2 Professor Acer
Hero, trying surreptitiously to rub the worst of the chalk and glue off her hands without notable success, hesitated. She was unsure what the Old Man would want her to do but in the end she led the man into the cavernous kitchen.
Suddenly seeing the place through the eyes of a stranger she cringed inwardly, ashamed of the grime and the cobwebs, the ancient pans and cauldrons left to die on their rusting hooks.
Hero offered the man a drink, but was very relieved when he refused. As soon as she had offered, she had remembered that the coffee had run out weeks ago and there were only two tea bags left.
The Professor (if that was what he was, Hero didn't have a very exact knowledge of what a 'professor' was, but in her mind they had to do with old people in universities, and this man didn't look old enough to be a 'professor',) was standing looking around the kitchen with an astonished eye, his gaze rested for some considerable time on the ruined tyre that littered the massive kitchen table.
Eventually the man pulled his attention from the rubber and told Hero he needed to speak to her parents.
"I haven't any, Professor." Hero replied with careful politeness, questioning the wisdom of allowing the strange man in.
The Professor accepted her disavowal of parents easily enough. He didn't offer condolences or false words of sympathy, Hero liked him the better for his restraint on this point, too often people felt the need to say something awkward and untrue when they learned she was an orphan.
"I live with the O…" she corrected herself hurriedly, "with my Grandfather. He is gone to bed."
The man frowned at this, he pointedly flicked his gaze to the kitchen clock, which since it had long since broken, only gave the correct time twice a day, however she saw his point and answered his unspoken words.
"He is not well." She told him. What exactly was wrong with the Old Man was as much a mystery to Hero as to the doctors who had, at one time, been frequently sent for.
The professor gave a sigh of frustration at this information. "I am sorry to hear it." He offered, "But I am afraid that I must disturb him." He noted her hesitation and added. "It is important."
Hero gave a nod that was almost a bow as she stepped back and headed up the servants stairs towards the bedrooms. The voice that responds to her knock was faint and rough with under use. Hero walked in with trepidation; it was not her custom to come to his room unbidden.
"Your pardon, sir." Hero began uncertainly, hoping that her actions wouldn't earn her a stiff rebuke. "There is a man downstairs that says he wishes to talk to you."
The Old Man was slumped against the feather pillows piled up in his great four poster bed whose wood is almost black with age. The eyes that regard her now are dim and unfocused, but through it took what appeared to be a great effort, the old man leavered himself into a more upright position and his eyes brighten and focus with greater attention.
"A developer?" The Old Man croaked querulously.
Hero paused, calling to mind the picture of the so called professor. "I don't think he's a developer." Hero replied cautiously. "He... he said his name is Acer, sir, Professor Acer. He said he wanted to speak to you, he said it was important." Hero gave all this information in a rush of volubility and then waited nervously for the result, as one might who had just thrown gunpowder on to the embers of a dying fire.
The result however was not what she had expected. There was no explosion of wrath, the old wrinkled face merely creased into a frown. "Acer?" he repeated. "Acer, you say. The man's name is Acer?"
Hero assured the Old Man that it was.
"An old man, is he?"
"No, sir. Not old." Hero replied.
"Hummm…" the Old Man considered the matter. "Well, well. Better bring the man up." He told Hero placidly.
Hero headed back downstairs her curiosity piqued. Hero enters the kitchen to find the stranger running a hand over the mess of rubber and glue she had been attempting to fix together.
He regards her enquiringly and indicates the rubber. "What is this?" he asks in honest bewilderment.
"My bicycle tyre, sir." Hero replies sheepishly. "I was trying to fix it." She shrugs away the worry that floods her. "My grandfather says he will see you." She adds, and proceeds to lead him through the house to the more formal stairs that led from the formal marbled entrance hall.
Again she pauses to knock at the door and waits for the Old Man's command to enter before opening the door and ushering the Professor in.
She sees with some surprise that the Old Man has moved himself back to his armchair and donned his best dressing gown. "Sir," Hero begins addressing the Old Man, "this is Professor Acer." She turns to the professor. "Professor, my grandfather, Lord Fayle."
The Professor's back seems to stiffen at the title but he recovers so swiftly Hero thinks she may have imagined the reaction. He steps toward the Old Man's chair and offers his hand, which the Old Man accepts with civility, almost pleasure, his eyes fixed searchingly on the younger man's face. The Old Man offers the professor a chair and a smile twitches at his pale lips as the fire light flickers across the professor's face.
"A likeness." He mutters to himself. "A definite likeness." He clears his throat noisily and addressed the professor. "The child calls you Acer. You'd be a relation to Allory Acer."
The question obviously surprised the younger man but he acknowledged that he had had a great uncle by that name.
An odd noise escaped the Old Man and Hero started forward thinking he must be having some sort of fit. He was laughing. Laughing. Hero felt her own lips twitching in response despite her astonishment; she couldn't remember the last time the Old Man had laughed.
"Well, well, well." The Old Man chortled. "You're wondering how I know that name, I'll be bound."
"I am, sir." Acknowledged the Professor honestly.
"Well, I met him, once. When I was a boy." The Old Man's eyes grew reflective as he thought on the memory. "Eugenia Howard-Grey – Eugenia Blishwick as she became. She was a second cousin of some sort; she came to live with us when I was a boy." He gave a smile. "She used to bring her school friends home sometimes, for Christmas, or in the summer. That's when I met Acer, they were kind to me, Eugenia and her friends."
The Professor raised her brows curiously. "So…" the professor paused. "So… you know something about…"The professor trailed off uncertainly.
The Old Man waved an airy hand, "Something, something. Not much, but something. The girl will attend this school then, what was it called, Bogsthorpe, was it?"
"Hogwarts." The Professor corrected shortly.
"Aye, that was it." The Old Man agreed. "Outlandish sort of name, somewhere in Scotland isn't it?"
Hero feels her heart lurch uncomfortably. Half hope, half fear. She hadn't exactly followed everything the two men had been saying… or at least, she had followed it but had not understood its obvious import. What she did understand was that for the first time in years the Old Man was showing an interest in her future.
She was in Year Six now, her last year of Primary School. Next September would see her year group moving their separate ways. Fayle Primary fed principally into the big schools at either Cockermouth or Keswick but when Hero had approached the Old Man with the school choices form he had scoffed at both these well thought of schools and crumpled the paper before tossing it towards the fire.
"Yes, in Scotland." The Professor agreed solemnly.
The Old Man give a grunt of undetermined meaning and twisted round in his chair searching the shadows. "Come forward, girl." He told her. "Don't skulk." Her heart feeling over large and cumbersome as it thumped, Hero stepped closer to the Old Man's chair. "See this fellow..." The Old Man indicated the Professor. "He's a teacher at a special school."
Hero feels the blood drain from her face as chest constricts sickeningly. 'Special School'. The words sent a strum of fear vibrating through her entire body.
"I'll let the man say his piece." The Old Man continued oblivious to Hero's distress.
Her gaze now snapped to the Professor who sat so stiff and upright in the old leather chair. He returned her look blandly, the fire cast wavering flickering light across the features of his face making it appear at once sharp then shadowed.
"Your grandfather is correct, Miss Fayle. I am a teacher at a special school. It is a school for children with…" he paused, searching for the correct phrase, "…for children with specific talents."
Hero felt remarkably unenlightened by this explanation. She was smart, she knew that, and she liked to learn… but that was hardly a 'talent' as such. She wasn't musical or arty or anything like that. She remained silent hoping the matter would be further explained.
The Professor gave a small half smile. "Miss Fayle, Hogwarts is a school of Magic." He explained.
Magic. The word hung in the air.
"Magic?" Hero repeated incredulous, casting a glance towards the Old Man. Was this some kind of joke? It had to be, there was no such thing as magic, but the look on the Old Man's face gave her no clue and the Professor continued to regard her with solemn seriousness. "Magic isn't real." Hero said firmly, a flash of angry defiance at this stupid prank making her tilt up her stubborn chin.
"Is it not, Miss Fayle?" Professor Acer replied that half smile growing increasingly irritating. "Have you never made something happen… something you couldn't explain?"
Hero felt her jaw muscles tighten hard and her teeth clenched fiercely. Impossible. The rational part of her brain screamed at her. Totally impossible. Magic didn't exist. Magic only happened in story books.
But, but, but… another, quieter, part of her brain objected… but, you can't lie to yourself, you know… you know… you might pretend not to, you might hide from it, coward that you are, but you know you can do things that other people can't.
No! Her suspicions insisted, this was just some stupid birthday prank the Old Man had dreamed up. No one knew about… about those things she could do.
Come off it, the quiet voice scoffed, is it really more likely that you're the only one, or does it make sense that there are others? Other people, other children, who can do what you can do. A bit arrogant, really, to imagine you are the only one.
"Well, Miss Fayle?" The Professor's cool voice interrupted her wildly spinning thoughts.
Hero cast another glance at the Old Man, his eyes seemed to dance. It occurred to her then, in a brief flash of understanding, that he, the crinkled old man before her, had wanted this for himself. He had had a cousin who was kind to him, a cousin he idolized, and he had wanted to follow her into her world.
"I… I suppose…" Hero began meekly, "I suppose there are things… things that have happened."
Professor Acer nodded, accepting her submission gracefully. "You are one of a very small minority of human beings, Miss Fayle." he explained his set face softening into something more kindly. "You have been born with the ability to channel magic. Those… 'things' that have happened were instances when your latent magical abilities 'broke through'. Hogwarts is a school of witchcraft and wizardry and there you will be taught to harness and control your abilities." He then pulls a handsome leather bound book from his jacket and holds it out towards her. "This book should answer many of your questions." He told her as she hesitantly stepped forward to take the proffered object.
She ran a hand lovingly over the smooth dark blue leather with its handsome silver lettering. "A Muggle-Born's Guide to the Magical World." She read. The gilt edged pages shone as she opened the book at random, and flicked over a page or two. She gasped astonished as she came to a picture; the figures in it were moving!
The Professor cleared his throat dragging her attention away. "So, Miss Fayle, shall you be accepting a place at Hogwarts?" He asked.
Hero looks dumbfounded for a moment and again her eyes are dragged back towards the Old Man.
The strange, wonderful, magical world that the professor and the blue leather book represent suddenly dims and retreats.
How could she leave the Old Man, how could she leave Fayle? No, it was impossible, there were the animals to care for, the buildings to maintain, and not least, the Old Man to keep warm and fed, he was a proud old fellow, but there was much he couldn't do for himself anymore.
"Of course, she'll accept." The Old Man snapped seeing her hesitation.
Hero shook her head, taking a step and kneeling by the ancient armchair. "Sir, I don't think I can… not… not with things how they are." His face turned mulish and she continued hurriedly. "I'll do just fine at one of the nearby schools."
"What?" Barked the Old Man becoming animated in his ire. "What? You think you'll attend Keswick do you, or Cockermouth? Damn me if you will. Don't act more of the fool than you already are, girl."
Cowed by his display of bile, Hero had to swallow a tightness in her throat before she could speak again. "But, sir… who will…?" the question trailed off unvoiced but not unspoken. Who would run the house, who would see to him, to the shopping, to the animals, to the thousands of small jobs that needed to be done?
"You think pretty well of yourself, my girl." The Old Man noted with a contemptuous scowl. "Think this place will fall down without you, do you. This place which as housed the Fayles' for thirty generations?"
Hero knew there was no right answer to such a question. She kept silent, eyes down cast. This only seemed to further irritate the Old Man.
"Good God!" he exclaimed in accents of disgust. "To think of that long line, stretching into the very mists of history, to think of all that, and to see you," he paused meaningfully eyeing her with obvious displeasure. "The last of the Fayles."
Hero stood and backed away, keeping her eyes downcast so that the tears prickling her eyes wouldn't be seen and so call further scorn down upon her.
"The last of the Fayles." The Old Man repeated, the disdain now tinged with a bitter sadness. "That I should live to see it." The Old Man addressed the watchful Professor. "She'll attend this Hog place of yours, if I have to drag her there myself."
The professor's face twitched - a slight creasing of the brow, an infinitesimal curl of the lip. He hid his distaste well. "I'm certain that will not be required." He replied coldly. "I am sure, Miss Fayle," The professor told Hero in a kinder tone, "that your grandfather will see to the hiring of some house and ground staff." Though the words were for Hero, the younger man's eyes never left the Old Man. He must have seen whatever he was looking for, because he stood slowly and calmly and offered the Old Man his hand. As he took it the professor added. "I will return, in the summer, in order to accompany Miss Fayle… to purchase her school uniform and equipment."
"Girl, show the professor out." The Old Man told her curtly.
Hero did so silently, her body working on autopilot whilst her mind whirled, grappling with so many new ideas that she seems to walk through a dense fog. She still held the book he had given her and was clinging on to the volume as if it were a lifeline.
Back down in the kitchen the Professor pauses again by the wreck of rubber and glue. "This… this is important to you?"
Hero had forgotten, in the excitement, the eviscerated tyre that just a half hour ago had been occupying her whole concern. "Yes, Professor." Hero agrees. "I ride to school on my bike… or at least..." She made a despairing gesture toward the rubber, "at least… I used too."
The Professor nodded. Then he withdrew a long thin wooden stick from inside his ill-fitting musty jacket, Hero regarded him interestedly, watching as he pointed the stick at the sorry pile of rubber and makes a complicated movement, before her frankly astonished eyes the mangled rubber reforms into a whole and perfect inner tube.
Hero feels her jaw hanging open and closed it with a snap. Tentatively she reaches out a hand and touches the rubber, this is no illusion. The inner tube is real and is really fixed. Her eyes turn to the Professor, who stands regarding her with an odd expression on his face. The pity she recognizes, but there is something else there also and that she cannot so readily identify.
"Magic." The Professor tells her carefully. "It is a rare and special gift… until you have your wand you are not bound by magical law, and the law is not monstrous, it makes allowances for a natural curiosity in people situated as you are, but… I would advise you to be… circumspect." He turned to leave, then seemed to hesitate, he turns back. "May I ask you, Miss Fayle, when you became aware of your… talents?"
Hero gives this question due consideration, she has a good memory. She utilized it now, trying to pin point an instant that she had become aware of those little… talents… that allowed her to do things others could not do.
She answers him honestly. "The truth, sir, is that I cannot recall a time when I had not these… talents, as you term them. I thought… I thought that everyone had them. I remember… when I first went to school, and so came into contact with my peers, I remember being confused that they could not do the things that came so easily to me. I stopped speaking of it… I became… as you say… circumspect."
The man nodded as if she had merely confirmed a suspicion of his own. "I will be back," he tells her. "In the summer."