duty. And he always fulfilled his duty as Head Boy. It was something he took pride in doing well, and could do without being looked down on. Of course, as a Slytherin, he was always a little unfair, but only as much as was needed for his image. On the other hand, Irwin-Lowe, who had been a prefect with him, had always been as unfair as possible without losing her job.
"Well, prove it," she snapped. "Dumbledore's not happy with you, you know!"
The door to the classroom opened and Nouvelle stuck her head out into the corridor.
"No one else here yet?" she asked, looking around.
"I expect they're still at lunch," Antony replied, not shifting his gaze from the portrait, the occupant of which had just flitted from the frame.
"Well, come in," Nouvelle said, opening the door and stepping to the side. Out of habit Antony lingered for a moment before following Raylene inside.
"Did you have a nice holiday?" Nouvelle asked, searching through her desk drawer. Raylene replied that she had indeed, thank you. Antony busied himself looking for his essay in his bag. "I take it you've both completed your essays?" Raylene held up a piece of parchment, and Antony nodded curtly as he retrieved it, then began methodically removing quill, ink, and parchment. The other members of the class began to trickle in. Soon all were present, and Antony was the only student sitting alone.
"Welcome back, class," Nouvelle said from her position at the front of the room. She stood and moved in front of her desk, marking the roll from sight. When she was finished, she placed the roll on her desk. "I do hope you're all ready for another term of your N.E.W.T. studies," she added with a smile. "This term we will finish our unit on Aurors and Death Eaters and commence work on our majors. So start researching.
"For today, however, we will be listening to you present your findings about an Auror and Death Eater of your choice. I trust you've all completed this assignment?" The class nodded. "Do I have any volunteers?" Several hands shot in the air, and Feena Fitzpatrick was the first student to be chosen.
The class heard a presentation about Samuel and Fiona Bones and Evan Rosier, then one about Augustus Rookwood and Arnold McKinnon. Then Raylene Faulkner volunteered. She moved to the front of the classroom, smiling a weak, nervous smile.
"After our first research task I found that the Death Eater I had chosen was fascinating, and that amongst the Aurors were some amazing stories. I decided to examine them further."
"The Death Eater in question is Jorman Bond XXIV, correct?" Nouvelle interjected. Raylene half-turned to face her.
"Yes. And the Auror I researched was Aramis Bastion. A brief version of my findings follows." She took a deep breath and her eyes fell on Antony Bond for a moment. She swallowed, glanced at the parchment she held, and began to speak. "Jorman Bond XXIV was born in Oxfordshire in 1960. His grandfather had been a Grindelwald supporter, and when Voldemort's rise began in 1970, his father and grandfather both grew interested in the movements of the Dark wizard.
"Jorman began at Hogwarts in 1971, where he was sorted into Slytherin house. As Voldemort's power grew, so did the association of Jorman's family with him. Jorman left school in 1978, and his year is infamous for its low survival rate. It included Lily and James Potter, Raven Sanderson, and Arnold McKinnon. Soon after leaving Hogwarts, Jorman joined the ranks of the Death Eaters. He was suspected by the Ministry of Magic, but there was no concrete proof of his guilt until September, 1981." She looked up for a moment, and met Antony's eyes. He blinked and broke the eye contact, lowering his head to stare at the parchment on his desk. She swallowed and continued.
"An Auror, Anita Sanderson, went missing. Her brother and fiancé went looking for her. They found her being tortured. By Jorman." Nouvelle's face had gone stony, and she was staring straight at Antony. "He killed Sanderson's brother and turned on her fiancé. Fortunately, Albus Dumbledore and Aramis Bastion arrived on the scene before Jorman could commit any more murders. He was arrested by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and sentenced to life in Azkaban. Bon Jorman died there three years later," she said, her eyelids drooping. She glanced up from ehr parchment, her expression nervous. Antony was staring towards the teacher's desk. The look on his face said that he clearly saw the cold stare Nouvelle had fixed him with. He raised his head in an attempt at poise. Raylene glanced back down at her parchment and prepared to speak again, but she was interrupted.
There came sound of a chair scraping across the floor so violently that it fell backwards with a clatter, hitting the desk behind it. Antony Bond slung his bag over his shoulder, and casting a venomous, hateful look at Nouvelle, stormed from the room, punctuating his departure with a resounding crash of the door.
"BOND!"
Antony didn't halt; if he did, he was sure his tears of shame would burst violently from him. Shame not only at the fact that now, surely, his entire Defence class knew, but also at his reaction.Where had his ability to hide his feelings gone? He swore bitterly under his breath and quickened his pace.
"Antony Bond! One more step and I will personally ensure you are removed from this subject!"
He rounded on Nouvelle and, he saw, Faulkner, in a furious black swirl, as an aggrieved wolf rounds on the creature tormenting it.
"You KNEW! You knew and you still set him as an option! I always knew that was why you hated me! If I had any doubt, I saw it in your face! You prejudiced, hypocritical "
"Bond. He was a Death Eater. He has to be studied." Nouvelle's voice was quiet, but it was strained, and her usually kind blue eyes were flashing with fiery anger.
"You could at least ..." He stopped, pressed his palms into his cheeks and in the same movement wiped the tears of fury from his eyes, trying to find the words to complete his sentence.
"At least what?" Nouvelle's voice had a razor edge, cutting knife-like through the air.
"Show me some consideration!" Antony snapped. "Not that you'd bother, I suppose? Why should you? No one does!" He turned on his heel and made to stride down the corridor, escape.
"I'm not finished with you, Bond."
"I don't give a damn," he shot over his shoulder.
"Say that again, Bond! You'll give a damn when you lose that trinket on your chest for outright, blantant disprespect!" His jaw clenched, Antony felt himself tremble with rage. He span to face her again, spitting the words.
"HYPOCRITE! You're just bitter because "
"Not another WORD!" Nouvelle roared.
Antony and Faulkner both stared at her; the sweet, diminutive woman had fire in her voice, her stance ... everything. Despite her stature, she radiated anger. The students could finally see how she had succeeded as an Auror. She took a deep breath, then said in a voice that was steady, yet pointed, "Fifty points from Slytherin. And detention. I don't care how upset you are. Nothing, repeat NOTHING, gives you the right to leave my classroom. And I'll be having a word with Dumbledore. You'll have to give some very good reasons why you should study this subject."
Antony felt his face twitch and spasm in rage.
"I don't care if you want to hear it or not! You're just bitter because he killed your brother!"
Nouvelle took three swift steps forward and dealt him a stinging slap. His hand flew to his face. He felt sick with anger. He grabbed her wrist.
"How dare you?"
"How dare I? You presumptuous, insolent BRAT!" She wrenched her arm from his grip. "Don't touch me!"
"Why not? Do you actually give a damn what the hell you've just done to my life? Do you think I don't have to spend every day in misery because of who my father was? Hogwarts is the one place I can escape from that, but no, Professor I'm-so-hard-done-by has to come along and screw that up, doesn't she? You think I want to be his son? You think if I could, I wouldn't go back in time and stop him doing that? Well, perhaps you should think again, Professor SANDERSON!"