Chapter Three

Such Small Stones

Drew Stevens felt shaky and nervous, sitting in front of the entire school at the staff table, waiting for the welcoming feast to begin. He'd only just hurried in, he'd been in the front hall meeting the prefects for his house, Lark Lewis and Albert Branson—he reminded himself that the boy had requested to be called "Bran," as he wasn't fond of Albert—and the two Hufflepuff students who were Head Boy and Girl this year, Nancy Booth and Chester Michaels. He hadn't realized it was so close to starting until Hagrid—the man was still here—tramped in with the first years, booming at them to hurry along.

The first years were now queuing up and waiting for Zacharias Smith to call out their names. Drew looked at both Zacharias and Hagrid with nothing more than a bland expression. He was well-used to hiding his feelings, and he honestly wasn't sure he felt anything about them anymore. He was finding he actually admired how much Smith took upon himself and found himself respecting the control McGonagall still maintained. Merlin, but he was getting old or something. How did he dare to be a Malfoy yet feel so little animosity toward them? It was only that he wasn't a Malfoy, anymore. He'd left that name behind him with his sins.

He fixed his gaze on the children, and was stunned. They were so tiny. He had never, never been that small and uncertain. Hagrid could sit on any of them and they'd be smothered. And these were the keys to rebuilding Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? The building blocks of the age after war? They couldn't possibly live up to their promise. They were just too cute. And they were standing there with wide eyes and sweaty palms, and for Merlin's sake, Drew found himself wanting to protect them. It was a radical idea. It had been one thing to go after people, to kill people, so that he could draw out Potter and the Weasleys, and the fact that some of them had children had made him pause but not back down. Now, he wished he'd paused a little longer. He didn't think he'd actually seen a child up close since he'd left Hogwarts ten years ago. Did they all look like this? Would they each have been able to stop his foolish actions if he'd been able to see their innocence? One boy in particular caught his eye. He had shaggy, sandy brown hair, and eyes of the most piercing blue. He was rail-thin and appeared very shy, as though he were afraid of the other children. But he wasn't hiding or turning for help. He just stood and let it all wash over him, shoulders straight and head high—high enough that everyone could see the lurid scar splashed across his jaw and neck. Drew liked him, liked his quiet dignity. The boy talked to Hagrid for a moment before Hagrid joined the staff at the high table. Drew didn't feel disgusted by the big man anymore. Hagrid had fought on the side he'd chosen, just as everyone had, and now that it was over, he had his place in the world. Hagrid at Hogwarts was the way things should be.

Booth, Robin was the first to be sorted, and the boy headed for the Hufflepuff table while they cheered, his sister the Head Girl loudest. Immediately following that, Drew was clapping to welcome Bell, Davis into Gryffindor House, his house, and then Burns, Paulette. He was slightly disgusted that Gryffindor picked up that one, a tiny and pathetically pale creature who'd sucked in a deep breath on an asthma inhaler when Smith put the Sorting Hat on her. He didn't pay a lot of attention to all the little foundation stones of the future, but he focused on each of the students entering his house. Felicity Forsythe joined two older siblings at the Ravenclaw table, but her twin brother Ferris ran to the Gryffindor table beaming happily. A black boy named Trevor Jordan joined Gryffindor, two more Hufflepuff children, then finally a new Slytherin, a sneering little boy named Bradley Laddon. Drew took care not to clap too hard for the boy. A few more Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, then the name that stopped Drew cold.

"Potter, Matthias."

And the sandy-haired boy stepped forward.

Drew frowned. This child was Potter's? He didn't look anything like him, nor anything like a Weasley. Was it possible that it was simply a coincidental last name? No, it was obviously not. Several of the students were jumping to attention and Hagrid was looking particularly expectant. This was the child of the savior of the wizarding world, the nephew of the great Weasley war heroes. Drew kept his face straight and sat perfectly still.

The Sorting Hat took a few moments. It opened the rip in its brim and all the Ravenclaws sat forward with anticipation.

"Gryffindor!" the hat called out.

The skinny Potter boy dashed to the Gryffindor table with a small, private smile on his face, accepting congratulations and pats on the back with a few nods. Drew tried to breathe. How was he going to do this? He'd decided to live quietly, to teach these children, but how could he act objectively to the Potter boy in the house he'd somehow become Head over through no fault of his own? The world, he thought miserably, was horribly unfair. He'd stay until McGonagall could find someone else, then he was gone. He wouldn't even stay through Christmas. He could not be a responsible adult with a Potter. He just couldn't. He didn't relish trying to explain himself. Maybe he'd just stab himself to death with the butter knife.

He watched another set of twins, Lillith and Fagan Ward, join Slytherin's ranks, along with a boy called Gilbert Wraven whose brother tried to congratulate him and whom he ducked away from with a scowl. But that was Draco Malfoy's house, and he wasn't Draco. Drew's house gained two more members, an alarmingly tough-looking girl that he would almost describe as burly with the impossible name of Berengaria Talbott, and a thick-set, grinning lad named Kerry Wood who proclaimed himself the son of Oliver Wood, of the Puddlemere United Quidditch team. How was it that any of them were old enough to have children attending this school? He counted the time in his head and reasoned that for Potter and Weasley to have a child at Hogwarts, Potter must have gotten his girlfriend pregnant when they were still in their fourth year. That seemed both impossible and somehow delightfully ironic, with Potter's sainthood a near-given at this point. In fact, her entire family would have had to know about it. How kinky.

McGonagall gave a short speech to begin the feast, just as old Dumbledore always had, but Drew didn't hear a word of it. He was too busy thinking. How had he gotten himself into this mess? He couldn't think of a way out of it without revealing his past identity, not when he'd have to get past the sharp-eyed Zacharias Smith. And then where would he be? At the end of Harry Potter's wand facing up to his crimes or rotting away in the reorganized Azkaban. No, thank you. He was going to have to at least make an effort. He'd run out of choices long ago.

---Break---

Drew settled into bed with a deep sigh. Lark and Bran had gotten the first years into the Gryffindor Tower and they'd all shuffled off to sleep, while Drew stayed up getting himself prepared for classes to start tomorrow. He was scared, he realized, actually scared of failing at this. He wanted to be a good teacher. He wanted to stay here. Because there wasn't any other place for him.

He'd worked a spell to warn him if any of the students were out of bed , and it went off just as he was closing his eye to sleep.

"Damn," he muttered. "I don't want to have to discipline them on the first night." He strode to the common room, yanking his robe shut and grumbling about respect and responsibility.

He stopped and stared, nonplused. Davis Bell and a boy he didn't know, therefore an older student, were flanking the little Potter boy, who was sitting in front of the fireplace with his knees drawn up, ignoring them.

"You'll get in trouble for being out of bed," the older boy was saying.

"Leave him alone, he's had a nightmare," Bell replied. "Woke the lot of us up."

"You first years," the boy said in disgust.

"You're only a second year yourself," Bell answered, just as disgusted. He tugged on Potter's arm. "Come on, Matt, he's right. We'll get in trouble." Potter didn't answer, just stared into the embers of the fire. Drew could see that he was shivering.

He cleared his throat. "Whatever you're doing out of your beds, return to them. Immediately."

They all turned and saw him. Bell scrambled to obey, but the other boy remained, trying to get Potter to stand up. He let Potter go, looking puzzled.

"The other boy said he had a nightmare, sir," he said by way of apology. He shrugged. "He's acting pretty odd."

"I'll handle it, thank you, Mr.—"

"Edwards. I'm Randolph Edwards. Everyone calls me Ran."

"I see. Ran Edwards, go to bed."

"Yes, sir. Sir?"

"What?"

"What . . . what happened to your eye?"

"Fought a werewolf," he said brusquely. It was a decent enough lie, he'd realized after he'd told it to McGonagall. Most people wouldn't like to inquire too closely into it. It got Potter's attention, but didn't have the desired effect of rousing him enough to go back to bed. Instead, Edwards became intolerably interested.

"Did he . . . are you a werewolf?"

"I am not," he said firmly, stepping forward to haul Potter back to bed himself if he had to.

"I am," Edwards said boldly. That stopped Drew in his tracks. "Everybody knows, but I didn't know if the Headmistress told you there was a werewolf in your house. It's okay, because I take the Wolfsbane potion and stay in an empty greenhouse during the full moon, so I'm not a danger to anybody." Seeing that he had an interested audience who were not recoiling in fear, he continued, matter-of-factly. "Fenrir Greyback got me when I was still in diapers. They say I might have been his last victim before Remus and Nymphadora Lupin killed him."

"You were," Potter said, sounding calm. "Aunt Tonks told me about it. Uncle Remy doesn't talk about that stuff, though."

"You know them?" Edwards asked, surprised. "Oh, of course you do. You're Matthias Potter." His lips clamped together, then he said in a weak voice, "Remy?" before he started to laugh.

Drew had thought it was hard to contain his panic at being given a Potter to take care of. It was nothing compared to the struggle to keep his mouth shut and his face bland when he heard Remus Lupin called "Uncle Remy." But he was tired, and they all had full days ahead of them tomorrow.

"Boys," he interrupted, proud that his voice was only slightly strained. "As much as I'd like to let you discuss lycanthropy in the family, you're out of bed when you're supposed to be in it. I suggest you remedy that before I start the term with my house in negative points."

Edwards hurried off to bed, but Potter hesitated. "Professor Stevens?"

"What?"

"Can I please sit out here, just for a minute?"

"Why?" he blurted out, surprised.

Potter looked extraordinarily embarrassed. "I get really bad dreams, and I don't want to go back to sleep yet."

Drew could sympathize, having experienced similar problems over the years. It was a painful thing, to fear something as healthy as sleep. Potter looked exhausted, but was clearly unwilling to leave the negligible warmth and solitude of the fireplace. He tried to think. What was a good way to help a child in this situation? And why in hell did he want to help this child? He could not actually be feeling compassion for a Potter, not when he didn't even feel compassion.

He slowly sank down to sit beside Potter, groaning minutely as he tried to use his cane to avoid falling. "Why don't you tell me about it?" he suggested.

Potter didn't look pleased, but complied. "I'm not their real son," he started, "not really a Potter. I'm adopted. My parents got killed. That's what I have nightmares about."

Drew was unsure whether he should say something at this point. "I'm sorry to hear that." Well. That explained the age problem.

"It was really awful. My father was an Auror, and they only came to our house to get Dad—Harry Potter—out in the open. I remember was the screams and the explosions," here his hand crept up to cover the ugly scar on his neck, "and getting burned. Dad and Aunt Tonks were both trying to get me out, but one of the explosions knocked us over and I fell right on my mother's body." He shuddered and closed his eyes. "I saw the man who did it. Dad said his name is Draco Malfoy, and he's an old Death Eater. Dad's still looking for him."

Drew Stevens wasn't breathing. He was sure he wasn't breathing, and that he was going to black out. Shit, shit, and triple shit, as an acquaintance in New York so charmingly put it.

"But I'm all right, sir, really," Potter added, looking anxious to alleviate his professor's concern. "It's just nightmares." He scrubbed a few tears off his cheek with the heel of his hand. "I'll go back to bed now, sorry to disturb you."

Make that quadruple shit.