Montague doesn't need much describing. He looks like his son, only older. Like many athletes, he'd never learned to stop eating like a 19-year-old Quiddich player as he aged and had gone to fat around the middle. Like most pureblood couples, the wife is the more elegant. Mrs Montague is pridefully distraught, flaunting her anger and worry like a badge of honour. The handkerchief she is using to dab dramatically at her eyes matches her hat, and both co-ordinate with a dress that looks as if it cost more than my entire wardrobe. Most likely it did; I know she shops with Narcissa Malfoy. And I get a discount, buying black robes in bulk.
I had Summoned an extra chair for in front of my desk earlier in the day, but only Mrs Montague took a seat, the one under the thumb manacles. Mr Montague remained standing, glaring down at me, looking so much like his grandfather did all those years ago. I resisted the urge to glare back while I contemplated how to handle this situation. You might say diplomacy is not my strength.
But I could see my office was having the desired effect on Mrs Montague. Everything is arranged to make the person facing me feel intimidated and overwhelmed--the thumb manacles, the glint of dim light off the jars behind me, the contents of which cannot clearly be seen because I push them back slightly on their shelves, out of the direct light. Mrs Montague sat down with a great deal of arrogance and poise, but as she looked around, she seemed to shrink slightly.
Mr Montague approached my desk. Like his grandfather and his son, he stood a head taller and was at least twice as big around as me. Like me, he's obviously accustomed to intimidating people. But big men don't need any brains to do it. They just stand there and loom. Skinny bookish types like me have to be more creative.
I continued to weigh my options.
"What happened to my son?" Montague demanded, looming unimaginatively.
I replied quietly, "He was shoved into a Vanishing cabinet, and reappeared elsewhere in the school.
If possible, he loomed even bigger. His grandfather used to do this. I think the Montagues have an ability to put Engorgement charms on themselves at will. "IN THE TOILET?" he barked, with barely controlled rage.
Montague had given me an idea.
"Is that a rhetorical question?" I replied snidely.
"WHAT?!" he roared, clenching those enormous hands into gigantic fists.
"I mean, why ask me if he was found in a toilet, when you know he was because the Malfoys told you?" I answered logically.
I looked surreptitiously up at the thumb manacles and did some fast thinking. When Albus got back, he was going to be asking me in his gentle, ageing hippie way, what I'd got up to while he was gone. Surely Albus would understand the pressure I'd been under, what with all the havoc at the school lately, and that brat spying on my most embarrassing memory. Just to be on the safe side, though, anything I did had better be in self-defence.
I continued, "Your son's treatment has been complicated by his natural state of slight confundment." I glared challengingly at the two of them, distracting them from the movement of my right hand as I slipped it into a pocket.
Montague yelled, "WHAT?!" and started coming at me with those big hands. Neck-snapping hands, I would remind Albus.
After all these years, the spell still came easily to mind. To celebrate his last day at Hogwarts, old Montague had let me practice it on him. It was highly amusing, aside from the warning that if I didn't get him down inside of ten seconds, he was going to Transfigure me into something slimy, limbless, and incapable of speech.
I performed the requisite complicated wand wave, and Montague found himself suspended over my desk, yelling loud enough to rattle the jars on my shelves. Dungeon walls are exceedingly thick, thank goodness. That's why they always put us Slytherins down here.
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH ME??" he demanded.
"Surely you know," I responded, now allowing myself to smirk. "You spent enough time here in school." Montague being ten years older than me, I don't know this firsthand, but I could guess he was no Arithmancy genius.
With an inarticulate cry, Mrs Montague sprang forwards to tug at her husband's feet. He yelped in pain.
"By all means, pull on his legs," I said. "He'll drop free after you break his lateral metacarpals. But no worries; our matron can heal fractures in a second."
They both froze and looked at me. At last, I had their undivided attention, along with some sort of respect. Though before long, Slytherins that they are, they would be trying something sneaky.
"Your son's behaviour," I began silkily, "is an embarrassment to this house. I want him removed until he regains his sense of decorum." Or at least his continence. His morbid fear of toilets was highly inconvenient, not to mention, messy.
"So...St. Mungo's, then?" said Montague, his voice a bit strained from holding his considerable weight over his head at the end of outstretched arms.
Mrs Montague looked up at her husband, and back at me. I caught a glimpse of a calculating look in her eye, which she quickly masked.
With honeyed tones, she said, "We value your opinions, Professor." And she smiled coquettishly.
I had to look away. I was grateful that they understood the situation well enough to start trying to scheme their way out of it, but I'm not used to women looking at me like that.
Well, Bellatrix used to pull this sort of thing, and I was able to betray her just as easily as the others. I took a deep calming breath and replied, "They should be able to sort him out in time for final exams." And I smiled respectfully, raising my wand as if to free Montague. Not quite yet, though. They were still just a little too defiant.
Looking at me with those enormous aquamarine eyes, Mrs Montague purred, "You aren't going to put this on his permanent record, are you?"
Best not to look these sorts of witches in the eye, but if I looked away again, she might think she's affecting me. I studied the bridge of her nose and replied, "Might come in handy, depending on the type of job he's applying for."
She raised an impeccable eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?" she asked in a less sultry voice.
I risked a quick glance into her eyes, and then up at his. Yes, this had been long enough.
I smiled winningly. "Getting stuck in a toilet isn't the kind of information that's pertinent to a student's academic record." I raised my wand and performed the counter-incantation. Montague landed on my desk with surprising grace for so big a man.
Montague hopped off my desk, massaging his thumbs. His murderous rage was almost palpable, but he suppressed it, looking at my wand and my left arm as if it were also a weapon. Very wise, Mr Montague. And now both Montagues were smiling at me ingratiatingly, though their eyes remained cold.
Montague shook my hand. His handshake didn't hurt a bit. "Thank you for all your helpful advice in this difficult matter."
"You're welcome," I replied, and meant it. First time in fourteen years I got to use the thumb manacles. And it wasn't on a student, so I shouldn't get in too much trouble.
"One more thing," said Mrs Montague a little timorously. "What of the culprits?" They both regarded me anxiously, their concern for their son weighted against their fear of aggravating me any further.
Really, if it were my son, I would have asked this first. "The culprits fled the school in anticipation of the punishment I had in store for them as a consequence of the attack on your son." Yes, it's a pretty outrageous lie, but I would like to see anybody prove otherwise.
"Sounds fine," said Montague. "We'll be off, then." They both gathered themselves to depart.
"Allow me to escort you to the hospital wing," I said.
Almost in unison, they protested, "Oh no, I can remember the way."
But I insisted. I was up-to-date in my marking and took my time, leading the couple on a slightly circuitous route to the hospital wing, ruminating the whole way, and careful not to turn my back on the family until well after they had left the castle. Young Montague was conjuring butterflies until the three of them were out of sight.
But in the considerable time it took to walk to the hospital wing, I still hadn't thought of a way to let the whole school know of this disciplinary event. Not even the presence of a Ministry-appointed professional sadist would allow anyone to doubt I was the nastiest person in the castle. But...the Montagues wouldnít exactly be bragging about being bested by a teacher. Feeling slightly vexed, I was about to descend back into the dungeons when I felt the irritating presence of someone right behind me.
I whirled, hoping to startle the person into moving away.
But he stood his ground, smiling faintly. "How's Montague?" asked the biggest gossip in the school.
I could not help but smile back, and gestured for him to follow. "Walk with me, Draco." I smiled at him in a way I thought might be fatherly. "Can you keep a secret?"