Persistence

Chapter Six

Positions of Authority

--

I rose from the blackness that tried to hold me fast. The liquid immobility began to recede, its touch viscous and grating harshly against my skin. My eyes opened, burning, and I took in the familiar sight of the Great Hall.

Except it wasn't.

No banners hung from the ceiling, no house tables stood behind me as I turned and looked for them. The Staff table was there, yes, but the silver racks that loomed on all sides were as alien as the bizarre glittering weapons they held. Blades and scimitars, bows and spears, rows and rows of shining metal that promised death. I couldn't see any source of the strange blue-white glow that permeated the room. The ceiling where the familiar night sky should've been simply showed… blackness.

I stood and took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the musty smell. The air reeked of age, of past ages forgotten and buried in dust.

My circumstances were quite clear, quite, and I murmured aloud just to convince myself that little bit more.

I am dreaming.

"In a way."

I whirled round, cursing as my hand snaked through my sleeve and came up empty. I didn't have my wand.

He stood at the door, the door which was now wide open even though I hadn't heard a single creak. The doors themselves were different, I noticed, intricate gold carvings on ivory that now blazed white. Shadows walked at the figure's feet, sliding and weaving on the dull bronze floor. He came forward, and the light dimmed as if to avoid touching him.

"I know you." And I did. The beard, the robes, the half-moon glasses... the realization struck. But the eyes… oh god, the eyes.

"Yes. But not in the way you think." The same gentle voice. I stared at the eyes that I remembered once twinkling, and darkness stared back.

"Who are you?" My voice was harsh, and I tried to tell myself that it didn't tremble at all.

"You want my name?" The laugh echoed around me as if reflected from far away. "You would not be able to hear it even if I told you, human wizard. It is beyond you, still."

"Where am I?" Real eloquence. But a valid question, still.

"Dreams, Harry. In your dreams."

"This isn't a dream." I should've been more careful, facing an unknown on unfamiliar territory, wandless and alone. But I've always been brasher than what's good for me. "Who are you and where are we?"

"This is… the Hall of Bones." He said the words carefully, as if tasting the sounds, then nodded. "Yes, that is as close as it can be described to someone like you."

"The Hall of Bones." I said, disbelieving. Even for wizards, who frankly had a terrible taste for naming places, this was a little too pretentious. "And you? You aren't him."

He smiled, and came forward. The light glanced along his face, revealing the familiar features. "Call me Christopher. It will do for now." He smiled indulgently. "Drink?"

"Are you related to Professor Dumbledore?" I had a thousand questions, but somehow this one seemed the most important.

"I have few relatives." He answered. "Come and sit with me, Harry."

"I'd rather stand, thanks."

"Your choice. Of course, that is what this meeting is about."

"What?" Apparently making cryptic statements goes with being a one-and-a-half century old bearded wizard – or, I amended, looking like one. "About me standing here?"

"Choice, actually. A choice you must now make, to be precise."

"Fascinating. Do I call you the architect, then?" I'd been pretty sure that this wasn't a dream. They have a texture that a trained occlumens can recognize. But this was beginning to convince me otherwise. Messiah complexes can be dangerous things, and you know the limit is crossed when you start dreaming about being the One… with a wand. Merlin, I knew was insane from certain perspectives, but this was pushing it.

"That was sarcasm, I take it," He said softly. "I'm afraid the subtler nuances of your language sometimes escape me. But your situation, such as it is, is perhaps not very appropriate for such things."

"Really?" I smiled back. "What situation would that be? How did you get me out of Hogwarts, anyway?" I remembered raising the wards. Contrary to what I'd told Ron, it should've taken more than someone with simple brute power to break through them without alerting me first. But the old man didn't seem to be a Death Eater from the way he behaved.

"You are not outside your school- not in your body, in any case. I did say this was your dream, Harry."

"Bullshit. What was that crap about the Hall of Bones, then?"

"It is the Hall of Bones. It is also your dream." Christopher, as he called himself, sighed. "Let me try to explain. Dreams can be places, too – but you have to dream it right. And when you dream in a certain way- when any sentient being dreams in a certain way- they find themselves this place. It looks different for everyone, of course. Your mind chose this Hall, perhaps because it associated this view with something deeper."

"Really." Christopher was doing a good job of irritating me. People sprouting nonsense usually have an easy job of it, with an exception or two. "And you? You're someone I made up in my mind too, right? And I chose someone like Dumbledore to tell me bullshit in my dreams, because that's just too enjoyable to miss!"

"I am, mm, how should I say this, external to your consciousness, Harry – mostly. I can only speculate as to why your subconscious chose to view me in this form."

"Then who the fuck are you?"

"Christopher will do. That is not important. You are in a very grave situation." His eyes were the merciless depths of deep space, cold and indifferent. "You do not belong."

I tried to ignore the shiver that went down my spine. "I'm the fucking Boy-Who-Lived. I've never belonged anywhere, Christopher, or whoever you are."

"Not what I meant." He said softly. "Not what I meant at all. You were not born here. Or made here. You come from somewhere else."

"Oh really." I said irritably. "Pull the other one."

"DO NOT LIE!" He roared suddenly, and there was an absence of echo around me as if that great voice lost itself in a silence even greater. His eyes flashed, blue fire rising from its dark depths as he stood up, pushing the chair backwards. "You are a danger to this existence, Harry Potter. You are cursed. You must understand exactly what situation you now find yourself in and accordingly. Refuse, and you will die."

"I don't take kindly to threats." I spoke through clenched teeth, trying to stop my body from shaking. This man knew, somehow. Knew how all of it had happened, perhaps better than myself. "I will ask again, and for the last time. Who the hell are you and what the hell do you know about me?"

"I know that you were expelled from your world. I know that your spirit braved the Time Winds and broke through here. I know that you bear a curse that eats away the reality around you. I know that you must die."

"Oh, not again all this cursed bollocks –"

"I know all this," He hissed, interrupting me, "because I was the one who cast that curse."

--

The dorm was empty except for Ron when I woke up. I was still tired and sleepy, and my eyelids felt glued shut from what little rest I'd gotten in the dawn hours. Yet it was impossible to sleep on, what with being shaken by a gangly red-headed six-footer like it was the bloody end of the world. Of course, since it was Wednesday and we had Double Defense Against the Dark Arts first thing, for Ron it probably was.

It's been a long, long time since I'd been woken up like this. I hadn't missed it.

"Harry! C'mon, we've got to get to breakfast! Class starts in half an hour!"

"Yeah, yeah, Ron, I'm getting up," I managed thickly through my perched throat, "just gimme another second –"

"Up, Harry! Now! We've already overslept!" All panicky, he was. Maybe theDormio last night had been a little over the top, all things considered. Subduing renegade Syr doesn't require the same level of control compared to giving your best friend a little harmless shut-eye.

Oh well, I thought as he effectively dragged me towards the bathroom, at least we have the Toad today.

It will be amusing, really. My secret whispered, a purr sounding oddly content in the back of my mind. I heartily agreed.

--

She was already sitting on her teacher's desk as we filed into the room, thankfully not wearing that fluffy pink cardigan I remembered her wearing at the feast. She was dressed in a blue velvet robe, adorned with pink and yellow flower motifs. Her black bow top hat was velvet, too. All in all, she still reminded me of a big and stupid fly sitting on a bigger and stupider toad, but I would've been the first to admit that I was probably biased. To others, she might've even looked human from some angles.

Until she actually opened her mouth and tried to teach, that is.

"Good morning, class!" She croaked once we've all settled ourselves. "Good morning, Professor Umbridge!" they chanted back, already getting into the habit. I stayed silent, observing and hoping to be observed in turn.

Talk about luck.

"I think we should try again, and everyone should join this time," she said, all sugary sweetness. "Is there anything wrong with your voice, Mr.–"

"Potter, ma'am. Harry Potter." I can do sugar too, and without the simpering.

"Indeed. Well, Mr. Potter? Should we try again?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am?"

She smiled. "Not to worry, Mr. Potter. It's you first day in this class, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'd been in the Hospital Wing on Monday."

"Severe illness, no doubt. Well, do try to settle in, Mr. Potter." That smile again. "As far as I can see from the records," a cursory glance at the sheaf of papers in her hand, "you've been the best in the subject thus far. I'm sure you'll do nicely."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll certainly try." I was enjoying this. She really thought she could handle me, safely and soundly. After all, I was just a fifteen–year old stupid teenager clamoring for attention, wasn't I?

She'll get the answer to that soon enough. Soon enough.

"We are going to review today what you've managed to learned till now. I see that the instructors in your previous years have been…" she searched for the right word, "…irregular. Quite irregular. Thankfully, the Ministry has taken your rights to proper education under due consideration and you are now going to follow a far more balanced curriculum suited to your age and needs."

"Professor?" Hermione raised her hands. I readied myself for the prelude to disaster that was going to follow.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" She frowned, the bulging eyes pinched in a peculiar fashion.

"When are we going to learn casting actual spells? We'll need to demonstrate them for our OWLs, won't we?"

"We've discussed this before, Miss Granger." She was getting irritated. "I repeat, there's no reason why you shouldn't be able to cast them under properly controlled conditions–"

I cleared my throat, and the whole class swiveled their heads to look at me. "What about real-life duels, Professor?"

"Real-life duels, Mr. Potter?" She smirked, but couldn't hide the edginess in her voice. "And why should you be engaging in real-life duels, pray tell?"

"What about," I leaned forward, fixing her with my eye and letting a spark of my mental strength press forward, "Lord Voldemort?" The class gasped as one, and she went pale and hissed.

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone, Mr. Potter. He's been gone these fourteen years."

"And yet some say otherwise," I suggested, straining my mind. She shook her head, as if trying to shake off some invisible pressure.

"Lies and tricks, Mr. Potter. Stories. Told by liars, seeking the world's attention–"

"Then why do we need the training in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor?" I changed track. "If it's redundant, why does the Ministry insist on teaching us? And if we do need it, why not let us practice the spells?" The Suggestion was taking shape, a faint strand of whispering power that seeped into her through the eye contact. Keep staring at me, bitch, don't look away –

"Why don't we continue this discussion after classes, Mr. Potter? A detention will do for now, I think. Come see me at five." She simpered at me, triumphant. And the world was all right.

--

"I was surprised that you actually backed down like that," Hermione admitted as we started our lunch in the Great Hall. "I thought you were going to land up in detention for a week."

"Please," I snorted. "As if anything I say is going to matter to that toad. She's just another Ministry lackey, Hermione. She would simply repeat what the Ministry says, about anything. There wasn't any point."

"Well, I still say she's a bitch." Ron groused, and it was a testament to how fed up Hermione was that she didn't even bother to give him one of her 'look's. "You were right, mate. We gotta learn DADA ourselves. Hermione, what do you think? We can go and get some books from the Library, I suppose…"

"I'm thinking about getting some pointers from the higher years," she said. "Moody– I mean Crouch set some good books last year. But that's not the point– and self-study only goes so far. Who's going to teach us?"

"Well, think about it," Ron said. "Who's got the experience fighting Dark Wizards? I've been thinking about this, 'Mione. I think Harry could teach us better than anyone else in the school. He knows what it's about." He looked at me, and so did Hermione, her face glowing.

"Of course! Harry, you'd be the obvious choice!"

"Hey, hey," I put up my hands to stop them, "I did say we were going to practice together, didn't I? I mean, I don't know that much about dueling, but sure–"

"Actually we were thinking of getting a little more… er, diverse," Hermione said. "I was thinking how unfair it was that the others students aren't going to get any sort of practice at all, and Ron agreed with me. We were thinking of starting a club for spell study."

"A club?" I said, incredulous to all outward appearances. "You want to start aclub? Like a Dueling club? And you want me to teach others? Hell no!"

"But why not? If you can teach us –"

"It's not the same!" I furiously whispered, aiming to moderate my tone since the other Gryffindors were starting to stare. "I don't want to teach people I barely know! Do you think I want them to see me like a hero or something – do you think I want to be responsible– no, Hermione. Sorry, but hell no."

"We'll talk about this later," said Hermione firmly. Ron nodded his assent. "Potions starts in half an hour."

Damn. Snape, of all people.

Now, of all times…

Then again, I reflected as we got up and started to weave our way through the student population to the dungeons, I had never really expected to get out of it anyway.

--

Potions are incredible things.

There was a time when the wizards weren't organized as they are now, a time before Atlantis. There were few with the will or the ability to work spells of power, to channel the magic through pathways of their mind and reshape the nature itself. The idea of spoken spells, structured and studied and elegant, wasn't even conceived until the Gathering. Yet there were those that found themselves in the grip of a secret heritage that somehow translated into powers unnatural, and even though they knew no spell or charm or curse, the potions were invented as a natural result of the magic expressing itself. They became the shamans and the wise women of small villages, jealous guardians of lore that told of binding the earth and the water to our will, using bits and pieces harvested from the corpses of magical creatures... dragons were aplenty then, chimeras and hydras, runespoors and aurochs. So began the study of potions, the subtle arts, the only field of magic advanced when Atlantis began, and predecessor to alchemy, perhaps the most complex channel of power that had ever existed.

A true Master of the subtle arts is not someone to be taken lightly. He is clever and flexible, and ever aware of the most minute details of what he observes. His forte is the manipulation of elements, and adaption in a shifting and ever-changing field.

One who can apply such Mastery in life as well as he does in his works is one to be feared.

That was why I kept my eyes down as we entered the dimly-lit classroom, and chose a table at the back. Maybe he would pass me by, this time. There was that hope.

False hope, as always.

"Well, well... look who we have here." The greasy hair hadn't changed, and the flickering yellow light in the room did little to improve his appearance, sallow and unhealthily pale. One could see from where the vampire legends had sprouted, and the billowing cloak in the still dungeon air didn't help at all. "Finally decided to grace us with your presence then, Mr. Potter?"

The voice was familiar, and it brought up memories better left alone, my mind still a little raw from the dementor invasion. I stared forward, and kept my voice even. "I was in the Hospital Wing, sir."

"Ah, yes, yes, of course. How foolish of me to assume that you could have missed this class without being totally incapacitated. You must love the opportunity to make a mess out of the valuable potion ingredients, Potter." The sneer was just as I remembered, the lips curled with disgust, the hooked nose jutting out.

"I'll try to be careful, sir." Smooth calm, rippleless and apathetic. Confronted with such a skilled mind, I could not risk being less.

Yet maybe the absence of overt emotion itself alerted him, for he strode forward, right to my desk. The suspicion was layered in his voice as he commanded, "Look at me, Potter."

I had little choice. I looked up.

His eyes were black, black like the depths of a dark tunnel, cold and glittering as frost. I could feel the power of the mind behind them, flexing itself, the tendrils of magic stretching, trying to map out my hidden thoughts and secrets. I breathed in, deep but as silently as I could, and withdrew into the recesses of my mind as far as I could have. No emotion, no thought, no impulse– my mind was clear, clear as a plateau scoured by the desert wind. The eyes stared at me, for what seemed a lifetime, then slowly withdrew. I held my breath.

He went back to the blackboard and turned around to face the class, and I suppressed a sigh of relief. "As I have already said before," he declared, "this is the year when you are going to face the most comprehensive test you have ever faced in your miserable lives thus far. Do not think that I shall go easy on you. I shall make sure that you do not besmirch the name of our proud institution. Those not alert or competent enough," his eyes flicked to Neville, then me, and I couldn't read his eyes, "shall be weeded out. Now –" his wand flicked and scrawls appeared on the blackboard, "– today you will attempt to make the potion known as the Moonstalker. Properly brewed, this changes colour according to the phase of the moon, and is extensively used as a base in several rituals..."

--

"Minerva, might I remind you that I am a teacher here, and appointed with complete approval from the Minister himself?" I said, sipping the blandly tasteless tea. Merlin alone knew what the old woman liked about it, and the biscuits were even worse. I almost sighed at the thought of the warm cup of coffee I would be having right now, if I were still at the Ministry. I suppressed it, not just social courtesy but because it wouldn't do to express any such feeling here, here among enemies.

And enemies they were, McGonagall and Flitwick and the lot, led by that ancient wizard. Dumbledore. The name itself was something to hate, a relic of the past that is now a dragging weight on our society, choking it slowly with lies and misdirection. Trying to change us, change Britain itself, to satisfy the whims of his addled mind. It was astonishing how few had ever saw through that benign mask he set up for the world to see, the visage of an old, old man, old and wise with his years. Beneath that mask lay something far more sinister, hidden from view for all but the most observant.

A spider.

I had been the first to see it, the first who had known him for what he was all those years ago, during the end of the war. When all of it was revealed during the trials, how he had manipulated us all, inserting people supposedly loyal to him into the ranks of the Death Eaters themselves. Oh, the story was good, and people had believed it– who knows, maybe parts of it were even true. But what had stunned me was how calmly they all had taken it– the population, the Wizengamot, the Minister himself – an old tyrant playing a game of his own with a new one, a game of people's lives. Without informing anyone else, even the Ministry, we who are empowered to care for the welfare of the nation itself, by and of and for the wizards and witches. He had played his game of thrones, and who knows how many lives were lost for his amusement?

I hadn't been in such a high Ministry position then as I am now, and nobody would've listened to me, had I protested – the whole nation was in a state of euphoria, celebrating the fall of the Dark Lord himself and praising the baby who had somehow caused it. But I had waited, and I remember. Merlin, I remember.

And Potter, now. The Boy-Who-Lived.

He needs a lesson. A small one, perhaps... and there is that little instrumentjust right for what I have in mind for him.

"Dolores, I'm sure that you have the best of intentions regarding our students, but don't you think that forbidding spell-casting for OWL and NEWT years might impair their chances in the coming examinations?" I transferred my attentions to Minerva, who was now tattling away as people her age are often prone to do.

"As I have told you time and time again Minerva, casting the spells in examination environments should not pose any difficulties as long as they get a solid instruction in magical theory. You know it as well as I do." I was getting impatient. It was close to five, and I had to see Potter.

"But surely, you must keep in mind –"

"Enough, Minerva." I cut her off, ignoring the scandalized look she gave me. Old, worthless woman. "I am the teacher of Defense Against the dark Arts, and I shall teach as I see fit. That is what I've been appointed for, by Headmaster Dumbledore and by the Minister himself." She needed to remember that I wasn't there just as another teacher. I was an observer, and I still held the post of Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of the British Ministry of Magic. Deputy Headmistress though she was, she held no authority over me. I decided to let her chew on the fact, and got up. It was five minutes to five, and it wouldn't do to be late.

No, it wouldn't do at all.

--

An occlumens is one who is the master of his own mind. His feelings are hidden behinds shields of emotionless calm, his thoughts swim deep in an ocean of crystal stillness. He does not let the world influence him to the point of imbalance. He never reveals what he feels, hidden as they are under the deep and utter calm, and indeed a Master occlumens sometimes cannot distinguish his true feelings himself.

I was an occlumens, and quite a good one. But even that couldn't protect me from shuddering at the sight of Umbridge's office.

All the surfaces had been draped in lacy covers and cloths. Dried flowers in vases somehow only added to the garishness. But nothing compared to the collection of ornamental plates hanging on the wall, each one decorated with a large technicolor kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. It was hideous. It was more than hideous. It was just like Umbridge.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter." The luridly flowered set of robes she wore were familiar, and as before did nothing to better her looks. "You are right on time."

The small lace-covered table was waiting at the corner, as I had known it would. I dropped my schoolbag on the floor, staring at her all the while. The rage in my heart burned, and she must have felt the heat in my gaze, for she cocked her head to the side and stared at me, as if trying to figure something out. Finally she nodded towards the table, and the blank parchment that lay waiting on top of it.

"You'll be doing some lines, Mr. Potter." That smile. That smile, again. Cruel and malicious.

"May I know why?" Not yet, not yet. She had kept no portrait in the room, undoubtedly trusting the floo for contact with her beloved Ministry. But there were wards – there had to be wards. Already I could see the faint traces of the magic; crude but serviceable, crisscrossing the entire room. Wards to defend the caster against harmful intent, they mainly were, and easily dismantled… but one or two were worrisome. It wasn't that I needed to outduel her – I needed to silence her, and in silence. I had little doubt that Dumbledore would know about it the instant a ward activated.

I had to have time, to dismantle the wards properly. I'd underestimated the Senior Undersecretary, it seemed.

"You have been spreading stories, Mr. Potter. Nasty, evil stories; lies about how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned. Your childish fancies are undermining the foundations of our nation itself!" She looked even uglier when she was angry, her pouchy eyes bulging, the nostrils flaring, her face turning flush with rage. "Unfortunately I can only punish you for offenses incurred during my class, Mr. Potter. Still, I think this lesson shall sink rather deep." She took out the quill, long and thin and black, and handed it over to me. I could feel its magic throbbing, mindless malice, a little swirl of blood and pain. My left hand clenched on the wand hidden beneath my robes.

"I want you to write, 'I must not tell lies'," she told me, softly, sweetly. I looked at her eyes, then looked away. I went to the table and sat.

I started to write.

--

I wondered if the boy had been given this kind of punishment before. He did not even ask about the ink, and no surprise stained his stoic expression when the first line cut into his flesh. I observed him all the while, pretending to fiddle with some of the paperwork at my desk. He continued, on and on, never flinching, his head bowed over the parchment, the eyes half-closed, the left hand still under his robes. The scratch-scratch of the writing filled the silent room. After ten minutes or so of this, I shifted my attention to the mass of paperwork that was waiting for me on my table.

It was an hour or so later, well into the evening, when the wards fell.

I had designed them myself, not trusting Dumbledore's school wards to keep myself safe. It was ridiculous, of course, to even think that I would beattacked within Hogwarts itself. It wasn't Dumbledore's style at all; not attacking a teacher of all people within his beloved school. It would bolster his theories about the Dark Lord emerging again, of course, but it would also tarnish his reputation further, besides the irreversible damage to the myth that surrounds the wards of Hogwarts that would be sure to follow. Or so I had thought. Still, safer is always better, and I had constructed my own wards with meticulous care. Few could have done a more thorough job. Few.

So I could only stand up and stare as they dissolved, gently yet quickly, degenerating into random harmless sparks in a space of moments.

I looked around, my wand in my hand even though I didn't remember drawing it. Violet flames rushed at me as the boy stood up and jabbed his wand. I dove to the right, only narrowly avoiding crashing into my desk. The boy leaped forward as I took cover behind it.

Damn you, Dumbledore, I knew it, knew it, knew it… it was a trap, and I fell for it. You sent the boy to kill me. You must be mad, as mad as Potter.

I have to reach the fireplace, I still have the floo powder pouch in my belt –

"Effodio."

Chunks of the desk were ripped away as the boy's curse struck, and I dived again, rolling on the floor as bits of wood and lace rained on me. A stunner missed me by inches as I got up to face the boy, only to duck again as another sailed over my head and struck my antique plate collection, all the beautiful china falling and shattering loudly on the floor.

"Excracia!" I shouted, jabbing my wand and twisting the wrist in one practiced motion. The sickly yellow magic streaked towards Potter with a resounding snap, only to be batted away as he grimaced and muttered a counter-curse. He waved his wand, and the fragments of my desk flew into the air, fluttering like feathers for a single moment before a flick of his wand banished them towards me with vicious speed. I cast the shield silently – Astemi! – and crouched behind it as the bits and pieces of shattered furniture thudded upon its golden surface, watching him twirl on his feet and cast a blue net of faint magical strands towards the door.

A silencing ward.

But why…? If Dumbledore's behind this…

Then the barrage ended, and I had no time to finish the thought for he was twisting again, turning back towards me impossibly fast as his wand arced a blazing silver –

Darkness.

--

The Libenter curse isn't a very well-known one. A lesser variant of the Imperius, this one hasn't been rendered Unforgivable by the Wizengamot, along with a plethora of other dark curses. The reason behind this is sound enough – the Ministry documents all its laws on illegal magics, and illegal spells have to be specifically mentioned, along with the corresponding gestures and incantations, in order to prevent legal loopholes. After all, a law isn't a law unless everyone knows about it – and the idea that a wizard or witch could practically order a grimoire of dark curses by requesting the Ministry for legal documentations has never been very appealing. So the Ministry just passes law on Dark Magic Practitioners in general, leaving interpretations to the Wizengamot who, frankly, rate as a jury somewhere between a hungry shark and a thirsty vampire in terms of sheer vindictiveness.

But the darker curses are documented by the DMLE with religious fervour, and the archives grant full access to the Aurors. Even a former Head of the Auror department.

So I could safely say I knew most of the nastiest curses ever practiced within the British Isles, and I hadn't had to roam the whole world sniffing for exotic knowledge like Vodemort for it. Whatever else you say about the Ministry, it is very thorough in documenting everything.

The Libenter is one of the most subtle spells that influence the human mind. It is the most elegant among the spells that Suggest, inserting specific impulses within the victim's mind that assert themselves as logical consequences of the victim's own actions. A long-term spell if there is one, it may take years or even decades to settle down in the victim's psyche.

I was rather hoping for months.

The curse seeped out of my wand, the magic invisible but leaving a coppery taste in my mouth. It pooled around her head, clinging to the mass of curls for a moment before slowly flowing inside her. I guided the tendrils, gently, gently, with all the patience and skill my years have taught me, focusing on little impulses and emotions, imprinting them on her unprotected psyche. It was going to be a matter of hours, but I had planned for this detention, and I had all the time I would need. It was a work to be savoured.

… It's not that I enjoy breaking the rules, or that I like being in a position of power. It's all that, but there's more to it. I didn't like Umbridge for the same reason I didn't like Severus. They were both true to their own views of the world. They both acted as they saw fit.

What can I say? I've always had problems with people who abuse their positions of authority.