"How many fouls d'you reckon there were?" Orville asked, his voice registering somewhere in the deafening clamour of Albus' foggy brain. Throbbing pains multiplied all over his body, heavily concentrated in his leg. A smack sounded. Muted talking filtered into his consciousness but hastily faded away when a sensation of warmth flowed through his aching limbs. The darkness resumed again.
Out of nowhere, "Potter?" a worried voice called. "Potter." Albus felt like he was bobbing to the surface of reality, fighting through the dull anguish emanating from the leg the Bludger had hit. "Potter, what aren't you telling me?" Was that McGonagall? Who was she talking to? Was his dad there? The mattress creaked and sprang back as something, or somebody warm, stood up. There was a heavy sigh.
Somebody, it could've easily been McGonagall, took a deep breath.
"I'm not a hundred percent comfortable sending Albus here. There's something that - it - it doesn't feel right, Minerva. I know I spent years getting up to no good at Hogwarts but this is his third day here, for Christ's sake." It was Dad's voice, but it sounded strained. Almost as if something had happened. And what had he meant by 'third day'? Had he been here that long? Was it Sunday? What had he missed?
"The Ministry's been getting twitchy again, it feels like there's something on the march," he sighed once more. "Muggle and wizarding politics are becoming fractured. Even Gringotts are getting restless. Everything's uneasy, like some small atmospheric shift everyone's picking up subconsciously." A faint pitter-patter, of rain perhaps, against windows began its slow drumbeat.
"Harry, you - you can't keep your child hidden away, just because he's eleven. James is here; what about him?" It seemed to be Professor Longbottom's voice, as tense as Dad's. The tempo of the rain started to quicken, as did Albus' heart. What the bloody hell was going on?
"I think it centres around Albus," his dad said. There was a pointed intake of breath, from Albus' left. He assumed it was McGonagall.
"I don't want to say you're wrong, but I've felt something too - it got stronger on the first day of term. Like an underlying feeling of wrongness," McGonagall confided in a low voice. "However, I have to agree with Neville and argue that Albus is safest here - for the time being. Here, we can observe what's going on and if necessary, arrangements can be put in place to move him. Would you agree?" A murmur. A stifled cough. Albus struggled to listen for more as his thoughts once again plunged into the friendly darkness of dreamland, where his leg could no longer pervade his waking moments.
"D'you know when he'll wake up?" Rose inquired faintly. "It's Sunday evening and we're supposed to have classes tomorrow-"
He groaned as pain shot through his leg. "Mr Potter! Finally with us, are you?" Albus opened his eyes but rapidly shut them again, as McGonagall stood at the foot of his bed with Rose. "Not much to worry about, the majority of you's been patched up." He sat up, looking at the professor questioningly. "You broke your leg and arm, and you'll be hobbling around for a week or so, but you'll live, well, for the most part. I'm happy for you to go back to Ravenclaw Tower, once you've had your dinner with us." His face must've looked confused as McGonagall repeated, "Yes, Potter, dinner. I wish to discuss yesterday's events with you and Miss Weasley-Granger."
Rubbing his eyes, he realised he felt - and probably - looked disgusting. "Can I...er, clean myself up before dinner, Professor?" McGonagall suddenly looked apologetic, as if she'd forgotten he was lying in a bed in the Hospital Wing.
"Yes, of course, Rose'll give you a hand, if you need it, back to your common room," she said sternly, her face nonplussed, turning to address Rose in a hushed tone. "Did Mr Williams give you the password?"
He swung his legs off the bed and sat as his head spun. "Yeah. Okay. Bloody hell," he muttered. pushing himself onto his feet. He was desperate for a shower, to feel somewhat human again and he wasn't going to let his weak muscles stop him. Rose rushed to his side to help him, concern written across her face. "I'm alright," he insisted, patting himself down for his wand. "What happened at the match?"
Rose bit her lip awkwardly. "Well, that's why the Professor wants to talk to us."
The Headmistress nodded, her grey hair matching her face. "Mind how you go, Potter. Eight o'clock, please."
The halting and stumbled walk to Ravenclaw Tower ended with Rose pushing the door open for him. He glanced at the clock on the wall and made his way to the dormitories. One of them had a bathroom of some kind, for a previous student who'd lost a limb. "Oh God, oh God," he muttered to himself as he found an empty shower stall.
Blasting himself with tepid water appealed, such was his dishevelled state. The match came back to him, the fear of falling, the disappointment at how quickly it'd gone wrong, the horrifying shame of being useless on a broomstick as the son of Ginny Weasley, former captain of the Holyhead Harpies during their Invincible years. Biting his fist, he screamed. It was hoarse and pitiful. How he had blundered in and caused it to go so badly afterwards. Why couldn't he have just charmed one of the players into silence? Why was he so poor at being a wizard?
Clambering into the dormitory to get changed saw an anxious Kavyansh and Sky considerably cheer up at the sight of him. Orville was missing. He vaguely wondered where he was.
"Bloody hell, Potter, you've been through the wars, haven't you? How are you?" It was the first Kavyansh had spoken to him, exclaiming in a thick Scottish brogue, looking him up and down.
Pulling a fresh pair of jeans on, he shook his head. "Told you I hated Quidditch." As he stood up to yank a jumper over his year, he elaborated. "Terrified - absolutely bloody terrified of heights. And it feels like my leg's going to fall off."
"Well, you'll be pleased to know that we racked up an impressed twenty-three fouls, just Puff-Claw. The Hufflepuffs were useless. But - and this is the million Galleon question, how many fouls d'you think the other side got? Rose is fuming, still," Sky laughed, trying to distract Albus from his pains.
He shrugged. "Ten?"
Kavyansh chuckled, arms folded as he leaned against his bed stand. "A lot more than that."
"Alright, twenty? Thirty?" The grin on his and Sky's faces broadened. "Forty?"
"Before you went down, fifty-six. Nearly eighty when we totted it up. When I say Rose kicked off after the match, I mean, big time, screaming and shouting," Sky said, evidently bemused.
Albus' mouth fell open. "That's ridiculous! She's got player rage," he laughed. "Who was counting?" The three of them snorted. He patted his legs and stretched. "God, I have to go meet McGonagall and her for dinner at eight." Kavyansh raised a bashful eyebrow. "Don't ask, they want to discuss yesterday, apparently. Do I mention the fouls and wind Rose up? Probably safer if I don't." They chuckled again before Sky handed over a letter with his name on it.
"Yeah, that came for you last night," he said. "It's quarter to eight, shouldn't you be going?"
"Shit!" Albus exclaimed and shoved the letter under his bed pillows. "Alright, see you later. If I survive!" Aghast at having lost precious minutes, he sprinted down to the open portrait door, an annoyed Rose glaring at him with arms folded. As they hurried down to McGonagall's office, she hurtled a hundred questions at him.
"Why didn't you tell me your flying was that bad? Why didn't you keep an eye on the bloody match? How could you let the side down like that?" Albus mused that she obviously recognised the importance of a casual first-year match. "James kept yelling 'Atrocious Albus' at dinner yesterday! I've never been so embarrassed for someone else. And why didn't you check the fouls?" Her voice, like Friday evening on the train, grew higher in pitch as she railed off her questions, listing the flaws in his refereeing. The staircases were against them, as Rose's directions failed them, as distracted as she was.
A bellowing voice stopped them dead in their tracks as they bounded down the same corridor twice, confused. "Oi, you two!" Rose had completely frozen, her face blanched in shock.
It seemed to be a beefy man in his fifties, his hair whiter than any Christmas snow Albus had ever seen. Was this the Professor Mullard, excruciatingly angry on his night duties, that James had warned him about? "Where in the blazing heck d'you think you're going?" His voice sounded distinctly Northern - and his temperament matched what his dad had said about Northerners in general.
Rose and Albus looked at each other, struggling to even stammer out an answer. "Er-"
"Spit it out," the professor demanded. "I don't have all the time in the world."
"McGonagall wanted us for dinner," Rose piped up, recovering her feet. "Professor, please, where is her office?"
"I'll escort you there," he barked back. It was almost a snarl. Adjusting his black robes and red-crested tie, it didn't take much for Albus to guess what house he preferred. Rose's virtually-flaunted allegiance to Slytherin with her scarf and Quidditch jumper, alongside their appearance, had irritated the professor. He led them down a series of endless grey corridors, up a gargoyle-guarded flight of steps, to a wooden door. "Minerva," he grunted. He swore under his breath, raising a pudgy hand, clasping a stout wand, against the door. "Miscreants. Vere via." It flew open, and the three of them walked in, Albus now distinctly unnerved.
A large oaken desk greeted them, eclipsed by a floor-to-ceiling semi-circle of bookcases, a series of stairs providing a walkway to the upper levels. A huge pendulum swung in the background, a darkening sky filled with iron-grey clouds beyond. In between shelves were moving portraits of what he assumed to be previous headmasters and headmistresses.
He wondered if his namesakes were amongst that number, the photographs his father had shown him throughout his childhood undoubtedly failing to stand up to constantly shifting painted figures. He quickly scanned the room, looking for McGonagall, before taking a step forward to survey the portraits. They seemed to be kept well and regularly dusted - whom by? - as a majority of them seemed bright and vibrant in colour.
"Miss Weasley-Granger, Mr Potter, take a seat, the Headmistress will attend to you shortly. The Minister has asked Professor Seumas Mullard to kindly resume his duties," a sombre voice chirped. The Minister? What were they doing here? And who had spoken? Mullard belligerently grumbled and closed the office door.
"Was that a painting?" Rose whispered, her eyes wide.
The voice replied. "Of course. As a former Headmaster, it gives me great pleasure to welcome you to this office." Albus hurriedly scanned the room for its origins, walking amongst each portrait in turn, craning its neck to find each of their occupants. "Your immediate left, Mr Potter." He beckoned Rose over, shifting his weight onto a higher step, a smiling old man with a silver beard and spectacled blue eyes their focus. The gilded nameplate, set in the varnished wood, read Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. He gasped, taking a step backwards.
"Albus!" Rose called out. "Is he your namesake?"
The Albus in the portrait leant forwards in his chair. "Namesake? Minerva often talked about you but never mentioned your name outright. I think, perhaps, she took great care to avoid offending me. Harry named you Albus?" He felt disarmed. The kindly professor hadn't been what he'd expected. Dad had sometimes indignantly described Dumbledore's schemes and his calculated risks at offering him up to Voldemort during the beginning of the Great Wizarding War but also had explained the way he'd looked up to the great wizard as a young man. Albus was now entirely sure he hadn't known what to expect at all. Why Albus? Why that name?
"Yes," he replied. "Offend you? In what way?" Rose frowned, as baffled and confused as Albus.
Dumbledore sighed deeply. "I was never the powerful man your father may have made me out to be-"
"No." The old man looked up in surprise. "You used him." Albus walked away disgustedly, as the other portraits murmured discontentedly. One cried "Outrageous! Dismiss the insolent young man at once!" and "Have you no respect for your elders?!" One portrait, a dark-haired man with a hooked nose, who he obscurely recognised from somewhere. gestured his approval.
An unimpressed-looking McGonagall held her gnarly hands up, silencing the agitated portraits. "I apologise for keeping you two waiting. I had a - somewhat - unexpected meeting with the Minister, as Professor Dumbledore informed you, but thank you for being patient." She signalled for them to follow her up the stairs and into a smaller room, which had steaming platters of food waiting for them. "Take a seat. Mr Potter, how are you feeling? Better?"
He nodded, sidling into a seat in the corner. "Ready for classes. A bit sore though." Rose shot him a look as if to ask where this conversation was headed.
"The match. An informal...formality, if you may," McGonagall began, indicating for them to begin dinner. Sensing Rose's flustered bewilderment, she took the time to clarify. "It's an open secret. Not exactly an abstract infraction, but we allow it to happen amongst the first years, as a sort of ritualised tradition. There was a reason Professor Longbottom was there." Albus thought back to how readily the Ravenclaw team had made themselves available and how easy access seemed to have been gained to the equipment they needed. Not many students had seemed the type to rip the rulebook apart. Rose speared a roast potato with her fork, aloof to the deception.
"However, this year, I was immensely disappointed. Firstly, the extent of the rivalry between the houses this match has caused. Potter, I'm not sure if you're aware, but there's been a noticeable shift away from the friendliness we've enjoyed so far this year. Quidditch or no Quidditch, this is something I haven't seen in a decade. Secondly, the injuries that were allowed to happen. Caused by my third point - the brawl, yes, Miss Weasley-Granger, I am disgusted by your actions as well as a number of others'. Blatant prejudice. You should've known better."
Rose trained her eyes on her plate, flushed embarrassment seared into her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Professor."
"As you should be. Regardless, if either of you participates in further intolerances, I will expect you in detention with me or with your individual Heads of House. I hoped you would act as role models, as the children of the Golden Trio. I understand this is a lot of pressure at your age, but… This is how we safeguard our fragile peace for future generations. Do you both understand?"
They nodded, Albus swallowing nervously. Vivid bursts of the match played at the forefront of his mind. What had actually happened? Had there an underlying tension there, propelling the aggressive play?
"Now, Professor Longbottom suggested there was a violent explosion of magical energy, which initiated the brutality of the match… Has Hermione ever explained how emotion affects magic?" McGonagall asked.
Wrongfooted, but intrigued, they shook their heads. "Magic impacts the energy flow of this reality, so to utilise it, witches and wizards redirect it with wands. Now, small amounts of magic only need an equal amount of control to assert it, which is why we have you start with basic spells. As you progress and develop your control, you can actualise greater amounts of magic."
Albus was unsure how this related to emotions but his mind prompted a never-ending series of questions. He was determined to know more.
"Now, part of this control is developing your sense of self and the necessary emotions which go with it, which tethers you to this plane of reality. Discovering too much magic too early may mean you lose yourself and simply become a physical manifestation of magical energy, but we won't go into that. If your magical core is unstable, your wand is poorly suited to you, your emotions control you far too easily… Whatever you're feeling will control you and thus your magic."
"Professor, how does this relate to the match?" his cousin wondered aloud. Trust her to say whatever she was thinking.
The world-weary professor smiled. "Well, that's an interesting question." Albus and Rose leant closer. "There's conscious magic, that's you saying spells and being aware that you're doing it, and there's unconscious magic, where you're doing it without even realising. Mr Potter has never been overly confident on a broomstick, so your anxiety may have overpowered the general feeling of excitement, and the rest is history. What I would like to know is… Why didn't you stay in the stands?"
Rose spoke. "It was my fault, Professor. I - I pushed him into it-"
"Rose, no, I should've known better. I thought I'd be better after Christmas," Albus said. He hung his head. "It didn't really work, did it, Professor?"
"Did you feel... pressured by your upbringing?" the professor asked.
Immediately, Albus shook his head. "No, 'course not! Proud of it." Rose looked sceptical, staring at her Sunday roast in lieu of her cousin. He'd been too defensive there. The Headmistress was bound to have seen straight through him. Was she going to mention his father openly threatening to pull him out of Hogwarts?
McGonagall could see they weren't getting anywhere despite her mini-lesson. "Nevertheless. Put the match behind you - as it was utterly mortifying to hear that Ravenclaw allowed themselves to be humiliated by Gryffindor so badly. Are you looking forward to lessons tomorrow? I'm sure you have Professor Ellis in the afternoon."
Rose looked at Albus expectantly before babbling. "We're actually really keen on Charms, Professor. Not that we've been practising spells at home or anything but I've read up on the theory and even though James says it's geeky, it's brilliant, in my opinion - not - not that Transfiguration is something else we're not excited for - oh, Professor, is it true that Wizarding Literature's been added to the curriculum? My mum says it's long needed-"
McGonagall smiled. "Of course. Professor Mullard's teaching that to the first and second-years for the time being. And what about you, Mr Potter?"
"Well, definitely not flying lessons," he joked, which seemed to fall flat. "Um, Charms too, although Potions looks interesting. I think Transfiguration looks exciting, from what I've read of it so far. Er, yeah. Really looking forward to it, Professor." McGonagall looked impressed. The clattering of cutlery against plates as they finished was abrupt but needed as the evening flowed into night.
Rose was the first to break the silence, her awkwardness apparent as the dinner came to its natural conclusion. "Thank you for - well, the food. It was lovely." Albus gratefully nodded too, embarrassed in case he appeared rude.
McGonagall stood up and whispered an incantation that piled the dishes up before vanishing them from sight. "Come on then. I'll walk you out, lest you get lost in my office." As they emerged into the dimly-lit circular main room, the portraits pretended to be asleep, one fake-snoring loudly. Rose thanked McGonagall and headed off to the dungeons, where the Slytherin common room was located. He was left alone with Auntie Minerva.
"Is it true?" he asked, speaking quickly before he regretted it. "Does Dad want me to leave Hogwarts?"
The Headmistress looked at him. "Your father is a very nervous man. The war left him with a lot of scars he's never quite recovered from. He... He senses danger at every corner." Was that why his parents had fretted so much when James' letters were late? Why Dad had overreacted to the match in the Hospital Wing? McGonagall smiled the ghost of a smile as she looked at the young Potter, the memories of a fallen comrade dancing through her mind. Alastor Moody.
"Right, er, well. Thanks, anyway, Professor," he said, as she watched him disappear, frighteningly carelessly, into the corridors, much like an adolescent version of his dad decades ago. She turned to the portraits who'd decided to drop their pretences. "Severus?"
"A Ravenclaw through and through. You might pretend the house divides are dead, Minerva, but you can't not see the hunger in his eyes. Keep him on the right tracks," Snape replied.
Dumbledore joined him in his frame, echoing his sentiments. "For once, I agree with Severus."