Around the bend.
Chapter Two: After the war was over.
Michael Corner found his friends in the Great Hall, standing in a group and talking. Michael tried to ignore the smell of ash, the acrid tang of burning blood, and definitely did not look the bundles laid along the Slytherin table, wrapped in school sheets. There were a lot of bodies. No they are just bundles. You'd go mental if you thought about it.
Over by the high table, a group of redheads of assorted ages and genders were crying around a body on the floor. Michael side-stepped a couple who were resting on the floor, sleeping in camp stretchers. He had nearly got to the little group of the boys from his dorm when he realized one of the people he'd just passed was poor old Professor Lupin. He turned back, and walked over, biting his lip and wondering what to say. He'd been scared when it came out Professor Lupin, kind Professor Lupin in the cardigans, was a werewolf. He was just about to say 'Hello' when he realized that neither the Professor, or his much younger girlfriend were breathing. His eyes burned, and he spun and practically ran over to where Tony was talking to Roger and Oliver, while Terry was holding Su in an, um, 'friendly hug.'
"Hi" said Michael.
Tony looked over at him and smiled "God. You're all right. But you would be. See it coming and all that."
"Tony" complained Michael. "I'm not that good."
"Phhh" said Tony. "Next minister of magic, that's Michael. We knew him when he just had Ginny Weasley as a girlfriend."
"That was ages ago" said Michael.
"She jumped on Potter five minutes ago," said Oliver, "They're not on break any more."
"How is he alive?" asked Michael.
"Saw it with these two eyes" said Tony. "Got up from a killing curse, called Voldy names… then Neville clearly thought it was pissing match cos he took this fucking huge sword out of the sorting hat, and cut the big Snake's head off. Course Potter cast a frigging disarming charm, obviously."
"Obviously" said everyone in unison. Harry was hella predictable.
"And they had a spell rebound thing happen, and Voldy just… died. Like, like a normal person." said Tony. "I am never, ever pissing either Neville or Harry off ever again. Neville pulled his massive sword outa nowhere – and he's got reach, of course. And Harry well... he went over, took Voldemort's wand, and walked off. Course… there was more fighting."
Michael touched the rib he was pretty sure was cracked. "I'd noticed. The Death Eaters were coming in the top floor, we had to keep them away from The Room."
"You all right?" asked Tony.
"Maybe a rib. Shoulda dodged further." said Michael.
"Or shielded."
"It was a bit of wall okay." said Michael tensely "Some effing giant must have smashed a tower."
"The astronomy tower" offered Oliver. "Fell over."
"Wait... you were on the seventh floor and got hit by a bit of Astronomy tower." said Tony, frowning "That's like… super unlucky. It's twenty feet shorter at least."
Su lifted her wand "Stand really still. I can get it" she said. Michael nodded, and pointed out the rib.
Su cast silently and the bolt of pink light hit his broken rib, and he felt a buzzing like bees that stopped abruptly. He gave the rib a ginger poke – fixed.
"Thanks Su" said Michael.
"Just another Friday afternoon" she said lightly.
"It's Saturday" said Oliver.
Terry sighed "Metaphor, Rivers."
"Never met her before" said Tony.
"Tony, shut up" said Oliver.
Michael was stuck by the ordinariness of this moment. Everyone from his dorm was being, well, themselves. And maybe everyone wasn't looking at the Slytherin table, and everyone was laughing a little too loud. But it was so much more normal than the year had been. It was exceedingly possible that nobody was going to get torture cursed this evening… and that was good. Brilliant really.
-==0==-
Michael had packed up his things, and shrunk his trunk.
He walked down the driveway towards Hogsmeade, and the trees were mostly shorn off roughly, or pushed over by giants. The gateposts were upright, though one of the pigs had fallen down, stepped over the boundary, pictured his destination – home, spun on his heel and went home with a crack of disapparation to their house in Sheep's Close. The key he'd had in his trunk for a year opened the front door. The house wasn't blown up or looted.
There was a note from mum on the fridge.
"Esme, do not eat the roast." Michael touched it and concentrated and the sensation of mum was right there. It was so normal that Michael started crying and sat down at the kitchen table to cry some more. The war was over, and mum and his sister were alive, at least.
-==0==-
Esme took one look at Michael, and his big sister gave him a hug and cried into his shoulder. Which was a bit uncomfortable.
"Is dad okay?" he asked. It had been playing on his mind a lot.
"Yeah, Order of the Phoenix safehouse," said Esme, "Your note was on time. Clever little bugger."
"That's good" said Michael, feeling a little better.
-==0==-
Dad came home a day later, and Mum just stood in the kitchen holding him and crying.
-==0==-
Esme came home one evening after work, and looked in on Michael. Who was staring out the window sightlessly. The gathering dark reminded him of Dementors.
"Mikey?" she said.
Michael kept staring. He remembered the long table covered in bodies. People he knew.
Esme came in and sighed. "Mike, snap out of it?"
She picked up his hand, and it shook. Michael had given up caring – the Carrows hadn't cared, and almost everyone got better at Crucio with practice; and being a DA stalwart had got him a lot of 'detentions.'
"Fine," she said, "MUM!" she yelled
"WHAT?" yelled mum from downstairs.
"Have we got any pufferfish spines?"
There was a loud crack that had Michael rolling sideways, lifting his wand and aiming. At his mother, who looked at him and burst into tears.
"I'll take that as a maybe?" said Esme.
"There's a few." said Mum, wiping her eyes.
"Right. I'll make Mikey some potions." she said.
"Some potions?" asked Mum.
"I'm brewing medical potions for ten hours at a stretch at work" said Esme "Mikey, I'm not going to brew. I'm certainly not ripping off a St Mungo's formula for treating battle victims and Crucio."
"Esme?" asked Mum.
"I can't legally brew more than ten hours a day." said Esme "But… if some stuff fell in a cauldron, and I never sold it. Well, that's different. And my mum and dad won't grass me up."
"Esme!" said Mum indignantly "If you're too tired – "
"I'm not leaving my little brother like this" said Esme. "I can do this potion in my sleep. And make it better than the normal stuff."
-==0==-
Michael Corner, respectable wizard, was at home in his childhood bedroom, sitting on his bed, reading 'What Broomstick' magazine and trying not to look at the rack of potion vials on his bedside table. There were twenty-tree vials left in the rack, and he would have to take one a day for the next twenty-three days. That was fine. His hands hardly shook at all now.
He could still hear people screaming every time he closed his eyes. That was … not fine, but the potions would, probably cure him of that and not… render him a vegetable. Esme had explained that she'd diluted the potion, St Mungo's tended to do it all in two days. And like the Motto of St Mungo's, 'Most people get better.'
His mum knocked on his door. It had to be mum because his dad never came into his room any more, and his sister didn't knock.
"Yes mum?" asked Michael. I still sound hoarse from screaming, he thought to himself.
Mum came in, her work robes a bit sooty.
"How are you Mikey?" she asked.
"Um. I'm okay" said Michael.
-==0==-
Michael had three vials of potion left when Esme came up the stairs, her boots thumping, barged into his room where he lay on the bed, and sat at his desk. "Hello Mikey." she paused, "Oh Hello Esme. You do look great for someone who's spent all week making potions" she said to herself.
Michael looked over at Esme. She lifted an eyebrow sarcastically. Her hair was lank, her skin oily.
"How was potions?" asked Michael.
Esme started talking and Michael found himself sitting up. He'd never really thought about the fact his sister was a professional potions brewer. She knew a lot about brewing.
...
"And this latest batch of moonstones – oh god. They're chalky as hell. I left them soaking in vinegar on Monday night, by Wednesday they were pitted and falling to bits."
"So you biffed them?" asked Michael.
"Tested one in a pestle – proper hardness, whipped up a first-year potion using moonstones to check they were still good, saved the entire batch." said Esme. "You won't find that in a book."
"Hmm" said Michael "But you had to wash the vinegar off?"
"Well of course. Colander in the sink like draining pasta."
"You don't cook."
"I see mum cooking," said Esme, "Same thing."
-==0==-
Michael had one vial of potion left on the bedside table. He stared at a textbook, thinking idly about doing some more education. Not getting tortured, just… learning some magic.
Michael heard the mailbox slot snap. He got out of bed and padded down the stairs to look. He'd got a letter from Tony, muggle post. He padded up to his room, sat in the bed and opened it with some hope. It felt strange. Paper shouldn't feel jittery and nervous.
"Oliver killed himself. T." Michael had been feeling better. And… now not so much.
He sort of froze.
-==0==-
"A friend has died" said Dad from the doorway.
Michael looked up from the letter. "Divination? Dad you're awesome."
"Deduction. Letter, you're crying. War. It's pretty easy" said Dad.
"You couldn't write. You had to hide" said Michael.
"Yeah, and the weather forecast was shit till I got back" said Dad, "Michel, … you're talented. At ten you would correct the forecast if I gave you a wrong one,"
Dad let the silence stretch out awkwardly.
"So" said Michael finally.
"Sit N.E.W..T.s Sit divination. You could do so much good. Grindelwald's success was due to which divination ability?"
"He could see forward a little" said Michael "I can't do that, dad."
"You can scry, son. That's more useful. And your Sortelidge is not too shabby."
"I'm not that good"
Dad summoned his pack of tarot cards, unwrapped the white silk cover, and handed them to Michael "Three cards. Show your old man you're rubbish?"
Michael rolled his eyes, shuffled and split the deck three times, and merged it and peeled off a card. Then a third, the last. All face down.
Dad tipped over the first one. The Tower. "Past, death and destruction" said Dad. Michael didn't mention that he got hit by the bloody thing. It was probably ironic if you could laugh about it.
Dad turned over the second. The Hierophant.
"See, listen to your old dad" said Dad. Michael snorted.
Dad tipped the last card over.
Death. The card had Death riding on a pale horse.
"Well, we'll ignore that" said Dad.
"Ignore it?"
Dad sighed "Simmons in Magical games and sports, he does quidditch league injury predictions?"
Michael nodded.
"He can antetell. Bloody handy. Scry backwards in time. His range is limited, and he can't look back more than a day, but he's dead handy for accident investigation." said Dad.
"So?" said Michael, wondering why D.M.L.E. didn't use him.
"So Simmons heard about Harry Potter going to the forest. He nicked off to Hogsmeade, skirted the Aurors and clean-up crews – your mum was there with M.A.C., and had a look." said Dad.
"Had a look?"
"Wanted to see what really happened. The only witness alive talking is That Hagrid guy, and he's disturbed." said Dad.
"He's all right" said Michael defensively. Dad snorted.
"So, Simmons, and me, we were having a tea, I'd done Tuesday and Friday, taking a quick break before doing Wednesday, Simmons had a look the night before."
"So?"
"Simmons was wearing four different holy symbols, and talking about moving to Tibet." said Dad "He saw something odd." he added.
"Odd?"
"The Potter boy really did get hit by a killing curse. Just let it hit him. And then – " dad paused for effect "He just stood up." Dad lifted his eyebrows.
"That's the silly story that's doing the rounds, dad." said Michael.
"Simmons, well he's lost it. He looked before that… and found Potter walking into the forest."
"That figures."
"Surrounded by the ghosts of all his family." said Dad, not smiling. "They pushed the Dementors back."
"That's a Patronus Charm dad. It looks like a ghost but isn't." said Michael.
"Simmons is my age, Michel. He was at school with Harry Potter's parents, with Sirius Black. They were there, and then Potter just clicks his fingers or something, and they were gone, and our hero takes a Killing Curse to the chest without blinking. Hagrid carried him back… and he gets up. Simmons just about got arrested snooping around Hogwarts. That Harry Potter, he didn't just dodge a curse. He took a Death Curse to the old ticker, and stood up. That's seriously occult son. Gotta be like, serious dark magic."
"Harry's… not doing dark magic dad" said Michael. He remembered Potter tiredly drilling them all in Patronuses, in shields, in disarming charms. He would only teach counters … and the older DA members he'd teach blasting curses, on top the knock-back jinx. And he'd always said "Aim at their feet. They'll get knocked down and hurt, and won't get up for ages."
And Granger had blown Ron Weasley across the room. But Harry had been so careful to never really hurt anyone in training. He wouldn't do dark magic. He was going to stop it, not take over.
"Well dad" said Michael "If he really is bad, we'll have a new government by next Christmas."
Dad gave him his old divination notes. "Something to read. You can get a good mark in N.E.W.T.s The ministry needs good people, son. People who are not the old pureblood arseholes."
-==0==-
Michael sat exams at the Ministry. He knew he'd fail Defence. And didn't care. But Potions was almost laughably easy. There was a question about how to brew with ingredients you were not sure about, and he remembered Esme's story, and explained about making a test potion in a number nine cauldron. Something easy and quick, depending on the ingredient.
Divination, the theory at least was just… rote memorisation. As easy as Astronomy. The practical, Michael knew he'd bollixed up the tessomancy, was quite sure he'd got the ninth hexagram wrong, and when it came to xylomancy, he wanted to draw his wand and set the sodding sticks on fire. It wasn't part of the sodding curriculum. But he tried concentrating, and treating it like scrying – his best subject, and wrote down some rubbish about black birds. And the Ministry crystal balls were filthy with strange auras. He had to spend ten minutes cleaning the damn thing beforehand, (and the only thing for it was sacrificing his Tarot pack's silk cover, and the stupid ball was loose on the stand hwich was wobbly. He used one of the xylomancy sticks to prop the stand to at least not rock.)
His cards were going to be wonky till he got a new cloth square – this one was ruined with strange auras. But the scrying tasks were not too difficult, and he finished with only a mild headache.
He went home to mope.
And get letters from the guys. Every three days, and they demanded replies – even telling the owls to make a fuss. He felt Oliver's shadow over them all. His parents had gone into the camps and not come out.
-==0==-
Instead of his N.E.W.T. results, he got a gold invitation card to a ball at the ministry atrium. Apparently he was…. Going to be awarded an Order of Merlin, Third class for his work in defeating Voldemort. Dress was formal, catering provided. R.S.V.P.
Michael stood and stared at it for a while, then sat at the kitchen table and stared.
It was bizarre. He'd been fighting the ministry last year.
The ball was, well, weirdly like a magical Oscars awards. And everyone was dressed up, though some people were clearly high as frig. Nobody was doing billywig venom and spinning round the room, but some of the Hufflepuffs walked with a very floaty gait. Luna Lovegood had a notebook and a quill, and a robin-hood hat and was acting like a real reporter.
When she came to question him though, she asked him about ten different nonsense animals and took careful notes. So she was still quite bonkers then.
Harry Potter had tidy robes on, but looked a bit tired. Ginny Weasley hung off his arm and smiled at everyone. But like a lot of his friends, she was drinking hard. Michael eyed her arse, and smiled to himself. He'd had that in his hands. But she was a double-dyed quidditch nutter, so Potter (also Quidditch nut) could keep her. He didn't really feel moved to chat up any of the girls. He'd fought in the battle alongside most of them. And kissing say, Megan when you've seen her with blood up to both elbows felt weird. Not that he was scared of witches. It was too soon. That's all.
Michael went home wearing the heaviest medal in existence. Mum hugged him and Dad started reading him a bedtime storey. And changing the words.
"Once upon a time there was a very clever wizard called Michael" said Dad.
Michael rolled his eyes.
"Who was so brave he got a god-damn Order of Merlin. His grandfather, the git of Greise, is falling over himself to say how proud his is of you, and your mother, and even admitted I was family" said Dad.
"He what?" said Michael. Grandfather didn't admit Michael existed – half-blood and all that.
"So, this is the greatest award anyone in our family's ever had, you know that?" said Mum, "And yes, your grandfather is in the hilarious position of not having single photo of you, and needing to have something to point it. We're not giving the old bastard a photo."
-==0==-
Michael's N.E.W.T.'s results arrived from the W.E.A. He got a P in Defence, but having fought Death Eaters, he thought that might be irrelevant. And… an O in Divination. He'd got 87 percent in the practical, apparently. And in the same envelope was an application form for a ministry job, with his name and address already filled in. All that was missing was his signature. The job category was 'Positions requiring special candidate capabilities : Divination.'
Michael looked at the form and shrugged. He signed. Why not.
That's when he noticed his name was Michael Corner O.M.(3), and in "Notes" someone had written "War Veteran. Handle With Care."
He sent the form with Boris, mum's slightly tubby brown owl.
An owl came back the next day with an appointment for an interview.
-==0==-
Michael went to the ministry interview. A small office outside Magical Games and sports. A witch in a terrible broad-brimmed scarlet hat who introduced herself as "Carmen" gave him a quick shell game on a table with three walnut shells.
Michael tapped the right shell, and Carmen nodded. Without lifting the shell.
"Good. But what are you good at. Consider this an oral exam question?"
"Um, scrying" said Michael, "I can see things."
"Your range limit?" asked Carmen.
"I dunno. I can see our house from Hogwarts."
"Hmm. Good. Forward or backwards?"
"No. The now." said Michael.
"Hmm. What tools?"
"Depends" admitted Michael.
"Depending on what?"
"I can, um find coins without looking" admitted Michael "And… tell if someone's armed."
"Armed?" asked Carmen.
Michael let his mind spill out of his head, and had a quick look about. "You've got a bottle in your handbag" he said.
Carmen smiled tightly "Well, well. That's good. Tell me… what's the weather doing tomorrow?"
"Where?"
"Hogwarts"
"Um." Michael guessed "Overcast, probably rain." he said.
"When?"
Michael felt his mouth saying "four thirty."
"Hm. A chip off the old family block then" said Carmen.
"Dad says I'm better. He can't scry." said Michel.
"He lied. He can scry, but his range is terrible, and he experiences severe headaches" said Carmen, "Do you experience headaches?" she asked.
"Um. This one time, I was practising for O.W.L.S, I got a headache."
"We'll call that a possible" said Carmen. She turned over a parchment and filled in a form – his application form, with a lot of extra fields added.
'SCRY -range UK.'
"Can you scry beyond the UK?" asked Carmen.
"Um" said Michael "I've never tried."
"hmm. Find a … Statue of Liberty at least fifteen feet tall?" asked Carmen.
"I need a ball for that" admitted Michael.
"Hmm we'll put that as a pending" said Carmen. "Well done Mr Corner. You can expect our owl with an offer. Its is possible we may need you to come in and use a Crystal ball to determine your actual range limit, but you're well into 'Exceeds expectations' and butting up to 'Must Hire.'"
"Must Hire?"
"Good Scryers do not grow on trees" said Carmen "And many government functions need them."
"But I can't do predictions" said Michael.
"Well, your weather prediction matches your fathers, so I'd say you're wrong there" she said "Any good at Sortelidge?"
"I really hope not" said Michael.
"Your N.E.W.T practical was very good for 'hope not'," said Carmen "Would you care to explain?"
"Dad got me to predict … for me." said Michael.
"And?"
"Tarot cards, Tower, Heirophant, Death" said Michael "Not exactly sunshine and kittens." he added.
"And did you draw a fourth card?" asked Carmen.
"No – it's a three card prediction" said Michael.
"Next time the mood strikes you to engage in sortelidge" said Carmen "Consider the etymology of the term. You're seeing by drawing lots. You can do what you like – you're a qualified wizard…"
She paused "You rather flunked Defence, though you survived the Battle of Hogwarts, and are named in several eyewitness accounts as having been in the Hogwarts resistance."
"It's Dumbledore's Army" said Michel quietly.
"Yes quite," said Carmen. "Any rationale for failing a subject you have ample practical expertise in, and an Order of Merlin to punctuate the point?"
"I lack theoretical content at the Seventh year level" said Michael. "I was thinking about going back to do seventh year again"
"Oh Merlin's ball's don't do that," said Carmen, "We need you this year."
"We?"
"The Department," said Carmen, "It will be explained after you sign on."
-==0==-
Michael Corner sat in his childhood bedroom and tried not to look at the paper bag on the floor.
His uniform for his new job. In the - of -. Michel blinked. He couldn't even think of where it was. Not outside work. That contract had been signed in blood, and he wasn't sure some of the terms were even legal.
Officially he was in 'Records', if someone wouldn't take "Ministry job" as an answer.
-==0==-
