"Albus?!"
A first-year girl jumped aside with a squeal, dropping a book she was carrying.
"Albus, please slow down…"
Albus tuned the voice out as he made his way through the halls, around people, around obstacles.
"Al? Al!" He was finally near the stairwells when a very warm hand took his.
Albus whirled around and threw the hand away, instantly feeling a tremendous surge of guilt as he watched Sylvia stagger backward a little.
A flash of worry crossed the girl's eyes. His behavior was obviously alarming her. She blinked, swallowed, and bit her lip. Her eyes shut tight for a moment, her mouth contorting in a grimace of discomfort. "This isn't like you."
"Being like me's done a fat lot of good lately, hasn't it?" Albus replied savagely.
"Albus-"
"No!" Albus snapped. Sylvia, uncharacteristically, flinched. He glared at her, trying to ignore the new burning sensation at the corners of his eyes. "Don't ask me to watch and do nothing."
"I wasn't going to," Sylvia breathed. She was trembling. "Just don't do anything alone. Don't leave…"
She trailed off, her eyes jumping elsewhere as a disconcertingly blank expression settled on her face. She swallowed hard and said:
"I'm… I'm scared, Albus."
This revelation shocked Albus into silence. But now that he was getting a good look at her, she did look terrified. She was shaking, paler than normal, and by the light of the candles that floated in the spaces between flights of stairs, he could see her forehead glistening with sweat.
"S-something happened to me in there, Al," she said in a stammering whisper. "Something… it was like… like… heat. All through me. Like the sun was inside my chest or something and trying to burst out…"
Albus swallowed hard. "You were pissed off. Wizards' powers can go wonky when we're stressed. So… just… breathe. Try to calm down. Let's both try to calm down. Then we can figure out what to do next."
Sylvia nodded.
Then she slammed her head into Albus's ribcage.
Albus nearly toppled - he hadn't been expecting that - and might have, if her arms hadn't locked around his back. He felt heat rising to his face, and wasn't sure whether she, who felt feverishly warm to the touch, had anything to do with it.
What he did have, for some reason he couldn't quite put into words, was clarity.
"Neville," jumped forth from his lips.
Sylvia pulled back from him. "...What?" She blinked quickly, her eyes slipping away from Albus.
"Neville," Albus repeated.
"Professor Longbottom, you mean?" asked Sylvia. This was a necessary clarification - Albus and Sylvia had known of a Neville in Gryffindor their first year (but he would have been gone by now). Apparently the name, and names of other well-known figures, had enjoyed a popularity spike for babies born right after the last war ended. Albus had even met a Harry or two in other Houses - although Harry had never exactly been an uncommon name…
"He wasn't around in November," said Albus. "But he can put a stop to this if we tell him what happened."
"But if he is here, wouldn't he be headed up to the Headmaster's office?" asked Sylvia.
"Not unless he hasn't heard about Scorpius yet," Albus answered.
"No luck," a voice uttered. Albus and Sylvia both turned (Sylvia stumbling a bit awkwardly) to find Richard Murphy, hair a bit disheveled, looking simultaneously grave and resolute. In one hand he had his wand, and in the other he had a long box that looked oddly familiar to Albus, although he couldn't quite place it. "If you're looking for Longbottom, he had to leave early - nasty business at the Leaky Cauldron, from what I just found out."
"Brilliant," Albus's heart jumped into his throat. He stepped forward. "Where's my brother?"
Murphy didn't speak for a moment. Then, he shook his head and tried to walk past Albus, but Albus was having none of it. He caught hold of the other boy's arm and grabbed it. Hard.
"Don't -" Murphy said, at something of a snarl, " - get - involved."
"The hell with that," Albus snapped. "I just watched Lucan Wenster torture my best mate." Murphy's eyebrows lifted. Had he not known that? "You and James know something. Where is he?"
"I'm not going to tell you," said Murphy. "So you might as well drop it."
Albus closed his eyes. When he opened them, Murphy was already taking off past him and Sylvia. For the briefest of moments, Albus was frustrated enough to think about aiming a hex at Murphy's back. Then reason prevailed as he figured that it wouldn't be in his best interest - or James's, for that matter.
He turned away from Murphy to find Sylvia not standing next to him, but leaning against the railing of a staircase leading downward. She heaved a ponderous breath and shook her head, immediately filling Albus with concern.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I'm fine," Sylvia said. Albus immediately knew she was lying.
"Sylvia -"
"I'm fine," Sylvia repeated herself, shooting Albus a blazing glare as she straightened. "So what now?"
Albus shook his head. "We're not going to get any help up in Gryffindor Tower. In fact, I'd bet if we went up there now we'd be stuck, and they wouldn't let us out."
"Like last time," Sylvia muttered, not looking at him. She took a shuddering breath. Albus glanced at her. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something wasn't right with her.
"Never mind," he finally said. "We're going to the-"
"I know someone."
Sylvia had interrupted him. She straightened, pushing her curly hair away from her forehead and wiping it (she seemed to be sweating quite a lot), and looked him in the eye.
Albus frowned. "You think they can help?"
Sylvia glanced away from him. "Honestly? Not much. But it's better than just standing here."
Albus wanted to… well, he wasn't sure.
"Uh… what's that look for?" Sylvia finally asked. Albus realized he had been staring again.
"Uh… sorry," he murmured, tearing his eyes away from her and feeling his face grow hot. "I just… zoned out, I guess. A lot of my mind, you know…"
Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was warm - one might even say too warm - but it calmed him somehow.
"Yeah. I know," she answered.
Brynne
Brynne swallowed hard, feeling the heat of the dungeon fireplace at her back, warm and green. It was not that, however, that was causing her to sweat.
"You're serious?" Tellius Nott, at her side, had his arms folded as he stared at the boy behind the couch.
Kadric Howell, leaning on it and looking perturbed, nodded grimly. "That's what Madhari said. The Ravenclaws have a double period with the Gryffindors on Fridays. She saw the whole thing."
Nott's jaw set and he shook his head. "That's… God, I've never been a fan of the bloke, but that's a bit much."
"It's completely mad, is what it is," Howell replied. "I'm not sure that's even allowed. And if it is, then it shouldn't be..."
Brynne thought for a moment. "Where was Rowan?" she finally asked.
Howell's face immediately changed. "Uh -"
"He would've been there, right?" she queried, her blue eyes darting from Howell to Nott, then back. "He and Malfoy are in the same year."
"Madhari said…" Howell looked away for a second, and then his expression turned dark. "...right after she talked with him, somebody else got hold of him…"
"What do you mean, 'got hold of him'?" Brynne probed, her voice drifting higher with stress. "Like a professor, or -"
"No," answered Howell. "Another student."
Brynne wasn't sure if that was better or worse. "Another- well, who was it?"
Howell was about to open his mouth to reply, but the urgent warning of another person broke both his and Brynne's concentration:
"You can't be here."
Brynne, along with the others, turned toward the entrance to the common room.
"They're with me." It was Phillip Bletchley, who was at the doorway but being barred from coming in by the Prefect, Amarilys Pucey.
"It doesn't matter," Pucey replied. "Unity Weekends aren't back on. Students from other Houses aren't allowed in the common room or dormitories. It's bad enough they've heard you speak the password. Now, if they don't leave -"
"You gonna go get Ambrose? Huh?" asked Bletchley casually. "Good luck with that. He's in a Panel meeting in the Headmaster's office. Where's Shelby?"
"Not here," Pucey replied. Meanwhile, two girls at one of the tables near the common room's entrance left their seats. "What's with all of this? And these two?"
"Phil!" Amara Zabini exclaimed, approaching the scene with Marsha Flint.
Someone made a noise - a noise that Marsha Flint didn't approve of. "'Ugh' yourself, bitch," she cursed at someone behind Bletchley.
"Language, Flint," Pucey piped up.
Marsha fumed and rolled her eyes. "If you're done swinging your-"
"HEY! Does it look like we have time for this right now?!" Bletchley snapped; Brynne wasn't sure if it was directed at Pucey, at Marsha, or both. "If Shelby's not here, then where's Eames?" Brynne watched Pucey shake her head. "Keller?" The second inquiry was directed at Amara and Marsha.
"Haven't seen her," Amara muttered.
"This isn't working," Brynne heard someone say. Almost involuntarily, a gasp escaped her. "What about Brynne? Brynne Walter? Is she here?"
That voice… if he was looking for her, that was a clear sign as to who might have been involved.
"No," Pucey said stubbornly. Brynne wasn't sure whether Pucey hadn't seen her or was purposely lying to be obstructive. Either way, it wasn't true. Brynne made her way toward the entrance to the common room to prove it herself. As she approached… Amara and Marsha had enough brass to move to block her, but a simple glare shot from her eyes caused them both to back off in opposite directions, parting to let her through.
And there, she came face to face with Phillip Bletchley… who looked thoroughly unhappy to see her.
"You weren't who I was looking for," he said, his eyes unable to stay on her as he spoke.
"I was." A boy stepped out of the shadow of the dungeon's doorway. Brynne immediately noticed something different in his green eyes from the last time they had spoken face-to-face. Those eyes had found something...but they had also lost something. He looked weary, desperate. She had seen that look before. For the shortest moment, he glanced over his shoulder, as if he'd expected someone to join him.
Neither one spoke, until finally, Brynne got out: "What… are you doing here?"
Bletchley looked behind himself. Then, he appeared to do a double take. "Hey…"
"We can't find any of your Progenies mates, Bletchley - this is my best chance," the other boy said, his green eyes steel.
"Thomas?"
The other boy blinked. And then whirled around immediately.
"SYLVIA!"
There had been someone with them - a tan-skinned girl - but she was now on the floor in a heap at the entrance of the dungeon, not responding to her name. Pucey, to her credit, as much of an irritant as she had been, immediately dropped the act and ran to the doorway to see what she could do to help. "Merlin's pants, her forehead's blazing - we have to get her to the hospital wing."
It was an unnerving scene and people from around the common room started to gather and close in around it. Bletchley, somewhat to Brynne's anger, was busy saying something to Marsha and Amara. There was a short argument to which Brynne, busy being concerned with the obviously ill girl slumped over in House Slytherin's doorway, did not hear many of the details. But then Bletchley came over toward her.
"Brynne," he breathed.
"Is this really the time, Bletch?" Tellius Nott had arrived at Brynne's side.
"I don't think there's another time," retorted Bletchley. "I would bet my last Galleon a fight's about to start."
Brynne didn't meet his eye. "I'm not interested in fighting for Slytherin pride, Phillip."
"Then how about its protection?" Bletchley asked loudly. "You think this was about pride this entire time? You think that's what the Progenies were about?"
"Protection?" repeated Brynne incredulously. "That's the same thing Godric's Guard said."
Bletchley's jaw unhinged for a moment, and he was struck dumb. He closed his jaw and swallowed hard, his face faltering several times.
"All the trouble I've gone through for you, and you don't think I'm any better than Lucan bloody Wenster," he muttered shakily.
"Phil, forget it," Amara Zabini insisted. "She's not worth your time."
Bletchley didn't meet Brynne's eyes for several moments. Brynne looked around Bletchley's head to see several people, including Amarilys Pucey, tending to the downed girl. As for Bletchley himself, he made to turn and walk away from Brynne and the others… but then he stopped.
"Some friends of yours went looking for something in the Come and Go Room a few weeks ago and ran into some trouble." He whirled around and said. It wasn't a question.
Brynne's gaze turned suspicious. "How do you know about that?" she asked.
"The same way you know things," Bletchley replied.
A smirk crossed Amara Zabini's face.
"I know who it was. And Potter knows, too - he just didn't tell you," Bletchley added. After a meaningful pause, he stated: "It was Rose. Rose We-"
"I know which Rose - there's only one," Brynne interrupted him, her cheeks suddenly flushed. James knew, she mused as the realization set in. He saw her face that day. He didn't say anything because he didn't want her wrapped up in all this...
"That wouldn't have had anything to do with you, would it?" Nott piped in. When Brynne looked at him, Nott pointed out, "We saw them together when we were coming down from the library a couple of months ago, remember? Then Wenster and Malcolm both showed up?"
Brynne bit her lip. She never had found out what either one of those professors was doing there. Brynne and Nott had stayed well out of sight, and no one else seemed to have realized that they were there listening in.
"You saw us, then." Bletchley's eyes darted away as he paused, almost as if he was debating with himself whether to reveal the next piece of information. "She's been looking for a way into Wenster's office for months. And I think she found it. I thought she would be an idiot and go alone, but it looks like not even she's that reckless…"
"Did you see her earlier?" probed Nott.
"Just a few minutes ago," Bletchley divulged. "Seemed like they were in a hell of a hurry."
"'They'?" Nott repeated uncertainly.
"Weren't you listening?" accused Bletchley. "I just said she wasn't alone."
"You're not interested in telling us who was with her, are you?" Kadric Howell chimed in with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.
Bletchley glanced at Kadric, and then significantly at Brynne, who looked around him to the scene near the entrance. Meanwhile, Albus Potter was still arguing with Pucey over Sylvia Thomas's fallen body.
"That's the only way? That's useless!" she heard Albus exclaim. It was almost unnerving - she had never heard him yell like that before.
"She's just got a fever, Potter. Relax," Pucey was trying to tell him. Brynne could see this from a mile away - but this was the wrong thing to try to tell him.
He stood, very slowly, straightened, and looked Amarilys Pucey right in the eye.
"Don't look at me like that. You're going to… what, fight a Prefect?" asked Pucey, the slightest shadow of a scoff on her voice. "You wouldn't."
He spoke, and his voice was eerily calm. "My best friend just passed out on the ground in front of us and needs a Healer. My other best friend is up in Gladstone's office on a sham Panel hearing for something he didn't do because one of Hogwarts' professors has it out for him and his family. They both need help now - not in half an hour. Are you really sure what I wouldn't do? Because I'm not."
There was a pause, with Albus and Pucey, who did not seem to know how to respond, staring at each other.
Then, Albus Potter looked away from her.
"Does anyone have a phial of salamander blood?!"
"Wait, what?" Nott uttered.
"Salamander blood," repeated Albus impatiently. "I need it for -"
"ATTENTION, HOGWARTS STUDENTS."
"What's that?" Albus turned around and looked vaguely toward the ceiling. There was no need, however; the voice was easily audible, resonant, as if coming from within the walls of Hogwarts itself.
Additionally - and somewhat troublingly - it was the voice of a man.
"ATTENTION, HOGWARTS STUDENTS. THIS IS YOUR ACTING HEADMASTER-"
But the sentence never finished, and the common room fell into complete and unnerving silence.
"Something's happened," Brynne breathed.
"I heard that voice right… right?" Nott asked, just about in Brynne's ear. Brynne nodded.
"That was…" she started.
"I think that was Professor Malcolm," Bletchley guessed. His eyebrows furrowed and his lips settled into a concerned frown. With a dark look at Brynne, he said, "...Something went wrong at the Panel hearing."
"How do you know that?" Nott asked.
"Because that's where everybody was," Bletchley reminded them quickly. He turned toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going, Bletchley?" Amarilys Pucey barred the exit.
"The Viaduct," Bletchley replied, as if explaining it to Pucey would somehow earn her cooperation. "It's the quickest way on or off the grounds."
"I can't let you do that," Pucey demurred predictably. "Malcolm said -"
"Malcolm didn't say anything," Bletchley pointed out. "We're not even sure if he or anybody else is alive right now."
"That's all the more reason not to go up there," Pucey insisted. "As Prefect, it's my job to keep you all safe -"
"You don't get it!" Bletchley burst, finally losing grip on his temper. "There's no safe place for a Slytherin in Hogwarts! Not while Wenster is around!"
"I know he doesn't like us much. I do get it," Pucey said. "But you're being paranoid. You act like there's some sort of… I don't know, conspiracy to..."
Pucey trailed off, but Bletchley had gotten her meaning - and didn't appear to like it. He looked down at his shoes, his hands clenching into fists. "November didn't teach you anything."
He paused, took a deep breath…
Then he pulled his wand.
Pucey's, after a brief moment's hesitation, came out as well.
Then Marsha Flint produced hers.
Almost on instinct (and somewhat annoyingly), Nott and Kadric Howell stepped out in front of Brynne, arming themselves with their own wands.
"Don't do anything else stupid, Bletchley," warned Pucey. "If you try to force your way through, you'll have to answer for it later."
Bletchley and Pucey stared each other down for a long, tense moment that seemed to take days. Finally, though, Bletchley relented, lowering his wand and head.
"I understand how you must feel," Pucey sighed, lowering her own wand.
"No, you don't," Bletchley answered immediately.
"I still need that salamander blood," Albus declared loudly from the ground.
Pucey turned around.
"Potter, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"Are you joking?" Bletchley piped up, horrified. Albus stood in silence, stunned for a moment. "You won't let him come in and you won't let us go."
"I can't, Bletchley, I'm sorry," Pucey said to him, trying very hard - a bit too hard - to look apologetic. "Try to understand-"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Pucey's mouth froze into a comical circle of shock, along with the rest of her body, which went straight and rigid as if tied tightly and quickly by invisible ropes. Stiffly, she teetered sideways, and hit the ground with an ominous thud.
Phillip Bletchley lowered his wand, his teeth grit, a shuddering expression of incandescent rage on his face.
"Phil," Amara Zabini uttered in shock. "Oh, my god, you really…"
"People like you can go straight to hell," Bletchley snarled venomously at Amarilys Pucey's board-stiff body, not even acknowledging that Amara had spoken.
His head snapped up toward Albus.
"Potter! Are you trying to make something? A potion?" he asked.
"Yeah," Albus answered breathlessly. "The Flameguard Potion - the one Ambrose taught us a few weeks ago."
"So you'll need salamander blood…" Bletchley tried to remember.
"...Wartcap powder, and bursting mushrooms," Tellius Nott, who was the best at Potions in Slytherin's third year, finished.
"I've got all those," Bletchley said, nodding. "Amara, Marsha, get Sylvia over onto the couch." The two girls moved so quickly that Brynne almost could have sworn that each was trying to outdo the other. "And for the love of God, don't drop her. Tellius?"
"What is it?" Nott asked distrustfully.
"You know what it is. It's 'code red'," Bletchley said.
Nott shook his head. "I'm not with the Progenies anymore. I thought I told-"
"There are no 'Progenies' anymore," Bletchley interrupted through his teeth, a scary look in his eye. "It's just 'us'. And him."
Nott glanced at Brynne. Silently, Brynne nodded, and Nott set off toward the dungeon's exit.
Then, Bletchley and Brynne at last set eyes on each other.
"What are you trying to prove?" she finally asked.
"Prove?" Bletchley shook his head. "Nothing. But while we're on the subject… you could at least tell me why."
"Why what?" Brynne queried, a bit confused. At this, Bletchley looked away from her.
"Why I lost."
Brynne frowned. It was odd. She was about to tell him that she honestly didn't know, except that the heart chooses who it chooses. But it was something about his last words that made her figure it out.
"You see it as losing. That's why you lost," she told him, not meeting his eye. "...I'm not a trophy."
Brynne expected him to snap at her or at least argue, but he said nothing. For a very long time.
He started to walk away, but then stopped. He turned toward her, looking like he was about to say something, but then closed his mouth and went on his way.
"What was all that about?" Howell finally asked.
Brynne smiled a sad smile. "Misunderstanding."
Brynne barely had time to dwell on everything before another voice called for her.
"L-Lena," Howell stammered.
She was still in her school uniform, her jet-black hair pulled back with an alice band that was green like her house tie and her eyes, which acknowledged Kadric Howell for a second before turning again on Brynne.
"What's going on?" she breathed. It seemed that she had heard the disturbance in the common room and come up the stairs quickly.
"Nothing," Howell replied, so unconvincingly that it made Brynne cringe. Lena finally turned to look at him…
And then turned her green eyes very obviously to the ground where Amarilys Pucey still lay (mercifully now turned on her back). "Nothing?" she repeated skeptically.
Howell grimaced and looked away from her.
Brynne was wrong-footed. Finally, she admitted the truth. "I don't know," she said. "I have no idea what's going on."
Lena's face faltered. "I just got back from the library and I heard a terrible rumour."
"Library? What were you studying? Do you need any help?" Howell asked. He had been concerned, Brynne remembered, that Lena had been neglecting her classes in her depressed state since coming back from the holiday recess. Brynne had the feeling, however, that Lena would simply see this genuine show of concern as nosy prying. She was quickly proven right.
"That's for me to know," Lena said, a bit snippily. "I heard that something happened with Professor Wenster and Scorpius."
Howell was visibly nervous. "We don't know that…"
"Do you think Madhari was lying?" Brynne interrupted him. "She was there and she told you, right?"
Kadric Howell swallowed hard - almost a gulp. Lena's eyes widened.
"Madhari? Who's Madhari?" Lena asked. It then occurred to Brynne that the two girls had never met.
"Madhari Rama. You don't know her," Brynne conceded quickly. "She's in my and Kadric's year, in Ravenclaw. But she's got double Transfiguration with the Gryffindors…"
"Brynne, no," Howell groaned.
Brynne shot a look at Howell, for a moment, and then turned her attention to Lena once again. "What she told us is that there was a fight." Lena's face went pale green. Brynne wasn't sure whether that was because she was about to be sick or whether she had gone so white that her face was simply taking on the color of the ambient light.
"'Fight' is too generous." A boy approached from behind Howell and Lena. As Brynne's eyes darted back from Lena to Albus Potter, she couldn't help wondering for a moment if the two were related through some obscure distant ancestor. Similar black hair, similar green eyes, and similar expressions that suggested they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Albus, for his part, looked equal parts exhausted, worried, and furious. Brynne wasn't sure that there was one specific face for "fed the hell up" but if there was, he was wearing it. "Wenster goaded Scorpius until he couldn't take it anymore and when Scorpius finally lost it, Wenster used that as an excuse to attack him. Put him in Searing Chains and then Stunned him while he couldn't defend himself."
Brynne looked back at Albus sadly. "That's why you came looking for me."
"Attack…?" Lena murmured, swaying on the spot.
Predictably, Howell reached out a hand to help. "Lena…"
Lena swatted Howell's hand away. Violently. "Get away from me!" She looked Howell dead in the eyes. "You were trying to keep… you lied, you… what the hell's wrong with you?!"
Howell, who was obviously not expecting this reaction, jumped back immediately. "I…" he tried and failed to start a sentence. "I…"
She turned away from Howell quickly, and darted away from all of them, down the stairs toward the dormitories. Brynne and the others barely had time to take this all in before -
"YOU!" a screech came from the stairwell.
"Hey-HEYYY!" a boy's voice responded in panic.
"Damn it…" Howell took off toward the stairwell. Simultaneously, Marsha Flint left the couch where she and Amara had laid Sylvia Thomas, and went in the same direction. Howell got there first... but it didn't matter; with an almighty shove, Marsha knocked him aside and went into the stairwell. A moment later, Phillip Bletchley stumbled out, carrying one of the small, pewter cauldrons that all Potions students used for their courses. Albus was over to him in a flash to take the cauldron from him, and appeared to try to shake his hand but was rebuffed rather aggressively, as Bletchley lashed out with one arm, favoring a side of his face with the other. Bletchley staggered over to a nearby chair in the corner of the common room, and Brynne could just make out what looked like blood trickling from under his hand.
Meanwhile, Albus had removed a few things from the cauldron Bletchley had given him, and had now had a mortar and pestle in hand, grinding feverishly. After several moments, he lost grip of the pestle. He went to try to catch it, but failed. It rolled under the couch, and Albus, swearing floridly, went to his hands and knees to begin reaching…
Brynne pulled out her wand. "Accio pestle!"
Brynne had seen her aunt use the charm, but it was a bit above her level, supposedly, and she wasn't sure if it would work. To her surprise, though, a small, rounded cylinder, somewhat larger around than the average wand, rocketed from under the couch. "Immobulus!" she followed up quickly, trusting the accuracy of her spellwork to halt the suddenly speeding projectile more than she did her own hands. It froze in mid-air, and she took hold of it and made for the edge of the couch. Albus had noticed none of this, and was still scrabbling under the couch, his movements and body language becoming more and more frantic.
"Move," she said. Amara Zabini, who was standing too close and in the way, took a significant step backward and then stumbled, realizing too late that she had nearly set herself on fire from the hearth. "Albus. Albus."
Albus looked up at her as she knelt next to him. He was breathing hard; tears were in his green eyes.
"Try to calm down," she said, handing him the pestle and putting a hand on his shoulder. "You can't help anyone in a panic."
She was speaking to herself as much as she was him; but he understood, and with a nod, took the pestle and began grinding away at what looked like a fluid in his mortar.
"I could tell she wasn't well," he said guiltily. "I should have made her go up to the hospital wing…"
"Made her?" Brynne repeated, a smile crossing her face despite herself. "You and James are just alike."
"What?" Albus seemed confused… but Brynne shook her head.
"Nothing."
Albus swallowed hard and finally paused at his grinding.
"I hope he's safe… not doing something completely mental…"
James
"...That's completely mental."
Twisting his body to put it in between James and James's broom case, Richard Murphy stared at him like he had just spawned an extra head.
"That's...completely bloody mental," he repeated, as if James hadn't heard him the first time. "I've got half a mind not to give you this now."
"If you've got some better options, I'd love to hear them," James replied, by this point not looking at Murphy. He was staring through the portcullis and out onto the grounds. The Hogwarts grasses, which had finally enjoyed a clear week for the first time since winter had started, were starting to whiten again. "And of course it's snowing. It'd be too easy otherwise."
"I'm sure they've got an enchantment on them," Murphy pointed out.
"All the better. I won't have to break anything… or as many things. I can just knock really loudly and get their attention," James said, finally taking a long, black, firm-looking case from Murphy. He stroked its length, going about halfway before stopping. He looked up from the case. "Hey, Murph. If I don't come back…"
"This going to be your last will and testament or something? Save it," Murphy interrupted him. "Even if you did bite it, there's no way I'd remember what the hell to do with every single item. I'd bollocks it up."
"I guess I'd better find a way to live, then," James replied, a smile finally crossing his face as he mounted his broom for the first time in months.
"Exactly," Murphy responded. James, lamenting for a brief second that he didn't have his boots, kicked off from the ground.
His teeth grit. The gust that rushed back at him was brutally cold. The civil twilight sky was a steel blue, flecks of snow buffeting his face as he rocketed skyward. On his next glance toward the ground, Murphy was little more than a pinprick.
A long list of evidence of his unpreparedness finally hit him now that he was in the sky. Thankfully, Murphy had thought to bring James his gauntlets, but his heavy cloak might have been useful. Then again, he never wore that while flying and wasn't used to it, so it may have made things worse. Merlin's pants, it was cold up here…
There's no time, he told himself. There's no time…
He wheeled around an extremely tall tower of the castle with some degree of struggle. The wind was whipping a bit up here, and he'd grown rusty after not flying for four months. Freddy would kick my ass if he saw me flying like this, James mused, coaxing his Cleansweep around Ravenclaw Tower - easily identifiable by its height. No, the Headmistress and the leaders of the Four Houses would not be in the tallest tower - they would be in the most central one. Bracing against the wind, he descended.
Goggles… he thought, squinting. Goggles would have been good…
Pulling up to slow himself down, he began reaching for his wand, praying he didn't fumble, miss it, and send it tumbling several dozen feet to the castle's battlement. I gotta ask Dad to show me how to do that thing…
Finally, his fingers gripped it. Unsure of himself because his hands were so cold, he kept his grasp extra tight as he produced its full foot of length. "In all of its twelve-inch glory," Murphy would say from time to time, and the boys would share a sophomoric chortle. Gladstone had heard them once in Charms class their first year and docked them each five points. Charms were split back then between her and Professor Flitwick, who was still only head of Ravenclaw House.
Now, she was Headmistress of Hogwarts, and possibly the only person that could help James save it.
James bent low to his broom, making sure not to grip it too tight as that would cause him to speed up like a cork shot out of a bottle. No, he needed precision...precision and the type of sensitive control and tight cornering that still kept Cleansweeps viable in the era of 'top speed is God.' Bloody hell, he sounded like an article right out of Which Broomstick… when was the next issue coming out? For that matter, what was today's date?
The thirteenth of March. Friday the thirteenth, in fact. A famously unlucky day among more superstitious wizards. James was never sure why.
Nervous laughter bubbled up in James's throat and escaped his mouth. He looked around for a second, at the bluish sky above, at the snow blowing like white clouds through the heavens above, the frosted rooftops and crenellations below. Things were so, so clear up here, so beautiful…
Up until this moment, he hadn't been sure. But there was something about flight that soothed him. He knew he had missed it. He hadn't realized how much…
He took that, too. None of this would have ever happened…
A sudden surge of anger clenched his teeth. A mist of spit escaped his mouth and disappeared into the ambient whiteness. And from his hip, his right arm slowly rose, taking careful aim at a specific set of glass windows as he circled around his quarry one final time…
"Reducto!"
In the firmament, nobody heard him. But his wand had; with a terrible recoil, a silver comet burst forth from its holly tip. It seemed to hang in the air forever, and when it finally made contact with a window…
A second's pause… then a sound of shattering glass cut through the stiff hiss of the wind as several of the panes fell in. They didn't-?!
A greenish pinprick of light shone from within the shadowy space beneath the broken windows. James realized what it was, nearly too late, and barrel rolled his broom out of its path. There was nothing else for it, he realized then…
He aimed the head of his broom down toward the open windows like an arrow, going into a dizzying dive. He was descending too fast, bound to hit something, and hit something hard -
His courage failed him in the last moments; he shut his eyes as he braced for impact. Then he heard an incantation and felt himself slow, as if the strongest, most magical of arms had his broom by the twigs and was pulling against his momentum…
His eyes opened.
"James Potter?!" snarled Professor Clint Malcolm apoplectically.
James looked around and realized he'd dive-bombed straight into the Headmaster's office.
Malcolm was storming toward him. "What the bloody hell do you think you're-"
"Language, Clint," Gladstone's voice admonished him.
"Potter just broke half the chambers' windows!" Malcolm's rejoinder sounded rather like a child who thought their parents were punishing them unfairly. "We're really worried about language?"
"Clint," Gladstone repeated. She was calm, but there was weight in her voice. "Mr. Potter. Stand up."
James dismounted his broom with an awkward roll, and pulled himself to his feet.
Headmistress Gladstone was walking toward him slowly in her blue robes, a steely gaze in her eyes as she approached.
"I don't know where to start," she said. "Severe property damage, breaking and entering, intruding on a private convention of school leadership… and that's just what I can think of off the top of my head. You had better be able to give me a good reason why you shouldn't be expelled."
"You lot really should have listened to me when I told you to remove these two from Hogwarts entirely," an imperious voice rang across the room. "Well, since Mr. Potter has so graciously turned himself in, let's be done with the both of them in one go."
"You seem very eager to be rid of Mr. Potter," a man's voice spoke immediately as he stepped out of the shadows. Wearing a turban and ornate royal-blue robes with bronze and white accents that had an exotic look to them, Professor Ziad Halim arrived at the side of Professor Ambrose, who had been watching this scene, mostly silently, to James's right. "Suspiciously eager, one might argue..."
"I don't share your soft spot for Potter, Hail-im." Lucan Wenster was at the far side of the room.
"You're doing that on purpose. Stop it." Professor Ambrose finally spoke up.
"Honestly, Ithamar, it's quite alright," Professor Halim commented amicably. "I daresay I've grown used to Professor Wenster's brand of… ignorance."
"Ignorance?" Ithamar Ambrose scoffed a laugh that did not reach his face. "That's diplomatic. I'd prefer to call it 'thinly veiled bias.'"
"Let's not throw stones in a glass house, Ithamar," Wenster replied dismissively.
"On the subject of glass houses…" Malcolm finally interjected himself back into the conversation, not finishing his sentence but staring wordlessly at James, which invited the stares of every other professor in the chamber.
Gladstone's face was steely. The several months in leadership trying to unite the school again and keep a veritable powder keg from reigniting had obviously hardened her.
"Tell me, Mr. Potter…" Gladstone asked, sounding far more aloof than she ever had when she had been teaching James directly. "...What could you possibly want that would have possessed you to do this?"
"And do not lie to us," Malcolm warned James in addition. "Give us the truth."
"You make it sound as if Mr. Potter is predisposed to lying," Ambrose remarked. "That's not something I've noticed."
"Clearly, you don't-"
But James wasn't about to let them start sniping at each other and dancing around the point again. "Where's Scorpius?"
"...Excuse me?" uttered Gladstone.
"This is a Panel meeting for Scorpius Malfoy, isn't it?" James asked. "Where is he?"
"You think this is a Disciplinary Panel meeting to discuss Mr. Malfoy's expulsion?" Wenster said, as if he had heard nothing James was saying. "I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken. That matter has already been decided. The extenuating circumstances demanded a more extreme and immediate course of action. Master Malfoy has been taken to the school dungeons for holding until the proper authorities get here."
James's eyes narrowed. "The dungeons? You -"
"For what it's worth," Professor Ambrose said in calm voice as he glanced at Wenster, "We held a Panel meeting for the incident involving Miss Cross two years ago, which was far more…"
He and Malcolm exchanged a glance.
"That's because you're soft," criticized Wenster.
"It's because I value fairness," countered Ambrose.
"Why isn't Scorpius Malfoy here?"
Malcolm slowly turned around to face Wenster, whose frown became more pronounced.
"Have I missed something? He assaulted a professor of this institution," Wenster replied, sounding genuinely confused as to why no one else in the room was understanding this. "Hogwarts has changed its fair share since I first began teaching here, I understand that, but we've reached a truly wretched place if students can openly attack duly appointed authority figures with impunity. The inmates running the asylum, as it were…"
"We've reached an arguably worse place if the accused cannot advocate for himself," Halim interjected. "Why is this not being allowed?"
"Because he might say things certain people don't want out there," James accused. "Like the fact that Scorpius Malfoy never stole the locket Professor Wenster's been looking for."
A pause in the dialogue. It was blindingly obvious by some of the wordless glances being exchanged that Wenster, in concocting his side of the story for the House Heads, had told them something completely different.
"I received that information from a fellow student..." Wenster replied, still putting on a good show of confidence. "From kin of yours, if memory serves…"
"And you ran with it first chance you got," James said. "Didn't bother looking anywhere else… didn't suspect her for a second."
A wind whipped through the chamber in the ensuing silence.
"You're suggesting…" Wenster paused. "You believe Rose Weasley stole…"
"I don't believe anything," James cut him off. "I know she did. Because she told me."
"Miss Weasley?" Professor Ambrose uttered first. "But she's always been a model student. Second best in my third-year course. Always been a bit quiet, very clever. I've taught her three years, almost, and never had a problem out of her."
"Funny, that," James couldn't help but crack a smile. Ambrose had set him up perfectly to drop the bomb. "That's the Rose I remember, too. And then Godric's Guard attacked her brother, Hugo. And she wanted payback. It's funny what revenge will do to a person, isn't it, Professor?"
And at that moment, he switched his glance from Ambrose to Lucan Wenster, who turned his head to look through one eye at James, who didn't look away or break his gaze for a second.
Yes, I know.
"You forget your place, boy," Wenster's voice was like a low rumble of thunder, barely audible over the wind whistling through the chambers. "All of you do. The era of peace you were privileged to grow up in was built by people like me. People that were willing to do what was necessary to pull up evil by its root - to scorch…"
"...Scorch the earth, to make sure nothing grows," James finished, swallowing hard. His limbs were trembling. "...That the excuse you and Titus Scrimgeour used years back?"
Wenster's face hardened. "Don't you speak that name. You have no right-"
"I don't?" James asked. "What about Dennis Creevey? That name ring a bell?" He saw Malcolm and Gladstone exchange a glance. They must have recognized it. "Or how about these names? Edmund and Hestia Walter, from Swansea. Do those names mean anything to you? DO THEY?!"
His rage broke, reverberating off the walls and what few windows were left of the Headmaster's Chamber.
"You're raving," Wenster said.
"What are you talking about, Potter?" asked Malcolm. It almost sounded sincere.
"The Walter murders?" Ambrose piped in again. "Dennis Creevey? Don't you remember…"
"Of course I remember," Malcolm answered as if insulted. "Dennis Creevey… he was always quiet, too. Seemed like a decent bloke. Prefect. Fair Keeper. Had the game of his life in the Quidditch final our second year… Hufflepuff's Chasers couldn't get a thing past him. Flynn and Gryffindor destroyed us."
The Headmistress smiled an odd smile, as if embarrassed to let it show too fully on her face.
"But what's that got to do with...?" asked Malcolm - seemingly more to himself than to James or anyone else.
"Absolutely nothing," Wenster contended waspishly.
But Ambrose was having none of it. "Except that Dennis Creevey was one of your prized pupils, too."
"Dennis Creevey was a young man with a troubled history that I saw headed down a bad road," Wenster countered. "I tried to help him, to see if I could channel some of that rage into something productive. I believe Clinton here is familiar with the process."
Wenster didn't seem to have noticed, but there was a frightening stare on Malcolm's face.
"I suppose Minerva was effective, if she wasn't anything else," Wenster went on heedlessly. "She always said that you lot were the type she'd want to pass Hogwarts down to one day, and look at you all now. All Prefects and Head Boys and Girls in your student years. Three of the youngest Heads of House in school history. You've practically taken over Hogwarts. Her scheme worked perfectly…"
"No, it didn't."
Gladstone's voice was soft, understated, yet cut through the atmosphere of arguing men like a knife. Everyone turned to look at her. Her blue eyes were staring at nothing in particular, looking like some important revelation had just hit her like a ton of bricks.
"Meridia?" Malcolm uttered, his expression turning to one of concern.
"It didn't," Gladstone repeated, suddenly looking much younger than her thirty-and-some-odd years as she finally gazed at her fiance. "Flynn was supposed to be here with us. But he's not."
"Flynn Lester liked his freedom," replied Wenster. "He didn't have his grandfather's dedication."
"Yeah, but Creevey did, didn't he?" James muttered to himself savagely. No one seemed to hear him - except maybe Halim, who glanced at him for the briefest of moments before looking at Wenster.
"I also imagine the idea of being a father at eighteen scared him a little," Wenster added to Gladstone.
"That was nothing but a rumor," Gladstone said quickly, although James could have sworn he'd seen her face go a bit pink. "A groundless accusation started by a jealous schoolmate that wanted to destroy my chances of being Head Girl..."
"Groundless?" Wenster raised his eyebrows and seemed, oddly, to be taunting the Headmistress. "Come now, we professors know more about what goes on within these walls than you think."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed dangerously. It was the scariest look James had ever seen him wear, and that was saying quite a bit. "You know what?"
"Clint." Gladstone interrupted him, and stepped between him and Wenster. When she looked at the latter, the expression in her eyes was icier than the wind whipping in through the chamber's shattered windows.
"Potter," she called. "Are you suggesting Professor Wenster had something to do with Dennis Creevey and Gladius Leo?"
James did not reply; instead, he reached into his robes and produced a small vial of silvery liquid-light.
"That's Memorovapor," Ambrose stated, "from a Pensieve."
"Yes, we know that," Malcolm snapped a bit impatiently. Wenster, meanwhile, was staring a hole through James from across the room.
"But what does it say?" Gladstone asked.
"...Dennis Creevey and the others didn't go on that killing spree by themselves," James said. "Someone sent them. Just like someone sent 'Godric's Guard.'"
Everyone turned around slowly until the entire room, to a man, was facing Lucan Wenster. Wenster did not avert his eyes even an inch.
"I regret nothing. I had an oath to keep," he said, simply. "Much like the oath I swore to Flynn Lester… if all else failed."
"To Flynn?" Malcolm, Ambrose, and Gladstone all exchanged looks. No one was looking at Wenster but James - and Wenster was looking back. Halim saw him, too, and started toward James as Wenster began to pull his wand.
"What are you doing?" Ambrose shouted suddenly, pulling out his own wand and making to step between James and Professor Wenster. Everyone seemed to be taking forever as Wenster leveled his wand. No one was going to reach James in time. He grit his teeth and shut his eyes. I'm not going to run…
BANG.
There was a high-pitched gasp not long after James's entire being seized up, waiting for some sort of terrible pain or loss of consciousness. It was a moment later that James realized that nothing at all had happened to him. He pried his eyes open, and his attention was captured by something on the left…
Something horrifying.
Floating through the air in what seemed like slow motion, golden hair and blue robes rippling… her head and arms had jerked forward, sending her witch's hat and wand flying. Back, backward, backfirst she flew through the room, toward the curse-distressed windows of the chamber.
A moment arrived - a moment that seemed to play out over agonizing hours - where James realized nothing was going to stop her short, and realized what was going to happen.
Then, a heartbeat later, Meridia Gladstone's spine smashed into one of the chamber's last good panes, the awful tinkling of breaking glass ringing through the swirling winds as she cracked the window, then breached it, then disappeared from view.