Chapter 2: In which the professors review the situation and Alastair meets the Head Boy.
Sylvester Black stroked his mustache and leaned on the desk. "Now see here, Phineas," he said. "This very same argument is what drew the Founders apart. What good did it get them? Ravenclaw's only daughter went to convent in Italy. Slytherin comitted suicide!"
"That has not been confirmed," said the Headmaster. He leaned back in the green leather chair behind the desk, which was cluttered with piles of bizarre documents and artifacts. Sylvester removed his hand from the desktop when he noticed it was in danger of coming in contact with an open pot of acid-green ink.
"Ask Nicholas Flamel," he said.
"Who can trust Flamel's memory? Besides, he was in your house. His low opinion of Slytherin is known." The Headmaster shuffled papers distractedly, as if to give the message he had better things to do than argue with Professor Black.
"Or rather, his distaste of prejudice is known. I am ashamed you are my uncle." Sylvester paced the circular office, followed by the gazes of past Headmasters.
"I can remove you from your position as Transfiguration professor and head of Ravenclaw House," Nigellus threatened.
"Yes, but you can't not make me your nephew."
"I regret the fact daily, Black. Now leave."
"Not until you agree to consider what I repeatedly have discussed with you. The Patils are a place to start." A few of the portraits nodded their approval. Phineas dutifully ignored them.
"I know how much wrangling in the Ministry you did for their arrival. It's disgraceful," he said condesendingly.
"It's my duty to the Queen."
"The Queen does not know of our existance, and with luck she never shall."
"How can you say that? There is still time to merge the Muggle and Wizard worlds," said Sylvester, the passion rising in his voice.
"You are a dreamer, Black. Do you not understand their view of us? They are afraid of us! They would never accept us. In the sixteenth century"
"In the sixteenth century, hell! This is the nineteenth. What about the parents of the Muggleborn students; the parents of Professor Hodge? Are they afraid of their daughter? She found her calling in this so-called 'Wizard World' but she came out of this 'Muggle World'."
"Leave my sight, Black, before I have to remove you from this establishment."
"You know nothing of the injustices"
"And neither do you! You are a high-born pureblood heir. Know your place next time, Black!"
"Not if my place invovles patronizing someone just because they're not pure bred, not white, not Anglican!"
Dearest Mother, wrote Anne Hodge. I've started another year of classes at the Wizardry Acdemey. I do hope you're well. If you need more of the potion that's been helping you, be sure to send me a letter. Professor Stephan Rosier isn't very fond of making it, but he's been rather helpful lately. On the day I returned to this school, he—
"What are you doing?" said Bernard MacGregor sitting down opposite her in the staffroom.
"I am writing a letter to my mother. She has not been well." Anne flicked the tip her quill aimlessly.
"To your mother?" said the broad-shouldered Scot. "Not a gushing letter to your dear finacé?"
The Herbology professor pushed a lock of red-brown hair behind her ear. "No," she said quietly.
"Have you taught any of Sylvester's beloved students from the Queen's crown colony?" he asked, a glaringly obvious change of subject. "I've only had second, third and fourth years so far."
"I had the sweet little one first thing this morning. I see no difference between her and the other students though, except that she doesn't speak English quite as well. I think the experiment's a good idea, don't you, Bernard?" She fanned the sheet of parchment with the feather to dry the ink.
"I'm not sure, Anne," he said. "I hear rumours the Syltherins want to mutiny'petition for their removal' was the actual term I heard but it amounts to the sameand not just the students. Cassandra and Stephan were against this from the start."
"Oh, it can't be that whole blood-status mess again! It's a miracle Nigellus hired me at all," Anne replied.
Bernard shook his head. "No, they're pureblood. It's their faith that's in question. Hindus. I suppose this was to be expected"
"What was to be expected?" said Stephan Rosier, entering with a stack of Potions essays to correct.
"The bad crop of white pumpkins," said Anne. "With that late frost, it's a wonder they came up at all."
"You're lying. You were talking about the Hindus. You're rather loud, MacGregor."
"You're not really going to petition, are you?" asked Anne. "It's only been one day. Give them some chance."
"They're a novelty," said Bernard. "Four months from now, they'll be no different from any other student. You can't expect anyone sorted in their sixth year not to be unusal for a while. It will wear off and everything will be normal again."
"Four months? Would you swear by that?" said Stephan, his grey eyes narrowing.
"Yes. Fifteen galleons, Rosier."
"You're a fool," Stephan smiled as he shook the Defence professor's hand.
Alastair scanned the shelves of the Hogwarts library. If there was one thing better here, he concided, it was the amount of books. His dark hand swept across the leather bindings of the books as he glanced at the titles. "Oi there! Patil!" hissed a voice from the shelf. Books don't talk, he thought. Alastair moved a book to the side and saw a pair of eyes belonging to someone on the other side of the bookcase. The eyes gestured for him to come around. Warily, Alastair replaced the book and turned the corner.
The brown eyes belonged to a tall boy with a perfect face like an engraving. Behind him was Camille Malfoy, whom Josephine had complained about, and the black-haired boy who pushed her wheelchair. All three wore Slytherin uniforms. "Enjoying Hogwarts?" asked the tall boy.
"What's it to you?" Alastair spat, his eyes narrowing.
The boy threw up his hands in mock defeat. "You're not going to get anywhere with that attitude, Patil. We seem to gotten off on the wrong foot. This is Marvolo Alcott and Camille Malfoy. I'm Charles Grindlewald, Head Boy." He held out his hand. Alastair took it curtiously.
"Alastair Patil," he said warily.
"Alastair? Not a very Indian name as far as I knew. But I stray. Were you going to try for the Quidditch team on Saturday?"
"I am not certain. Why?"
"I'm scoping out the competition, of course. I'm Slytherin's team captain and seeker. Alcott is a beater."
"I don't suppose she's on the team," Alastair hazarded.
Camille rolled her eyes. "The teams are male-only. The sole women's team is the Kenmare Kestrals, and what a lot of barbaric harpies they are. They claim to be undefeated, but the fact is that noone dares sink as low as to play them."
"I will think about it," said Alastair.
"Ravenclaw needs a beater, a seeker, and a chaser. You're a fifth year, you've got priority. . ."
"I played beater at Prajapati," he said before thinking.
"There we are. How well do you play?" said Alcott.
Alastair scrutinized them. If they knew his ability, they might attempt sabotage. "Not as well as the older students," he said.
"A fair statement," said Grindlewald. "What if Alcott tried to smash you with a bludger?"
"I'd smash him," Alastair said, annoyed.
"Good!" Grindlewald turned back and conversed quietly with the other three. "I wish you luck, Patil, you'll need it."
