Author's Note: Well, I seem to be updating every Friday night. I hesitate to say that I'm going to make that the official 'update day', so to speak, because next thing you know something will probably go wrong and I won't be able to update on Friday after all, but that's the way it's looking right now. As it is, the next update should appear on Friday, because I should be considerably less busy, what with the election being over and such.

Once again, thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing! Oh, and hey, someone actually friended me on livejournal! I have a friend! And now, on with the story...

Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)

Chapter VIII - Encounters

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The next day was Friday, and the teachers had wisely decided that having one day of classes after the Christmas holiday was not a wise idea. There was some grumbling about this, of course, as there were the odd few people who would have rather stayed at home for an extended Christmas, but mostly everyone was happy to indulge in a long weekend with their friends.

For Percival, the day was chiefly spent receiving a tour of the school and its grounds from Alistair and Catherine. Gilbert Prewett tagged along as well. Percival had noticed that Michael Potter and Dominic Malfoy were something of a pair, and Alistair seemed to be friends with almost everyone, and he wondered if Gilbert felt a bit neglected.

"This is the Charms classroom," Catherine said as they passed a door to the right. "Charms is my second favourite class."

"What's your first favourite class?" Percival asked, as they continued on down a staircase. He glanced sideways at one of the portraits lining the wall and saw its occupant wave cheerily at him.

"History of Magic," Catherine replied. "It's so much fun. Like a novel, except it all really happened." Percival was inclined to agree. He had always liked history. It was the only class he had done well in at Eton.

"And there's the Ancient Runes classroom," Gilbert pointed out. "Are you good with languages?"

"Yes," Percival replied, remembering how he had taught himself to read Latin at the age of eleven. So he was good with Latin, at least – he had not exactly tried to learn anything else.

"You'll want to study Ancient Runes then," Gilbert said, nodding decisively. "I'm terrible with languages, but you can get Dominic Malfoy to help you. He's good at Ancient Runes. In fact," he continued, his expression that of mild disgust, "he's good at just about everything. What were his O.W.L. results?"

"Ten 'Outstandings' and one 'Troll'," Alistair replied with an amused smile. "We speculate that he failed Potions miserably because his father would have forced him to take it at N.E.W.T. level if he passed. Ah, Defence Against the Dark Arts," he said, as they went by another classroom. "That's my favourite."

"Well if I study Ancient Runes for one of my options," Percival said thoughtfully, "what should I study for the other one? Black told me I can't take Muggle Studies."

"Don't take Arithmancy," Gilbert warned. "I took it, and I'll regret it forever. And don't take Care of Magical Creatures. It's a lot of hands-on work, and, well, it's just not fun."

"But that only leaves Divination, doesn't it?" Percival said. Everyone was silent for a while.

"Study Divination if you must," Alistair said finally. "It'll be easy, anyway. It's a ridiculous excuse for a class. They shouldn't even be allowed to teach it."

Percival did not attempt to press the issue further. He wished that he knew why his friends hated Divination and its professor so much, and what this had to do with their deceased parents, but he knew how rude it would be to ask. Perhaps it was something that they did not wish to tell him till they knew him better. He hoped that they would eventually trust him well enough to confide in him.

Unless, of course, somebody else told him first.

He instantly felt bad for thinking such a thing. Gilbert Prewett had not told him, and he hoped that Alistair and Catherine's other friends would show them the same respect. No, he would simply have to wait.

Percival's reverie was soon interrupted, and by a wicked-looking little mad soaring toward them and whooping loudly. Percival shook his head, wondering if he was going mad. "Oooooh," the little man sang, "poor little Prewett's made some friends!" He did a somersault in mid-air, and swooped down around Gilbert's head.

"Argh!" Gilbert shouted, flapping his arms. "Go away, Peeves!"

Peeves ignored him, twirling his little hat on his finger. "Ollivander One and Ollivander Two!" he intoned in a high-pitched voice. He gave Alistair and Catherine an exaggerated bow.

"Honestly, Peeves, get out of the way," Alistair said threateningly, walking forward a bit.

"Oooooh," Peeves's little black eyes widened. "Big, scary Scotty MacScotsy wouldn't hurt little Peevesy!" He stuck his tongue out at them.

"I'll get the Bloody Baron," Alistair warned. "He likes Scots. Maybe I could persuade him to come and have a chat with you – "

Peeves made a face and balled his fists angrily. Alistair, Percival, Catherine and Gilbert began to walk away from him, Percival glancing back curiously.

"Yes, keep walking that way!" Peeves screeched after them. "That nasty wee Gaunt will be happy to see you!" And then he careened off down the corridor, cackling madly and singing rude things about Scots.

"What was that all about?" Percival asked as they rounded a corner.

"That's just Peeves. He's a poltergeist. All he's good for is mayhem. Just ignore him," Alistair grumbled, and then stopped abruptly. Leaning against a statue directly in front of them, was a small, dingy boy with a twisted sort of face and arms that were rather too long for his body. He observed them blankly.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Just keep walking," he urged his companions under his breath, but it was too late, for just then the strange boy spoke.

"Elmira Malfoy told me the Ollivanders had brought a Muggle to Hogwarts, but I didn't quite believe it till now," he said. His voice was low, but full of malice.

"Leave them alone," Gilbert glared at him.

"Leave them alone," the boy whined mockingly. "What's the matter, Prewett, scared you're going to lose your only friends? Muggle-loving Ollivanders and," he sniffed at Percival, "a mudblood?"

"Watch who you're calling a mudblood, Gaunt," Alistair hissed. "If anyone's a mudblood, you are. The Gaunts only marry their family members, is that right?"

The Gaunt boy pointed his wand at him. Alistair laughed coldly. "Go on then," he said. "Go on, do it. You're this close to being expelled as it is, aren't you? They ought to ban your whole family from Hogwarts. They should have done it in the beginning."

Percival was now completely lost. He glanced at Gilbert, who was giving Alistair a pleading look, but Alistair ignored him. He was staring down at the boy, as if waiting for him to do something.

"They won't expel me," Gaunt said loftily. "Not while Black is the Headmaster. Do you really think he'd have the nerve to expel the heir of Slytherin?"

Now Catherine had her wand out. She was gripping it so hard her knuckles were white and pointing it straight at Gaunt. "That's hardly something to be proud of," she said, though he voice shook a bit, "and nobody but you gives a damn that you're heir of Slytherin anyway."

He gave her an ugly smile and said, "Your parents did. Oh, what are you going to do now, Ollivander? Duel me?"

Catherine's face went very white. She pressed her lips together. She stuck her wand back in her pocket and said, with what seemed like great effort, "You're not worth it." She turned and began walking briskly back off down the corridor.

All within a second, Gaunt raised his wand, opened his mouth and formed half a word, but was thwarted by Alistair punching him squarely in the nose. He gasped, and blood began to stream down his dirty skin. Alistair shoved him, and he toppled over onto the floor. Percival would never know how far he would have gone, however, because the fight was interrupted by a woman shouting, "Mr Ollivander, stop that immediately!"

The woman who had appeared at the scene was large, and dressed completely in grey. Her silver hair was wound tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She reminded Percival a bit of a boulder. "Ten points from Gryffindor," she said firmly, "and detention with me. Now. And for the rest of the weekend."

"I WAS PROVOKED!" Alistair shouted, enraged. He had gone a worrying shade of red.

"Yes," said the woman brusquely, "Mr Gaunt, stand up." The boy did so, wiping his nose and leaving a smear of blood across his hand. "Fifty points from Slytherin for your exceedingly inappropriate comments and for trying to hex Miss Ollivander. You are to return to your common room immediately and not put a foot outside it except for meals until classes begin. Am I perfectly clear?"

He sneered at her.

"Am I perfectly clear?" she repeated, her voice dangerous. She drew herself up and gave him a stony look.

"Yes, Professor," he muttered.

"Off with you, then," she jerked her head. "Next time you'll be hanging by your ankles in the dungeons!" Gaunt grimaced and slid off out of sight.

"Mr Ollivander, come with me," she beckoned him, and he followed her grudgingly off down the corridor.

Percival stood there for a minute, utterly bemused, before he remembered that Gilbert was there as well. "Err," he said. "What was that all about?"

Gilbert simply shook his head. "You'd better ask Alistair and Cathy. I'm not the right person to explain it. Suffice to say their families hate each other – you must have gathered that much."

Percival nodded mutely. "And who was that woman, that professor?" he asked and they came into the Entrance Hall.

"That was Professor Masson," Gilbert replied, lowering his voice. "She teachers Defence Against the Dark Arts. She's good, but she's terrifying. You never know when she's going to pop up out of nowhere to get you in trouble. It seems like she always knows what's going on."

"Well," said Percival, walking through the large double doors and out into the grounds, "at least she takes care of people like that horrible Gaunt boy." It wasn't snowing anymore, and the sky was a clear, sharp blue. The sun was glinting off the snow and the ice on the lake. They seemed to be the only ones outside.

"It's cold," Gilbert shivered, rubbing his arms with his hands. Their breath was sending wisps of white into the otherwise still air. "Let's go back inside and eat something."

"I think I'm going to go find Cathy," Percival said as they walked back through the doors. "I'll see you later."

They parted ways, and Percival made his way up into the higher floors of the school. He roamed the corridors, looking for any sign of Catherine, and hoping that he would not meet with Peeves instead. He could not find her anywhere, and thought that she had probably gone back to the common room. After getting lost four times and winding up back where he started, Percival finally found himself standing in front of the Fat Lady. "Hogmanay," he said. The portrait swung open to admit him.

Catherine was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. Her feet were curled up under her, and she was reading a book. The rest of the common room was deserted. She glanced up when he entered and attempted a smile, but only succeeded in looking a bit ill.

He sat down across from her and observed her for a moment. "What are you reading?" he asked.

She shut the book and turned it around so he could see the cover. "Muggle stuff," she replied. "Ann Radcliffe."

"My sister read half of 'The Mysteries of Udolpho', and she had nightmares for a week," Percival remarked.

Catherine laughed. "Well," she said, "I like it. It is very... dramatic."

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"No," she smiled. "You can't take it too seriously. I think that books are more enjoyable if you can have a bit of a laugh at the characters' expense."

"So, Cathy..." he started, and then paused. He wanted to ask her about the Gaunt boy, and about Cassandra Trelawney, and her parents, but he could not think of how to do it. "Err..." She was looking at him expectantly. "I wanted to ask you..."

She blinked. "Yes...?" She raised her eyebrows and seem to tense slightly.

Percival sighed. "I, err, I just wondered, um... how'd you get that scar on your nose?" He silently cursed himself. He had not been able to go through with it.

She looked relieved. "Oh, the scar? It was nothing sinister. My brother was chasing me around the house when we were little, and I tripped and cut myself on the edge of a table. That's all. It's not very romantic. I think people are always disappointed when I tell them."

Percival wondered if he ought to go ahead and ask her what he had really meant to, but decided against it. What if she got angry with him? Or what if it only made her more upset? He certainly did not want to cause her any more distress than she had already experienced.

"What happened to my brother after I left?" she asked.

"Oh!" said Percival. "That's right, you weren't there. Well, Professor – oh, what was her name? – she teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts - "

"Masson," Catherine offered.

"That's it, Masson. Well, the Gaunt boy was about to hex you, apparently, and your brother punched him in the nose. Then Professor Masson appeared and took ten points from Gryffindor and gave Alistair detention for the rest of the week, but she took fifty points from Slytherin and told Gaunt that he wasn't to leave his common room till classes began again."

"He was going to hex me?" she looked angry. "And with my back turned, too. Well, that's not surprising coming from a Gaunt!"

"So, err, what exactly is a hex?" Percival asked. "It doesn't sound particularly good."

"It's not," she replied. "It's basically a spell that hurts you in some way. Worse than a jinx, but not as bad as a curse. He probably just would have turned me green, or something stupid like that. Did Alistair really punch him in the nose?" She smiled. "I wish I could have seen that." She fell silent, and glanced down at her book.

"If you like Muggle literature," Percival said, "I could lend you some of my books."

She brightened. "Really? What sorts of books?"

"Err," said Percival. He tried to think of what sort of book would be appropriate for an eleven-year-old girl. But, he mused, if she was reading Ann Radcliffe, it was probably too late for her anyway. "I'll bring you some you might like later on," he answered finally.

Just then, the portrait hole opened, and Alistair stepped inside. He looked disgruntled, but much calmer than when Percival had parted with him last. "Oh, hello," he said, catching sight of them. He walked over and flopped down in an armchair next to Catherine. "I just got through with detention. I saw Professor Black on the way up here – he must be in a bad mood about something, he saw fit to stop me and question me for five minutes about where I was going, and where I was coming from, as if any of it mattered to him..."

Percival realised that this was the perfect opportunity to tell Alistair and Catherine about Phineas Nigellus and his cousin. He waited for Alistair to finish and then said, "I haven't had the chance to tell you till now. Listen to what - "

But he was not allowed to go any further, for right at that moment the portrait hole opened again, and students came pouring in from dinner. Percival sighed in exasperation. He gave Alistair and Catherine an apologetic look, and assured them that he would tell them everything as soon as he could.

But when would that be? Percival was growing increasingly frustrated. He felt as though he would never have a moment alone with Alistair and Catherine to tell them about his cousin's scandal, and he would never find out why the Ollivanders hated the Gaunts, and, more mystifyingly, Cassandra Trelawney.