A/N: In which Antares has That Flying Lesson, and things don't seem to go quite as they should.
No warnings for this chapter, obviously.
Chapter 12: The Sky Calls
"It's up!" Ted Nott's triumphant tone broke abruptly through Antares' reverie, making him blot the bizarre creature he was absent-mindedly drawing on the inside of his Potions notebook. He looked up and around the rather empty common room and spotted Ted's thin, excited face peering at the notice board up by the fire, and could not help remembering the hullabaloo he'd raised sometime into the middle of last week. Ted had made his own little announcement to the Slytherin world about what to call him about a week ago (not Theo, not Dora, and definitely not Theodore), and backed it up with a nasty hex he later refused to discuss with anyone but a cowed Millie Bulstrode. Blaise had been leery of talking to the sullen boy, as he'd been one of those who had repeatedly called him Theo beforehand, but that had all been settled at dinner yesterday, when he and Antares had been forced to sit next to Ted.
Antares rose clumsily from his sunken position in the soft chair, stretching as he wandered over to an overly excited Ted. Blaise had been absolutely terrified of sitting next to Ted (not that Antares himself been very eager to volunteer to do so anyway), and it hadn't taken a minute of fierce, near-silent negotiation for Ted to notice there was something odd going on.
"Are you going to eat standing up, or something?" he'd said derisively, and Antares had sullenly dropped into the seat beside him, darting Blaise a look that had said, as clearly as he could make it, 'you owe me. Big time'. Ted had noticed that too, and chose the next time Antares grudgingly passed him the gravy to spring his question. "Why don't either of you want to sit next to me?"
"Because he's a pansy," Antares had found himself saying, nastily, "and because you hexed Millie's leg off for calling you Theo, Theo." Ted had bristled predictably, and the worst argument Antares had had at Hogwarts to date had ensued. Not then, of course – later on, in the dormitory, just as Draco wandered off to shower (not after dropping snide hints about smelly poor people), Ted had methodically walked over to Antares' bed, dragged him out, and slammed him against the wall.
Antares smiled now, nodding easily to an engrossed Ted as he leant to examine the notice board. He'd had to keep a clear head then, to stop both himself and the other, furious little boy from doing any real damage to themselves (especially since he didn't think Mum would be very happy with him blinding some pureblood kid), and it had been far easier than he'd thought to let the insults from both Draco and Ted roll off his back.
Besides, he'd pretty much won easily, and that had definitely made the insults appear much more pathetic in hindsight. Draco had given him a wide berth for a few days after that, but, of course, that hadn't lasted. But it certainly wasn't nearly as painful now to hear the blond boy call his mum a beggar, or anything.
"Flying lessons – see?" Ted said impatiently, when asked what on earth he was looking at. "I can't wait – "
Antares stared at the board.
FLYING LESSONS, it said, GRYFFINDOR/SLYTHERIN: WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, HUFFLEPUFF/RAVENCLAW: THURSDAY AFTERNOON.
Antares gulped, and barely heard Blaise's impatient request of why they weren't going down to breakfast yet, and what was on the board that was so fascinating.
Three weeks into the term, the fires of Antares' private hell (also known as Hogwarts) seemed to be quieting somewhat. He and Blaise never got really, truly lost anymore, especially if they avoided certain staircases and hallways. He'd learned precisely when to say something to shut Draco up and when to let the little tyrant finish mouthing off. He learned not to get in the way when Draco wanted to harass Neville Lupin and Ron Weasley, and learned that Professor McGonagall was fair to everyone to a fault, but still didn't necessarily like him or any other Slytherin he knew of. Antares had learned to write a reasonably legible essay without splattering himself with ink from head to toe, and learned to hide the long, beautifully written letters from his mum whenever a distracted Professor Snape produced them. He'd even learnt how to write smoothly in even lines on parchment (thanks to a convenient lining charm Blaise had shown him), and his handwriting was quickly becoming less embarrassing now that he had samples to compare it to that he actually cared about, as well as frequent writing lessons with Professor Sinistra (who was always nice to him).
One thing, he reflected now, staring at the notice, that he'd somehow not been able to learn, was how not to be afraid. Antares hated the feeling that crept up and down his sides whenever the Bloody Baron passed him by, but didn't know how on earth to get rid of it.
Besides, he thought now, there's nothing wrong with being afraid of that bloody bastard – everyone is. They just don't say.
Now, being afraid of flying lessons, that was stupid.
"Come on, Antares, you've been staring at that stupid board for the past five minutes – "
"Don't you see, Blaise? He's in awe – it'll be the first broomstick he's ever seen…" Pansy and Ted snickered meanly at Draco's joke as the rest of the first years trickled out from the corridor that led to the dorms. Antares ignored their laughter, exiting the common room with Blaise and hardly listening to his friend's running commentary of his disgust with Draco Malfoy.
"He's so pathetic – you'll see at breakfast, he'll be nattering on about how he escaped from a Bellykopter over the summer holiday on his two-bit racing broom – "
But Antares found it hard to be contemptuous of Draco that morning at breakfast no matter how much he seemed to deserve it, because of a very simple thing: Draco was not afraid of flying, and he was. Without even ever trying it. Antares was actually shaking inwardly at the thought of being so high above a jeering crowd (they would be jeering at him, obviously), while Draco, in contrast, was practically salivating at the thought of the lessons, reeling off increasingly unbelievable tales about airborne escapes from Muggle Bellykopters and Aurors (Blaise gave him a disgusted look), and even the normally sort-of-sensible Vince Goyle was whispering excitedly with Ted, who looked just as psyched about the topic as Blaise looked bored.
At that, Antares fought back a nervous smile – he should have known that Blaise would hate the idea of playing Quidditch, really. All that sweating…no, Blaise (a moderately rabid Pride of Portree fan) would probably rather offer himself as a virgin sacrifice for luck to the Montrose Magpies rather than be caught dead sweating on a broom. Now, Tracey – she kept quiet during the discussion, but Antares could sort of see, if he looked out of the corner of his eye, her excited fidgeting, and the dreamy look on her face.
"It barely caught me!" Draco was insisting. "Clipped my tail, I swear – "
"My wanderings through the dungeons as a rat are very dangerous, I'll have you know," Blaise was muttering under his breath, in a breathy imitation of Draco. "Really, Mrs. Norris has nearly eaten me twice, and I've seen what's under Professor Snape's robes far more times than is good for a young, impressionable boy of my age – "
Antares laughed out loud, just as a passing Tracey Davis tried hard not to do. Draco only favoured him and Blaise with The Malfoy Stare for a minute ("Only a minute? That's crap, I should've said that louder," Blaise complained) before launching back into his narrative. He and Blaise were off soon enough, Antares groaning at the prospect of another mind-numbingly boring class with Ever-Twitchy Professor Quirrel, and feeling better about the weird start of the whole day deep down.
Now if he could just deal with the fact that falling off a broom with Draco and Pansy Parkinson watching absolutely terrified him, he would be fine.
"M-Morning, class."
"Good morning, Professor Quirrel," Antares droned along with everyone else in the class, settling into the feeling of unwilling boredom that hung over the twitchy man's class like a cloud. He stared at his hands, sighing, wishing he had more to do than 'make sure everyone had their textbooks and writing supplies out', as he'd been instructed to do.
He scowled as Professor Quirrel flopped back into his seat and began to call the roll. This class was supposed to be exciting, for goodness' sake – he'd looked forward to it, after that spell (Sexpelliarus? Expelliarus?) he'd twizzled Quirrel into teaching him on the day of the tests. It had been bloody cool seeing the man's wand slip out of his hand just so, because what looked more like a wavering beam of light from Antares' wand had hit his hand.
If only –
"You may t-take your s-seat, Mr. Black, thank you," Quirrel said formally, and Antares' scowl deepened. He was damned if he was going to sit and listen to another daft story about garlic and vampires that everyone here had probably heard about a thousand times, honestly –
"But, sir, I thought we were doing the practical demonstration today," he found himself saying obediently, refusing to move an inch. Quirrel stared at him for a moment, and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Antares cut him off. "You know – that spell you showed me at the tests? We're up to chapter 15 now, and it calls for a demonstration – "
"But – " But everyone in the class was noticeably perking up, and surreptitiously sliding their books open to Chapter 15 (Morgana, let the chapter number be right), and Quirrel looked like he was noticing that too, and could maybe be convinced –
Antares walked up deliberately to the duelling platform as diffidently as he could, as if he was maybe being forced into this. "I'm ready when you are, sir." Quirrel gave him a sharp look, the expression on his face more forbidding than anything Antares had ever seen on it. He just fought the urge to cave in, feeling Draco's unbelieving eyes on him, and drew out his wand with a firm flick in and out of his robes.
For a moment, Quirrel stood still, and Antares wildly wondered why on earth he'd thought this was a good idea, because he was soooo one step from a detention, and he couldn't get one this week, with all the homework he had, and –
Professor Quirrel smiled, a small, trembling one, and whipped out his wand. "Give me a m-moment t-to explain, then," he said almost easily, turning his focus back onto the exited students before him. "The s-spell we are about to s-showcase is a simple one, as Mr. Black said, but h-h-highly u-useful. It is c-called the," he took a stuttering breath, as if to ready himself, "Disarming Charm, and has th-th-the incantation Expelliarmus, and needs little to no wand movement – " he waved his wand in a tiny semicircle, the look on his face interestingly determined as his stutter became less pronounced, " – so you can p-pay more attention to what your opponent is doing to retrieve his or her w-wand. N-now, Mr. Black, if you will d-d-demonstrate…" Quirrel strode jerkily over to the small platform and stood a healthy distance from Antares, who felt his chest constrict in anticipation and fear.
You won't muff this, you've done it before –
"Expelliarmus!" Antares called, and didn't have the time, this time, to feel the way the magic trickled from him and flowed towards the waiting Professor, hooking the wand from his hand, because it almost wasn't working, as if there was some resistance behind it, like Quirrel was gripping it tightly. The small beam of red light glowed between them for a moment, and Antares, beginning to panic, just pulled, and – there –
A look of surprise flitted across Quirrel's face as his wand almost popped out of his hand, but it was gone before Antares could really think to wonder why the man was so surprised, because he was already speaking –
"Well d-done, Mr. Black. Again, p-please, and h-hold your w-wand s-s-still this time – "
For the next fifteen minutes, Antares was made to wiggle his wand in all sorts of contortions and silly things in order, Quirrel said, to illustrate that the spell really was simple, and that wand movements didn't affect it as much as they did some other spells. Antares had just begun to really settle into not feeling like an idiot when Draco dared to interrupt their teacher.
"Er – Professor? We're going to have to try it, aren't we?" Antares could only struggle to hide his amazement at the fact that Draco was actually helping him in his nefarious plan to practice new spells – Draco had only ever tried to insult him or snidely suggest he was thicker than the doors in the dungeons during his arduous teaching demonstrations. For the little prig to actually help him, consciously or not, was simply –
"Professor, should we put our books away?" came the obviously excited voice of Tracey Davis, and then it was completely inevitable. Quirrel tried to speak several times, but was cut off by seemingly helpful requests from each member of the class, who had now cottoned on to Antares' mission and were vying with themselves as to who could shove their books out of sight the quickest and who could earnestly question Quirrel on the incantation in the most interested voice.
For a moment, Antares thought that Quirrel would say no, out of sheer nervousness, but the man seemed to give him an oddly sharp look and suddenly decide.
"All right, ch-ch-children. W-w-wands out…"
As the bell rang for the end of the long period, Antares felt a feeling remarkably similar to the panic he'd felt on launching into his disguised defiance of Quirrel at the beginning of the class blossom in his stomach as everyone began to leisurely put away their things. He hurried, trying not to make it look like he was hurrying, because he really, really, really didn't want to be made to stay behind and talk to Quirrel about his practically overturning the man's lesson plan for this morning, and things weren't looking good for his escape. For starters, everyone else was packing up languidly, still buzzing excitedly about how cool the class had been (despite the fact that it had only been about one hour of practical demonstration and a stammered lecture from Quirrel the other two-thirds of the class), and it made him look woefully out of place as he shoved his book and parchment and wand into his bag as fast as he could.
To be fair, Blaise, who he'd managed to make understand that no, the class today had never been headed towards the height of coolness it reached this morning, and that yes, he'd probably get in trouble for it, was hurrying just as well beside him, but Antares could feel that sickening feeling he always felt coming over him as he was about to get caught. As everyone began to leave through the open door at the head of the class, he finally saw Quirrel's look of barely disguised displeasure and obvious positioning next to the door and wearily decided that he'd been doomed from the start.
"Antares?" Blaise hissed, making it sound more like 'N-tares' in his haste. "I thought you said you needed to hurry up…" Blaise's voice trailed off as he spotted Quirrel leaning against the door jamb, nodding nervously as Greg and Vince stalked heavily past him. "Oh." Antares' grip tightened on the worn strap of his school bag as he and Blaise approached the door, and he felt monumentally stupid for thinking the Professor wouldn't think to head him off. "Do you want me to stay?"
Antares darted an incredulous look in the direction of his friend's whispered offer, and slowly, firmly shook his head. Though he couldn't believe how much he'd misjudged this, he also knew somewhere at the back of his mind that the most Quirrel could really do to him was give him detention for the rest of the term, or something. It was really nice of Blaise to offer especially when it wasn't his fault, so –
"Thanks," he whispered back, ignoring Tracey Davis' inquisitive look, "but no. He's hardly going to off me or anything…" And they both couldn't hold back grins, because how silly was that? Professor Quirrel was the last person Antares could think of in that way – he'd actually be more afraid of his mum in the same situation, for goodness' sake –
"Mr. Black," Quirrel said, somehow suppressing his stammer for a moment. "Please r-remain behind, I need a w-word with you." Well, so much for the stammer. Antares shrugged and nodded, pasting a pleasant, bored look on his face as Pansy and Daphne filed out after a still slightly amused Blaise. "Mr. Black – "
"I'm not sorry, sir," Antares said, adjusting the strap on his now slightly aching shoulder, meaning every word of it. Satisfaction blazed through him as the surprised expression on Quirrel's face gave way to puzzlement, even as his smart side groaned at his stupid defiance. This isn't the time for games, you pillock, it ordered, and Antares sighed and dutifully gave in. "I mean, sorry, sir."
"I heard w-what you s-s-said, boy," Quirrel said, that sharp look returning to his face as he shut the door. "Just b-because I tolerated y-y-y-your misbehaviour today, Mr. B-black, does not mean I w-w-will tolerate it again," the Professor finished off as firmly as one could while stammering. Antares kept back an irritated snort and nodded, mutely, trying hard to look at least a little contrite. It wasn't his fault that Quirrel had the ability to make what could probably be the most exciting class at Hogwarts into another sleeping period, was it? He was sick of being respectful and nice to this quivering idiot that could probably barely hold his own against Snape, and –
"Y-you weren't even up to d-d-demonstrating the ch-charm p-properly, you silly boy," was the sudden, manifestly odd follow-up to the firm statement Antares had expected. "You t-took longer than your first time to disarm me... Now," Quirrel said, almost imperiously, beckoning a mystified Antares over as he strode towards his large desk, "tell me what you d-did wrong on that f-first D-d-disarming Charm."
"I didn't," Antares said defensively, disliking the sense that he didn't know where this was going. "You were holding your wand too hard, that's all – "
"Was I?" Quirrel said, leaning forward over his slightly messy desk in a slightly avid manner that was a little unsettling. "And – and yet you s-succeeded," he continued, tone going thoughtful. Antares tried not to scratch at himself – he really didn't know where on earth this miserable conversation was going, and was starting to feel quite nervous as to what his punishment would be – "Keep practicing, Black," Quirrel suddenly said, straightening up in his chair as he drew some scrolls of parchment closer to him. "Perhaps you may be as g-g-good at Defence as I thought…" The professor's voice trailed off into that strange thoughtfulness again, and Antares could no longer keep back his desire to leave.
"Am I dismissed, sir?"
"Certainly," was the quiet, contemplative answer, and Antares did not stick around to hear it twice. Professor Quirrel was positively unnerving sometimes, with that stinky turban and his constant nerves and stammering, but today he'd surpassed that somehow. Behind that strange, innocent-sounding guess was something Antares did not understand, and it only intensified his already quick stride as he made for the Great Hall. And the absence of punishment left him with a feeling of dread in his stomach – no one ever let you off like that if they didn't expect something back, so –
Wait – what was that?
Antares paused momentarily, looking behind him. It sounded like a sob, like someone crying – wait, there it is again – "Hey? Is anyone there?" Antares sighed inwardly, irritated that he couldn't even stop the words leaving his mouth. I have a problem, I really do – "Hello?"
"Go away," the Sniffler answered, sounding very plaintive and very young. Antares didn't even waste time trying to make himself obey the sad little command, because he just – he just couldn't. He'd never been able to stand ignoring someone in need of real help, and since he was supposed to help people here at Hogwarts as an Apprentice, he could explain it away that way. Or something.
"Are you lost?" Antares called out, making his tone as practical as possible. That always helped when helping people, in his experience. Most of them usually buttoned up and accepted it that way, so.
No answer came, and Antares fidgeted, not really wanting to call out again, because it would only make him feel more stupid and silly for staying at all. Maybe his theory was wrong. Or maybe it was because the person sounded like a girl – girls were always weirder to help –
"I – sniff – think so," came the tentative answer, almost too quietly for him to hear it. Antares headed slowly in the direction of the voice, and immediately came upon a tiny little alcove set back from the corridor, and he sighed uncomfortably, because it was a girl. And, even worse, it was that girl – the one Snape seemed to hate, and the one who always asked the most questions. What's her name again? Gringle – Granger? I think that's it…
"Granger?" he ventured, pretending he didn't see how red and pathetic she looked as he sort of sidled into the alcove. "Where were you going that you got lost, anyway? I thought you were smart – " But that turned out to be the wrong thing to say, because she started crying again, sniffing horribly into her hands – "Granger, I meant that in a good way," he said, a little desperately, taking courage as the tears paused for a bit. "I get lost too, so – come on – " And, determinedly not thinking about what the heck he was doing, Antares practically dragged her to her feet and sort of looked away while she wiped her face, filling the awkward, sniffy silence with chatter. "I usually ask the portraits for help if I'm lost, or if I think I'm heading in the wrong direction, and they always help. They know a lot more about the castle than most of the teachers do, I think…" Antares' voice trailed off as Granger stiffened and wriggled out of his grip. "Where were you going, then?"
"Library," she said, obviously lying. Antares rolled his eyes, but forced himself to be civil anyway.
"Well, it's lunchtime now, so you'll be wanting to go to the Great Hall instead," he said, avoiding her reddened eyes. "It's down this corridor, so you'll just keep going down here to your left – " he pointed away from the DADA classroom, " – and ignore the fact that there are more doors on it than usual. Elmira Ecklebird's portrait told me three extra classrooms are on this hallway on Wednesdays. So. Goodbye." Antares, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, started off in exactly the direction he'd just pointed Granger, not really expecting her to say anything in return. He supposed Gryffindors were even more exclusive about talking back to Slytherins when not arguing with them, so it made no difference that she didn't –
"Thank you." Antares couldn't help looking back, and, seeing the look of real gratitude on her face, nodded shortly, feeling oddly gratified in return. People he helped didn't always thank him, so he supposed it was just a bit of a bonus, today.
Or maybe all Gryffindors are polite, he mused, slowing slightly as a large group students streamed out into the corridor from one of the classrooms on his left. Or maybe just the ones that are smart –
"Watch where you're going, Slyther-sprog," an all-too familiar voice said as Antares bumped into someone he really, really hoped was not one of the Weasley twins, but was equally sure that it was.
"You going to even apologise?" another of them said, springing up just in front of him out of what felt like nowhere. "Or is it part of your house's motto to be rude and nasty to everyone else?"
"Well, sorry, then," Antares blurted out, distinctly feeling that something very humiliating was probably going to happen to him very soon. "I don't bump into people on purpose, you know."
"Ooo!" the first one gasped, grasping comically at his brother's arm, a fake frightened look on his face, "Fred, the Slyther-sprog apologised – "
"Back away, George," the second Weasley said, tone filled with exaggerated fear, "it's obviously down with some kind of brain disease, he could be catching – "
"I say we run for it!"
"I agree!"
"Let's go!" And with that, the Weasley twins dashed away into the Great Hall, mock-running-in-terror and directing even more eyes (and laughter) Antares' horribly embarrassed way as he continued heading for the Great Hall. It really wasn't fair – you never could win with those two. If you were nice to them, they mocked you. If you were just polite, they mocked you more. If you traded insults with them (as Adrian and Charles were regularly reputed to do), they played embarrassing pranks on you with no care for whether it was in the middle of a test or during a boring part of the day that didn't need to go well, and they always did it to you with an avid audience of laughing students, most of which Antares knew were relieved deep down that it wasn't them this time.
Antares reddened even more – he always felt guilty afterwards, but the things they did were funny…except when they happened to him. Antares sighed, heading thankfully for the Slytherin table, just managing to ignore a couple Hufflepuffs he passed that whispered "brain disease" at him. He soon found Blaise talking his head off (as usual) to an avidly listening Tracey – when did she start sitting by us, anyway? – and settled into the empty space beside his friend with a thump and another sigh.
" – so that's why Quirrel was so weird about it at the beginning. We weren't really meant to have a demonstration from him in the first- oh hey, Antares," Blaise said, pausing in his conversation with Tracey, "You all right?"
"Yeah," was his slightly tired reply. "Just wish I didn't have class after this, that's all. Then I could catch my breath before that flying class, instead of hopping to for Mc-bloody-Gonagall or someone else – "
"Antares, Blaise was just telling me about Quirrel – did he give you detention?" Antares stared at Tracey for a moment. He'd hardly heard her talk since the start of term, except during Quidditch arguments, which probably didn't count, as she seemed to be a rather rabid fan –
"But why would he give Antares detention?" Daphne interrupted suddenly from beside him. "We were the ones that made him let us practice it, Antares was only – "
"Actually, I was never supposed to demonstrate anything," Antares interrupted, feeling sheepish as the three of them gave him an interested look. "I just made everything up."
"Even the chapter?" Tracey said, sounding impressed. "Because it was the right one – "
"It was?" Blaise said, grinning. "I didn't even bother looking, I was whipping my wand out so fast – "
"Sucks for Quirrel," Daphne said, her grin matching Blaise's. "He must've thought we had a real conspiracy going, he'll probably be twitchy around us for the rest of the term, knowing him – "
"Did you see how cornered he looked when Greg started arguing for the demonstration as well?"
Antares, now grinning along with the rest of them, made short work of his slightly malformed piece of shepherd's pie while Blaise, Tracey and Daphne laughed over the various mistakes everyone had made with the Disarming Charm, feeling oddly content. It didn't matter that he'd have to squeeze in a quick writing exercise with Professor Sinistra before rushing to the dreaded flying lesson – he was having another of those strange moments of feeling like he belonged here, and it was enough for the moment.
So he sat and laughed and joked along with them, ignoring Draco's snide jokes about him being Quirrel's little lackey (which fell rather flat anyway), and by the time he struggled off the bench, he was in high spirits.
"I'm off, then," Antares said, smiling as Blaise continued to heatedly defend the rather wonky effect of his Disarming Charm. Blaise, and, interestingly, Daphne and Tracey nodded at him, ensuring that Antares left the Slytherin table feeling considerably better than he had when he'd approached it in the first place. Giving the Gryffindor table a wide berth (as the Weasley twins were holding court near the end of it), he headed for the dungeons with a leisurely stride, knowing well that he'd have more than enough time to get to his Apprenticeship class.
Avoiding the group of loudly debating seventh-years near the door, Antares managed to slip into his dormitory without attracting any unnecessary attention. He quickly sloughed off his schoolbag and attacked it, searching for a quill that wasn't bent. Finding one took up most of the time he spent in the dormitory assembling the few materials he'd need for the next class, and he was soon on his way to the familiar classroom on the second floor, his small study book under his arm. This particular one was in an especially shabby condition, partly because this writing class (he'd checked, and been thankful his coming class wouldn't be with McGonagall after all) was one of the last four he was going to have this term, and partly because it'd become a sort of inanimate magical guinea-pig to he and Blaise.
Antares smiled as he squashed the book into one of his larger robe pockets, taking care that none of it was visible to anyone that might look at him. Right now, it was a hideous shade of orange, and the first and last sheets of parchment in the book (well, in the sheaf of messily bound parchment, if you were really finicky) had an odd knobbly texture from the times he and Blaise had tried (and failed) to transfigure portions of them into cloth. It stood out even amongst the most brightly coloured textbooks in his bag, and its obviously personal nature was simply irresistible to any troublemaking or even slightly mischievous student Antares might meet in the corridors, so he often kept it out of sight.
Besides, Antares thought sheepishly, there are all those horrible writing exercise things in it. He grinned – the book was definitely the only school-issued material he'd ever inwardly vowed to burn, and could probably be the last –
Right, here he was. Wait –
Antares stared at the door, which wasn't opening. The handle, he thought confusedly, was absolutely not moving, which was weird, because he'd seen Professor Sinistra at breakfast that morning, and she'd clearly reminded him of the whole thing. After trying a tentative unlocking charm, Antares shrugged half in defeat, half in exhilaration. There was nothing like legitimately missing a class, after all…
Just as he was turning away, a little thrill of dread running through him as he remembered he'd wanted to read up on Quidditch just before his flying class, a neat little note appeared on the door. Antares, on closer, disappointed inspection, discovered it to be – he stared – in Professor Quirrel's handwriting. It read:
Sinistra away on urgent family visit.
Class will be with me in DADA
classroom,
Quirrel.
Antares sighed. Why today, of all days? He turned away from the door, irritated and not a little interested in just pretending he hadn't seen the note at all. While Quirrel wasn't the last person he'd want to watch him muddle through the writing exercises (that dubious honour belonged to the Headmaster, who he'd rather not speak to at all even on the best of days), Antares was still uncomfortable with the idea of being around the Professor because of the strange behaviour he'd displayed at the end of class not more than an hour ago.
However, as missing the rescheduled class was not really an option (however much he wished it was), Antares grudgingly set out for the DADA classroom, hoping that Quirrel was not in his office or something –
Consequently, he felt rather hard done by when the man actually appeared in front of the swiftly opening door as he made to knock. Antares started – it was almost as if Professor Quirrel had been waiting for him, or listening outside for his footsteps, or –
"C-c-come in, Mr. B-black," stuttered Quirrel, looking interested, but in a thankfully non-detention-y way. "Sit d-down, please."
Antares sat, as far away from Quirrel's desk as he could without looking like a loon, and duly extracted his orange book. "Shall I start, sir?"
"Start? W-what do you mean?" Quirrel said, looking oddly confused as Antares determinedly opened his writing book.
"My writing exercises, sir," Antares said slowly, feeling unaccountably uneasy as Quirrel gave him one of those sharp looks again. He quashed the urge to scratch at his shoulder as it inconveniently began to itch and ache insistently, wondering why the professor was taking so long to –
"No," Quirrel replied, sounding almost as decisive as the expression on his face. "Let's do s-something else, s-shall we? Something f-f-fun," he continued, smiling nervously. Antares closed his book, trying not to look as unconvinced as he felt at that last suggestion. Fun, indeed – DADA classes were at the very bottom of any fun list of things to do Antares could come up with, and Quirrel himself was close to the last person he'd expect to suggest such a thing without adequate persuasion – "Get your wand out, boy, and stand up."
Antares stared for a moment before complying easily, feeling even more uneasy as he did so, despite the fact that he wasn't exactly powerless before this odd man should he abruptly decide Antares' punishment was to be some sort of trial by ordeal. Especially if he just swiped Quirrel's wand and broke it in two before he started running, or –
Why the hell am I so paranoid just now?
"I am going to t-t-teach you," Quirrel said slowly, making Antares dearly want to roll his eyes and ask if that was why he was – surprise, a teacher. "Defence against the Dark Arts interests you, d-does it n-n-not?"
Give the man a prize! "Yes, sir," Antares managed to say without sneering. Where is this going –
"Then y-you would l-like to practice some, w-w-w-wouldn't you? Some other s-spell, besides the Disarming Charm, perhaps?"
"Yes, sir," Antares said, a little more slowly, wary excitement starting to blossom within him. Quirrel nodded slowly to himself, looking pleased, as if he hadn't already known Antares was interested in anything else other than bloody essays and stupid little questionnaires about vampires that asked information that everyone in his class already knew bits and pieces of –
"Then I will teach you s-some spells," Quirrel said slowly, his frame taking on an oddly decisive slant. One that suited him a lot more than the 'I'm a Stutterer! Don't Hurt me, Professor Snape!' one that he seemed to carry around like a physical cloak – "The first," Quirrel continued, stutter diminishing as he began to really speak about the spells, "shall be the Impediment Jinx…"
About an hour later, Antares had all but forgotten his slight paranoia towards Quirrel, and was really enjoying the whole 'I'll t-t-teach you spells' deal. Sometimes, as he got overenthusiastic with one of them, jinxing one of the desks so much that it actually wobbled onto its side, Quirrel gave him that already half-familiar, sharp look, as if noting something, but that didn't bother him.
For the first time, Antares felt wholly immersed in something he was learning in a way that only Charms ever seemed to do for him occasionally. It felt almost intoxicating, getting the Locomotor hex right on his first try, even though he wasn't quite able to do more than make the duster rise and move more than a few inches to the left. Which, when he thought about it, after watching it make the torturously slow journey across Quirrel's desk, was quite draining –
"How do I stop the spell, sir?" he ventured easily, poking gently at the still-moving duster as a highly pleased Quirrel looked on from his seat behind the desk.
"T-t-try the incantation Locomotor mortis," was the almost languid answer, causing Antares to give his professor a sharp look. Mortis – that sounded like it might mean death, or something. It sounded familiar, like the few Latin words Bella had had time to drum into his head to avoid –
"What does the incantation mean?"
"Ah, so suspicious, you young Slytherins," Quirrel muttered, his quill dancing an odd little pattern on a largish sheet of parchment he'd been paying attention to since Antares had started coaxing the duster into sluggish motion. "It is a variant of th-th-the Locomotor that allows the c-c-caster to make an object or b-being cease motion, magically i-i-induced or not. A-A-Also known as the Leg-L-locker Curse, as those are the articles it affects in most beings – "
Antares kept back a slightly relieved sigh, feeling foolish for even thinking it might mean Quirrel was trying to do him in. "So if I cast it on you, you wouldn't be able to walk?"
"Precisely." Quirrel waved the now-stationary quill his way. "G-go on."
"Locomotor mortis," Antares said easily, focusing as hard as he could on the stupid duster not falling off the desk, and – that is so satisfying – it did. It teetered on the right edge of Quirrel's desk for a minute and fell anyway, but Antares easily caught it, suppressing the urge to draw it to his hand as he usually did with most falling objects in private. "Here's your duster back, sir…"
"And here," Quirrel said, presenting him the large sheet of parchment he'd evidently been scribbling on, "A t-t-tidy little r-reference, of s-sorts, for today's lesson." He gestured magnanimously in Antares' direction as he took it. "I added one or t-t-two m-more for your s-study. F-F-Feel f-free to c-come by with any q-q-q-questions you might have, Black. Off you go."
"Thanks, sir." Antares rose to his feet, feeling oddly energised from just seeing the 'one or t-t-two more', which was actually six, on the parchment. He paused for a moment, meaning to thank Quirrel for teaching him, and, more importantly, for not punishing him.
Unfortunately, that wasn't quite what came out. "Thanks sir. Are you going to test me on them? I mean," Antares added hastily, knowing that could be taken entirely the wrong way, "Will I demonstrate them, or anything? Or is this just for my own – "
"Heavens no," Quirrel said amiably, his smile a little less nervous than it had been at the start of the little lesson. "Mostly for your own study, I should th-think. If you are to d-d-demonstrate anything, I will inform you the next time we practice."
"We'll do this again?" Antares couldn't help saying. Quirrel nodded, ignoring how he blushed at being so – so swotty. Antares picked up his writing book and, after absently folding and tucking the parchment away into it, hastily stuffed it away, ignoring the ache in his shoulder as he sort of fidgeted in front of Quirrel, wondering whether it was polite to thank him again (it felt like he had, somehow) or not.
The impolite, grasping side of him won (because Quirrel might actually remember to give him another bloody lesson if he did), almost without a fight.
"Thanks again, sir. Er. Bye." Antares headed out of the office, just narrowly managing to clamp down on the impulse to apologise for his disturbance in class that morning. If Quirrel didn't want to remember it, then he had no business trying to bring it up each time, especially if it might mean that Quirrel wouldn't practice spells with him any more. At that thought, Antares couldn't help straightening just a little, walking a little taller. As silly as it probably was to be gratified at being told to study, he just felt privileged, somehow, that Quirrel thought he was good enough to learn directly from him –
"Antares, is that you?" Antares jumped at the sound of Tracey's disembodied voice, coming from so close in front of him. He went slowly around the corner, and felt stupidly relieved that she was actually there, looking dishevelled and rather impatient. "Where've you been? Our flying lesson's been going on for fifteen minutes, and you haven't – "
"What?" Antares looked at his dirty little watch, and paled. Shite – he'd been occupied with Quirrel for thirty minutes longer than his normal study period – "Oh gosh, must've lost track of the time – "
"While studying?" Tracey said, tugging him after her towards the front hall. "When you can be flying?"
"I don't fly," Antares said dazedly, dread seizing abrupt hold of him again. "Do we have to?" Tracey goggled at him, but didn't let go as they darted out into the courtyard and began to hurry in the direction of what Antares assumed must be the Quidditch pitch.
"Of course we have to," she seemed to settle for, making it sound like he was refusing to breathe or something. "To think that Madame Hooch sent me off for you – what a waste of time…" she muttered, ignoring how Antares stiffened as they approached what looked like a small swarm of students in the air. "She's in the grey robes, alright? Just grab up a broom, say 'up', and go tell her you're here – "
"Where are you going?"
"Flying," Tracey snapped, rolling her eyes at him, and then she was darting fearlessly into the space under the ragged swarm of black robes that Antares knew were students, and retrieving one of the last few non-ragged brooms that lay in a scattered pile beside a shapeless little mound of cloth Antares recognised as some sort of detachable cloak hood, and doing just that. Her kick-off was a little jerky, but so obviously miles better than anything Antares would be able to produce in his fright, and he was just so nervous –
"Look, everyone, the peasant's arrived!" Antares' heart stilled sharply within him as he unwillingly began to make his way towards the pile of brooms, Draco's contemptuous voice and the resulting giggles washing over him like a rain of stinging needles. "See – even the brooms don't like him!" And it seemed horrifyingly true – the broom in his hand was almost wriggling, as if trying to get away from him, to join its counterparts in the air free of the constraint of a pathetic flyer like him –
"Quiet, Mr. Malfoy!" the strident, no-nonsense voice of the woman who Antares numbly thought must be Madam Hooch cut through the laughing of the rest of the class like the cold feeling was doing through his ability to speak and defend himself. "Three points from Slytherin for your tardiness, Mr. Black, Apprentice or no. I don't tolerate stragglers, you understand?" A fierce-looking, hawk like woman thudded down to the ground beside him. "Having trouble? Shed your robes, if it will make you feel a little less encumbered."
Antares wordlessly did so, ignoring the way he had to keep a tight grip on the broom as he stepped a little way away from the slightly muddy little pile of his shabby robes. "Now, set your broom on the ground, and call 'up' – " But Antares was hardly listening to her terse, yet patient instruction, because Draco was whooping and streaking down from the steady circuit of nervous students flitting about above them.
"Look at me, everyone!" Everyone looked, including Hooch, because you could hardly help it, he was that good, that fluid, and –
Antares stared –
– obviously heading for his robes. And his book –
No –
Before Antares could form a coherent thought, before he could even think to reach out and somehow snatch his stuff away, Draco had swiped the muddy little bundle and was shaking out everything onto the grass as he rose higher amid the laughter of everyone except for Madame Hooch, who was blowing on a whistle and fiercely demanding Draco get down at once, which wasn't doing a bit of difference because Draco now had his hands on his book and was –
" – listen up, everyone! Wait till you hear what Peasant Boy does in his study period – "
"Give that back!" Antares could somehow hear himself shouting, somewhere in the distance, even as the broom sprang hard into his hand, as if it already knew his desperate intention. And then Antares was up in the air, cutting fiercely through the loud laughter and the absolute humiliation of hearing Draco read his horrible exercises out loud, and he wasn't quite sure what he was going to do apart from make. Him. Pay. "Impedimenta!"
The angry, shaky Impediment Jinx was not nearly enough to do more than wobble Draco's broom slightly in the air, but it finally made him pay attention to the spiralling, blindingly angry Antares below him, which was exactly what he wanted –
"Do you have a problem with me reading this, Black?" Draco was taunting, swirling higher, taking the bloody book out of Antares' grasp with a simple lift and soar, and it was maddening, so maddening – "Come and take it, Peasant Boy!"
Antares let go then, lowering himself to the broom, trusting it entirely, letting it circle higher and higher after the now-slightly-nervous Draco, who seemed to realise what Antares was doing almost at the last moment, only managing to duck out of his way as Antares shot at him like an angry black arrow, whipping around and dogging Draco's heels, following him as he twisted in the air. Antares matched him move for move, indignation and adrenaline spurring him on in the air, the desire to make the blonde bastard pay heavily outweighing his fear of falling, his morbid fear that he just wouldn't ever be good enough.
Because the last fear, he realised, as Draco faced him, apprehension and calculation in his eyes, was proving to be almost irrelevant –
"I'm tired of you following me, you stinking peasant," Draco said, almost conversationally, tossing the book up in the air. "You can have your stupid little book, for all I care – "
But Antares wasn't listening to him anymore, was just streaking past him after the fluttering, arcing little spot of orange, because he'd suddenly remembered that the parchment that Quirrel had given him was inside, and he wasn't letting that go, letting that crumple to nothing on the wet grass beneath them or flutter away in the slight wind, as long as this broom behaved and his legs behaved and the air seemed to ally itself with him. The angry shouts of Madame Hooch and the gasps and screams of everyone else dissolved into nothing but Antares in the air and Antares on the broom, diving after the parchment gently tugging free of the falling book, and it all came together in his ears, the air whistling past him sounding like an odd, incoherent sort of music as he passed the book nearing the ground, every pore of his body calling out to that whistling, fluttering piece of slightly damp parchment, and –
He felt his hand close on it, squashing it, saving it, and then and only then did he let his reflexes take him curving away from the grass rushing up to meet him, weathering the way his body seemed to spiral in on itself with the sheer force of his turn, slowing down as the broom slowed down between his legs. Antares found himself half flung onto the grass as the book thudded to the ground some ten feet away from him, and despite the fact that it hurt, felt fiercely victorious.
"You crazy child," Madame Hooch's voice said, from somewhere that seemed far away, "Could have been killed – "
"He took my stuff," Antares said weakly, feeling like that was very important to make sure she knew. "He took my – "
"And you dived after a piece of parchment," she sighed, becoming a huge grey blob above him as his eyelids started to droop from the resurging pain in his shoulder, which seemed to be travelling down into the hand that was clutching said parchment. The blob shifted before his eyes as her voice told someone to get Ponry and Snip, and Antares, after thinking for a moment, managed to reach out and pat the broom that was still somehow beside him, in thanks for a job well done.
"Thanks," was the last thing he heard himself say, before the welcoming sensation of sleep overtook him, and his eyelids closed entirely.
The broom had had a part in his victory, after all.
A/N: Dear Lord, thanks for helping me finish this. Really, people, I don't know why this chapter had me so stuck, but it did. Sorry about the cliffie, as usual. All I'll tell you is that he isn't dead. Obviously. I mean, how would I be able to write fifth year then?
Sorry for any mistakes or whatnot, but I'm too fed up of looking at this darn chapter and worrying about perfection to look at it one more time. Hope you enjoyed it (it had more than one serious sticking point for me, that's all I'll say), E.M.
Oh, and I know I haven't answered any reviews lately. I'll get round to it straight after this, so...yeah.
