Chapter 6 – Magic Overload
After about a week, Liz decided that Professor Magus and the paper stealing had no sinister motives and pushed it out of mind. Professor Magus was too good of a teacher to be an enemy of any sort. She was really funny, and she could explain a lot of things better than Garb, Nilworg, or Pumjy ever could. And she gave them more than enough time to finish assignments.
One day, not too long after term had started, Professor Magus stood and faced the class. "I'm going to be assigning you a paper of at least five rolls of parchment." Most of the class looked suddenly outraged. "That's the bad news," she continued. "The good news is that it won't be due until Halloween." Most of the class perked up. "This means that I expect you to do an excellent job on these. Be creative with it."
Liz raised her hand. "What is the paper on?"
"Oh, that's right, I forgot to tell you the topic! I was thinking about how the Dragon is trying to raise himself into power, and where did he get the idea? From Voldemort. So I expect five rolls of parchment, turned in on Halloween, about Voldemort. That's such a broad subject that I'm sure you'll find all the information you need. Write to relatives and see what they remember of him! Older relatives, of course." The bell rang. "Class dismissed."
"Older relatives?" said Michael as they left. "My mum remembers Voldemort. She's forty. Is that what Professor Magus considers old?"
Liz stayed silent. Reading up on Voldemort would mean reading up on her father. It was painful to think about him or even read about him. What would have happened if her father had lived? For one thing, her mother would not be forced to send her secret letters, which she hadn't done for a while.
"I suggest we start on this tomorrow," said Liz, gathering up her strength of will. "We can go to the library and do research."
"What for? The project isn't due until Halloween," said Michael. "We have over a month. Why start now?"
"So we can do a great job on it," said Liz. "And get it done on time. Didn't you hear her when she said that it was going to be five rolls of parchment?"
Michael shrugged. "So? I can just interview my mum. She knew your dad. She knows everything about Voldemort, even what his real name was."
"Michael, everyone knows what his name was."
"But she knew it before almost everybody else, so that counts as special knowledge."
"Just please come with me? I might help you a bit."
This caught Michael's attention, and Rachel's as well. "All right, we'll go," said Rachel. "As long as you help us. Won't we, Michael?"
"Fine," he said.
So the next day, the three of them set off for the library to read up on Voldemort. But every time Liz found an article, a passage, or a book about him, she thought of her father and her heart throbbed. She finally sat down with parchment and quill to write down what she knew by heart, but even that was impossible.
"Michael, what are you reading?" Rachel asked suddenly. "That's Liz's dad's picture on the front."
"It's Harry Potter: A Biography," Michael said. "It has loads of stuff on Voldemort, you know, because he defeated him." He turned a page. "Look, Liz, it's you!"
Liz looked to see a picture of her house. Standing outside of it was Harry Potter, about twenty-seven, and his lovely wife Luna, completely in love with life. Luna was carrying a bundle of blankets with a head. On closer inspection, Liz could see that it was a baby. Her. She looked away, blinking back tears.
"Are you all right?" Rachel asked, sensing a disturbance.
Liz nodded, not trusting her voice. A flame had lit inside her, a flame of anger and of tears, which resulted from so much exposure to dead memories. She felt despair and anger and heat at the same time—
"Do you smell something burning?" Rachel asked.
The power was back.
Liz had felt the strength that always accompanied a burst of uncontrolled magic. It wasn't strong enough to cause a catastrophe, except for fire. Then Liz spotted it.
"Michael, your hair is on fire!"
Michael yelled and stood. The librarian shushed him and then spotted the potential disaster. Rachel was in hysterics, and Michael was running around like a maniac. Liz whipped out her wand and said, "Aqueosa!" A jet of water burst from her wand and hit the flame that had burst from her heart to Michael's head. The fire went out instantly.
All three of them stood there, breathing heavily, all eyes on them. "What was that?" Michael panted. From the look on her face, the librarian was wondering the same thing.
"I'll explain later," Liz said. "Come on, let's leave." Michael quickly checked out her father's biography and they left.
"Well?" said Michael. "Explain to me why you set my head on fire? And how?"
"I—It was an accident. I think my powers are starting to come back!"
"Well—could you warn me next time, or something?"
"She never knows when it's going to happen," said Rachel appeasingly, trying to calm Michael down. "It's a random thing. Maybe we should study in the common room.
Liz and Michael both agreed, and the three of them traipsed back up to Gryffindor Tower.
It was near the end of September, and the deadline for the paper on Voldemort for Professor Magus was a month away. Uncharacteristically, Liz hadn't started yet. It was just too painful to think about her father enough to work on it. So Liz prayed she'd find the strength of will soon, or she'd have nothing come Halloween.
Ancient Runes, particularly the unit on Ximunim, was going well. Liz hadn't lost any points from Gryffindor in that class at all (which was a different story entirely from Potions), and she had managed to talk to David almost every time they had class. Unfortunately, Winnie had too. The competition was at a stalemate, and Liz really didn't know what to do.
The issue of Professor Armanda didn't surface in Liz's mind until one day in Transfiguration at the end of class when Professor McGonagall came in to ask Professor Weasley something about scheduled staff breaks. Liz had made a mental note previously to ask Professor McGonagall about the Divination teacher. Now she saw her chance. When the bell rang, she left Rachel and Michael and hurried out to meet her. "Professor McGonagall!" she called. "Professor McGonagall! I need to ask you something!"
The headmistress turned to face her. "Yes, Elizabeth, what's the matter?"
"Do you know Professor Armanda, the Divination teacher?"
McGonagall sighed. "Yes, Elizabeth. I hired her."
Liz felt embarrassed. "Oh. Well, quite frankly, why?"
"Because she is most certainly a qualified teacher and Seer. He prophecies are very rarely false. She's predicted flood, criminal breakouts…and your power."
Liz blanched. "She made my prophecy? The one that connected me to the Ancient Runes? Why didn't you tell me this before?" Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow at this impertinence, so Liz tacked on a very solemn, "Professor."
"Because I didn't see a need to tell you. What good would it have done you then? What good will it do you now? You know who made the prophecy? Will that really affect your thoughts, your feelings, your actions, or your future? Tell me if it will."
Liz stayed silent. Professor McGonagall was right. What would it do? It made no difference whether she knew or not, except that it lifted a weight that had been on her chest since she had seen Giselle, or Professor Armanda, at the High Table on their first night back. "No, Professor McGonagall. It won't make a difference this way. I'm sorry."
"There is really no need to apologize, Elizabeth," said McGonagall. "You were just curious. But curiosity killed the kneazle. Well, now that we are on the subject of your prophecy, how have your powers been lately? I told you last summer that they might have run out, correct?"
"Yes. Over the summer, they shut off, but they started back after a while. Then, a while ago, I…accidentally set Michael's hair on fire in the library."
"Ah, yes, the librarian told me about that incident. I'm glad you told me of your own free will, Elizabeth. Now I'll leave you to your thoughts and your next class. Have a good day." And she walked off, her head held high. Liz watched her go and wondered at her words.