Author's Note:
An unexpectedly long chapter because...apparently I wanted to try to stuff everything inside it. Work has deadlines on top of deadlines right now, though I'm thankfully pulled out of the mind-numbing administrative stuff. You're lucky I managed to write a chapter this week...
'-
53 Reclamation
Tom Riddle is very, very annoyed. Amelia Bones is pissed off and Daedalus Bones no less so. Orpheus Dexter is on the warpath. An enlightening chat in Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Hermione wakes up. The Knights meet.
'-
"Bones."
Tom found the person he was looking for in one of the library's sitting room corners. Unexpectedly, two blond heads rose up; one had the Hufflepuff tie that he'd been looking for while another had the blue-and-bronze bands of the Ravenclaws.
"The prettier Bones," the Slytherin corrected himself.
Daedalus Bones stood up at almost the same time his sister did. She punched his forearm.
"Ow. That's not nice, Amelia." The blond complained.
"You definitely don't need to stand, you dolt." For all her eyeroll, her tone was fond.
"Hey, he might be referring to me being prettier than you." Daedalus insisted. That only gained a raised eyebrow from Tom and a snort from his sister.
"I'm sure someone will consider you the most beautiful person they know, but I'm sorry to say, you're not my type." Tom deadpanned. It got a chuckle out of Amelia and a final groan of surrender from the Ravenclaw.
"Fine, fine. I know when I should cut my losses." Daedalus said, blowing some stray bangs out of his face.
"What brings you here, Riddle?" His sister asked.
Tom considered his angles carefully.
"Do you remember what we talked about when the Prophet had just begun their slander?"
"Oh, yes. I feel like dragging someone by the ear." She frowned in remembrance before turning to him curiously. "Wait, are you saying that you heard rumours of another possible nonsense like that getting published yet again?"
Tom shook his head. "No. It's even worse, I'm afraid. It's Hermione."
Daedalus' eyes were sharper. "What about her?"
"I don't know where they heard such nonsense from, but an Auror took her out of Hogwarts 'for an interview'." He stated.
Amelia shook her head. "Impossible. If they only need to know more details from her as an eyewitness, they could do it here."
"Besides, all our testimony had been noted down in detail, courtesy of Emma." Daedalus replied.
Tom made a slow and careful shrug, both of his palms open upwards, while his expression was probably extremely cynical. A flash of something passed the seventh-year's face, before his expression was more or less one of boredom again, but his posture had subtly changed. It was more alert now. Amelia narrowed her eyes.
"Tell us everything from the beginning."
'-
Tom had expected Amelia to curse and set off to floo-call her father because she was damned sure that this was not usual procedure at all. What he hadn't expected was to see Daedalus moving with the same sense of urgency.
"You're going to call your father too?"
"What, me?" He snorted. "We've established that the one who's going to follow him into the Auror corps is Amelia, not me. She doesn't find endlessly knocking sense into knuckleheads tiring. There's no way he needs a second call from me."
"And yet you're hurrying."
"And yet I am," the seventh-year nodded, a small knowing grin on his face even as he deftly dodged from giving Tom an answer.
The Slytherin shrugged it away and held back from asking. Whatever the Ravenclaw was up to, it was probably because he was concerned for a fellow house-mate. It could hardly be bad news.
'-
Pendleton was giving Tom his full attention from a comfortable wing-backed chair in one of the library's reading corners. The prefect easily took the chair on the other side of the small table.
"What was his name?"
"Orestes Blakeshaw."
A faint crease grew on Pendleton's brow as his parchment-pale fingers lace together underneath his chin. Three seconds later, there was a sharp intake of breath.
"Rather average looking wizard, but with a certain unsavoury look in his eyes?" The pale blond asked.
Tom nodded. "The look of a hunted creature, yes."
"Then we must make haste."
Pendleton stood up. Tom eyed him but did not immediately made to leave.
"What do you remember about him?'
He paused. Even then, his hand was tapping out a subtle rhythm against his thigh. "That he never considered accepting more and more muggleborns into the Auror corps as a good idea, because they are a people with 'inherent conflicting loyalties.'"
"He's a colleague of your father's, then?"
Pendleton huffed, his usually placid expression showing clear distaste. "My father might have socialised mostly with purebloods simply because they made up most of the corps of his generation, but he was never blind to talent or hard work. He considers Blakeshaw to be blinkered."
'-
Anyone wondering that Hogwarts was not at least semi-sentient would soon find incidents to the contrary piling up. Tom had his own list. As he and Pendleton took all the shortcuts they could remember between the library and the headmaster's office, they somehow encountered Dumbledore heading in the same direction from the other end of the corridor, with Dexter trying to keep up with his long strides. The transfiguration master's flashy robes of purple and indigo (with actual moving waves of water on his hem) was a contrast to his companion's unobtrusive navy one, dotted with only the faintest of stars.
This coincidental encounter was just one more example to put on his list.
What unbelievably convenient timing.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor Dumbledore." Tom greeted. If his expression did not quite match his polite tone, well, he was not quite in the mood for pleasantries right now.
"I dare say neither of us are actually surprised," Dumbledore's reply was dry.
"Who kidnapped Hermione?" Dexter snapped.
If Tom and Dumbledore's visible annoyance was a damp drizzly mood, then Dexter's demands held the surging emotions of someone whose home had just been swept away by a storm flood—and was still expected to pay his taxes by tomorrow. His mood was as violent as that weather; the astronomer looked perfectly capable of robbing the horses out from under the next man who tested his patience.
Dumbledore tried to calm him down. "It's not a kidnapping—"
"An Auror," Tom cut in, his smile loaded with unsaid meanings. "For an 'interview'."
"What's his name?" Dexter clearly wasn't listening to Dumbledore at this point.
"Orestes Blakeshaw, Professor." Tom said.
"And where were you two going?" Dumbledore stepped back into the conversation before anything more inflammatory was said.
It was Pendleton who answered instead of Tom, straightforward and without guile. Tom himself was silently wrestling his impatience and anger back down.
"To the Ministry, since we wish to ask for an explanation."
Dexter sighed, and the roiling thundercloud impression he'd been doing abated slightly. Even the air felt lighter.
"I know you're both concerned, but we'll take it from here. They would listen to not only her teachers, but also her Head of House."
"Professor—"
"We have this in hand, Mr. Riddle. You can wait at the headmaster's office and we'll assure you that you'll be the first to know." This time, it was Dumbledore who cut him short.
Dexter was too distracted to notice; he had already given the password to the gargoyle that guarded the stairs going up and had gone off ahead.
Pendleton nodded thoughtfully. "Very well, Professors. Best of luck on your trip."
Tom didn't give any reply even as Dumbledore easily followed his colleague, neither did he move.
"So," the prefect said, the calmness of his voice did not hide its core of steel, "the fireplace at Slughorn's quarters, don't you think?"
"Of course, my lord."
'-
The two Slytherins knocked on Slughorn's quarters. He was still in his dressing gown, furry slippers covering his feet. Other than that, he was well-groomed.
"Tom, Pendleton, what a surprise!"
"Good morning, Professor."
"Morning, Professor Slughorn."
"What brings you to my quarters? Don't just stand there; come in! Come in!"
Slughorn cheerfully ushered them in without further ado. Tom thanked him for receiving them easily in his free time when they had visited without warning and Pendleton murmured something of a similar tone right behind him. They chatted for a moment or two, before the prefect smoothly segued into how sometimes there are rare and critical ingredients that you forgot to stock before trying out an experimental potion or three.
It's such a shame to destroy your unusual potion project just for that, so you settled with a stasis charm and hope you can get the missing item(s) with a quick hop to London and then back again. Whether the destination was going to be Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley, Slughorn has enough discretion and knowledge of his House's character that he didn't even ask. What he knew was that Tom was talented in potion-making, and Pendleton was the farthest thing from a rabble rouser. They were dependable students.
That was how he easily gave them leave to use his fireplace to floo out of Hogwarts.
They travelled to Diagon Alley from his office. Once they both had stepped out at the Leaky Cauldron's main fireplace, Pendleton left a sickle in the tipping jar while Tom became the first of them to take a pinch of floo powder from the common jar. He threw it into the fireplace once more.
"Ministry of Magic." The dark-haired Slytherin enunciated, before stepping in once more.
'-
Orpheus found himself gritting his teeth the moment he stepped out into the main lobby of the Ministry of Magic, a cold wind sweeping uncomfortably close over his skin.
Why was he having flashbacks to dearly departed Eurydike's fratricidal family? If other people had hellish in-laws, he would have brought his up as candidates as rulers of hell instead. Never the most athletic even at school, Orpheus had never practised duelling as hard as when he knew he needed to fight more than one of them. The pain of possibly losing his children was still acute now, decades after he'd solved that particular problem.
His wand hand twitched, remembering the last potent chain of spell he'd managed to pull off that downed (crippled) one of her cousins—
Orpheus wouldn't have realised what he was doing if Albus hadn't cast a majestic glowing bird to circle around them, as if in a protective embrace. It was beautiful – the tips of its wing were almost transparent that it glittered faintly, refracting a little of the light that passes through.
A patronus, the blond noted with surprise and awe.
"Albus?"
"I'd have thought that our minister is wiser than this," Albus muttered. "Why would they involve those…things?"
It was the way he said the last word that caught Orpheus' attention and pulled him away from trying to observe his colleague's patronus further. His tone spoke of foul objects found on the underside of dead logs and better left there to rot. As he followed the gaze of Hogwarts' transfigurations master, he saw the dark shadows congregating and drifting ten steps away from the main entrance. It was not close enough to cause anyone passing to faint, but enough to start draining the colour on their face.
He wished he was one of those who had no idea what those shadowed hoods held, but alas he was not that lucky. He had seen what they held underneath once, and he still saw it again and again in his nightmares.
"Dementors." Orpheus cursed.
"Yes. Dementors." Albus' reply was hushed.
"Of all the forsaken things on this blasted earth—why them?"
"Well, if there's one thing guaranteed to chase away criminals of lesser strength, it's a predator greater than them. I'm sure even Grindelwald wouldn't be able to find enough people with the mental fortitude to go through them." Dumbledore's casual words almost hid the irony in them.
His fellow head of house had helpfully taken Orpheus' elbow, waiting until he found his own balance back. After that, he soon found three chocolate frogs shoved into his hands with a smattering of candy. He had to do some quick grabs to stop a few of them from falling over.
"Um, what?"
"Chocolate helps. In fact, copious amount of sugar helps. Candies are therefore an excellent balm for the body and soul after an encounter with a dementor." Even as Albus joyfully prattled on, he had deftly navigated for both of them. Smoothly they slid, past the throngs of confused people as well as the shocked visitors who certainly didn't expect to find the spectres of Azkaban haunting London. He'd even managed to dodge a woman with a wailing kid and pulled the blond away from a minor staff who'd slipped on something without another look.
"Did you expect them here? Those monsters?"
The blond professor had chomped through the first frog in a few seconds and was now tearing through his third almost as fast. A first-year acting that way would earn a mild reproof from him, which was why he was glad that none of his kids could see him.
"It was in the Daily Prophet, Orpheus." The mild disappointment in his tone was almost a rebuke.
"The headline only said something about them getting more guards! It's not as if they were even mentioned by name."
"One does have to read carefully and collect the clues between the lines. Spencer-Moon is not an idiot—he knew how much opposition would rise if the people heard about the creatures he invoked."
The astronomy master didn't really feel guilty about it. Really, he was a Hogwarts professor—being isolated from the outside world was almost a given. How was he supposed to know that one of the ministry stooges would be stupid enough to take one of his kids? The pair of professors quickly made their way deeper into the Ministry in no time.
Orpheus was collecting the candy wrappers into one neat pile when he noticed the dates.
"Albus, some of these are manufactured a year ago." Which wasn't a surprise since wizarding food had a long shelf life. That wasn't his concern here. "And you say you only knew of these dementors recently?"
He was sceptical at this degree of preparation. The auburn-haired professor sounded amused instead.
"I thought you've figured it out already. I love sweets."
With a flourish, he pulled something out of his pockets. His left hand was filled with what can be kindly said as the contents of a Honeydukes grab bag, and what the less charitable would consider as teeth-rotters and the signs of an immature man.
"What do you like? I'm sure I have practically everything Honeydukes has ever made."
He blinked. "…did you apply that long and complicated bottomless charm to your pockets to hold near-infinite candy?"
Albus nodded with a solemn mien. "It is a very important reason, Orpheus."
Orpheus decided to tactfully say nothing.
'-
"We'd like to see Auror Blakeshaw right now." Orpheus said this to the junior recruit manning the front desk of the DMLE.
"Do you have an appointment—"
"Do you know what he did? No? He took my kid. If I don't see him now, I'll bring him to the Wizengamot on charges of kidnapping." He leaned forward a little, his expression dark.
The clerk flinched at his restrained anger. It didn't matter that he didn't raise his voice the slightest.
"It's all just a misunderstand—"
"He gave his name to her friend before he whisked her away straight out of Hogwarts. Now, you can take me to him, or I'll go straight into that elevator over there," he pointed casually, "press Wizengamot's floor, and start the administrative requirements of the lawsuit."
"Now, what would you rather I do?"
The head of Ravenclaw had thrown the gauntlet. Usually, his sombre clothing gave the impression of a staid muggle lawyer (if one were to ignore his long braid). Now, with his dark expression paired with his dark clothes, he looked more like a hatchet-man, eliminating any problem his master wished to see gone permanently. Albus knew his imagination could be rather fanciful at times, but it was hard not to be entertained.
The clerk was new enough to know that this was far beyond what his meagre job entailed.
"Um, uh, I can try finding him?"
"Ten minutes." He warned.
The clerk took that as permission to run down the hallway. By some implicit agreement, they followed him, Dumbledore only a few steps ahead of him before the astronomy teacher caught up by his side, colour high on his cheeks.
"That was impressive, Orpheus."
The blond scoffed. "Intimidating kids not long out of their teens is hardly an achievement."
"That might be. Yet I'm also quite certain that you're not joking about involving the Wizengamot." He finished.
"Oh, I'm definitely not kidding." He was a little too calm about it. "No one touches any of my kids."
"You know that Hermione might be alright, don't you?"
"That does not absolve him of his primary mistake. No one. Touches. My. Kids."
His tone had the finality of an ultimatum.
Albus sighed. "If you're too vigorous in pursuing your lawsuit while you lack adequate evidence, it will only bring you down. If you don't plan this carefully, you might even lose your position as head of house, perhaps even your Hogwarts teaching post."
They'd entered an open office area, filled with desks. Neither of them said anything else for a while. The sounds of the junior clerk apologising to people he'd inadvertently ran over could be heard from their front, or his frantic efforts to catch one person after another who could tell him where exactly Auror Blakeshaw was.
Orpheus was shaking his head.
"I know. I know exactly what you mean. It's just that I've seen several of my muggleborn students disappear or die under suspicious circumstances over two decades or so. I just…I can't let it happen again. Not again." Then, he muttered distractedly under his breath. "Eurydike's crazy family almost did the same thing after her death."
Taking his children away? Over his dead body.
With that, the astronomy master hurried up to the clerk, unconsciously intimidating the poor young wizard to go faster. He heard Albus murmur something under his breath.
'-
Dexter's words sounded strange even to Dumbledore. Again? What did he mean by again? Children do not disappear from Hogwarts that frequently. At most, it was only the occasional case or so after several years. Yet the haunted look in his eyes were real. What was he talking about?
Albus was determined to figure out what it meant as he picked up his pace to catch up.
"Orpheus," he called.
"What?"
"What do you plan to do on finding him?"
"Shake him by his lapels until he gives up Hermione, of course."
It was a simple statement with no excessive bravado or emotion. It brought home the truth that Orpheus was not always the mild-mannered astronomy professor at Hogwarts, the same way that Albus was not always Hogwarts' transfigurations master. Once, he was also that headstrong young apprentice who maintained to his master that he will study the magical properties of dragon blood. When Flamel told him that it was hard to find dragon blood in large enough quantities in the market, he insisted on finding those dragons himself and ensure they…donated appropriate amounts. All for the sake of progressing magical research.
Dumbledore took a careful breath.
"Not that I disagree with your sentiment, but we need a plan. Let's start with Blakeshaw, what do you know about him?"
Orpheus shook his head. "I'm not sure I'd remember if he was one among the hordes of first and second years that I have. I know he didn't take Advanced Astronomy later on."
Albus had been the transfigurations master for longer and made it a point to keep watch over Hogwarts students who had taken important positions in the Ministry or had entered the DMLE. He knew he had more insight.
"Well, here's what I do know…"
'-
The minute flinch in Blakeshaw's face when he first saw them clinched his guilt for Dumbledore.
It was Orpheus who struck first, with all the ferocity of a wolf trying to recover his pup. Blakeshaw blustered something about 'witnesses' and 'interview' at the beginning, but the Hogwarts professor grinned and it did not look pleasant.
"You cannot take a student out of Hogwarts without the permission of their parents." He stated, still calm.
"She's an orphan." The answer came a little too fast.
"Do you know who gets to decide in loco parentis as to whether taking a student out of Hogwarts is for their own good or not? The Head of the House." If he was cracking his knuckles then, he would not be more intimidating. "Now, I ask you, what do you think I consider the appropriate action to take when someone holds my child captive when she's innocent of any wrongdoing?"
"We can return her quickly once you've signed the release forms—"
"I'll see you and your superior in the Wizengamot, Mr. Blakeshaw." His voice was soft, and he did not even have the uptown drawl that the Blacks and the more rarefied purebloods have. It did not make the threat in them less real.
Albus cleared his throat, drawing their attention towards him.
"Not that we need to go that far that fast. For one, you can begin by bringing us to Hermione right now."
If he would just show them the way, this could be done quickly. Dumbledore gave an internal sigh when he saw the young wizard steeling himself instead and digging in his heels.
"About those forms—"
"If even read one single line say that I will not blame you or the Aurors for any harm she might have suffered, I won't just not sign it, I'll even put in that lawsuit this evening." Dexter had casually picked up the pile of papers in front of him. "Do you really want me to read these papers right now, Blakeshaw? What do you think I'll find if I do?"
They stared down each other across the table, the increasingly cornered Auror and the unrelenting professor.
"If administrative issues concern you so much, I'm sure I can ask someone else in this place while you settle the details with my colleague." Dumbledore said lightly. "After all, a witch in Hogwarts uniform is not a usual sight at the Ministry most days."
Blakeshaw stood up with a speed that neither expected.
"No need. She'll be back at Hogwarts before you know it."
It was the way he paled that caused Albus to narrow his eyes.
"Mr. Blakeshaw? Is there something you wish to tell us?"
Dexter hadn't noticed it yet. He was frowning still, but it was no different from his previous expression since seeing the Auror firsthand.
The door to the room swung hard.
"Mr. Blakeshaw—oh, Professor Dumbledore, I didn't expect to see you here."
Dumbledore turned to the newcomer. A witch in the Ministry's nurse's uniform with a familiarly sweet face. She was probably someone who had only graduated recently, based on the easy way she fell into school-based speaking patterns when talking to him.
"Good afternoon. Professor Dexter and I were about to pick up one of our students."
Her expression lightened up. "Then, I'm glad you came! I think Miss Curie had something slightly more complex than low blood pressure. Oh, I'm sure it's nothing serious, but the senior nurse sent her to St. Mungo's just to be safe."
Dexter's tone was sharp. He'd gone out of his seat and blocked Blakeshaw from reaching the nurse.
"Hermione is at St. Mungo's?"
'-
The image of that dark, battered street has somehow surfaced from the wreck of her memories – though how it did so, Hermione had no idea. There was also that final galleon flipping in slow motion, seemingly floating in an air as thick as molasses. A flash of red over a blurry face. Then, the rows of inhuman shadows and forms in the distance, creeping ever closer, some twisted in ways human limbs weren't meant to go…
Her eyes opened and she winced at the brightness. Slanted rays shone down the tall windows.
The ceiling had scarcely any spots. This isn't the Hogwarts infirmary.
But it was some sort of infirmary room all the same, based on the other beds around her, some filled and others not. Hermione gingerly tried to sit up.
Hermione wondered where Harry and Ron (and Neville, Luna and Malina) could be until she realised that they weren't here. The young witch was surprised at how outdated the St. Mungo's room was. Wasn't there a renovation sometime in the 2000s—
Wrong time, Hermione.
She tightened her jaw at the realisation. She was still in 1942. Her teeth bit something stuck at the corner of her mouth.
Her throat felt weird and she soon found why; a slender spider-silk tube ran down into her mouth and she presumed it ended at her stomach. She pulled it out slowly. As weird as she could still find the wizarding world, at least it does have its edge when it comes to healing compared to the non-magical one. A feeding tube doesn't have to go down from her nose, for one, and it was so smooth and thin that it wasn't too noticeable. She ignored the gel it was coated in (to heal any cuts and inflammation her oesophagus might have gotten in the process of inserting or removing it) and dropped it in the kidney tray she found nearby. She picked up her wand that was placed on the same bedside cabinet.
Her head felt oddly cool and her hunger was no longer noticeable—to her surprise, Hermione actually felt rather full.
They must've rushed to feed her. The residual warmth in her torso made her certain that they definitely increased the digestive and absorption rate of her stomach and intestines. She remembered the appearance of the dementor and smacked her forehead. That was obvious, Hermione, she chided herself, you clearly need a lot of food quickly.
Getting too close to a dementor meant entering its psychic field. This in turn meant exposing yourself to its mental attack of dread and despair. Regardless of how abstract it seemed, it actually does leave a physical mark on people – the brain shifts gears and musters its mental defence against the assault. As it does that, it sucks up inordinate amount of sugar from the blood to cover its increased energy consumption. It was why light-headedness and fainting were also side-effects of dementor exposure.
It was why chocolate and sweets were a good post-dementor recovery food.
Hermione leaned forward, scrambling on the bed. She ignored the slight faint feeling that came from the changing positions. She took her medical chart from its position on the bottom of the bed and sat there to read. There was a wizard patient whose bed was near the door who had been reading a newspaper when she woke up. He was now staring at her curiously as she skimmed through her chart. She ignored him easily.
Hypoglycaemia. Worryingly low blood sugar levels. That wasn't a surprise. Add the fact that she hadn't eaten for hours and it would certainly make the effects of dementor exposure worse.
Food tube inserted and food absorption speed increased to five times. Brain locally cooled by around twenty degrees centigrade to reduce risk of damage before blood sugar levels return to... oh, they were trying to slow her brain's metabolism as they waited for her digestive system to catch up with digesting the pureed lunch they had provided, since the wizarding world just doesn't do needles. This was their alternative of the muggle option of just giving a glucose IV. It was good news for the needle-phobics, she supposed, but the downside of it was that it required more skill to perform—
A line in the report brought her thoughts to a halt.
I was at risk for a coma? What the hell? Hermione loudly harrumphed at that.
The last conscious patient in the room (a middle-aged witch) stared at her, joining the previous newspaper reader. Not that she noticed either of them except in the most perfunctory way.
Her condition couldn't have been that bad, right? It was only a missing meal. She was fine! On the other hand, the fact that she had made textbook recovery was no indication of how bad she had it before. It just showed how effective wizarding world's treatment was and how knowledgeable her healers are. The brain exists at a very fine balance of homeostasis for optimum performance, for one, with not much slack. Unlike the muscles, it does not have access to a local emergency supply of energy. Cut off its food supply for just a little too long and brain cells will start dying.
Her throat felt a little too dry as she cleared it. She forced herself to breathe methodically and closed her eyes.
She'd had a dozen close calls before, what was one more?
Hermione didn't know how long she tried to calm herself—it could have been a minute; it could have been five. What she knew was that she looked up when she heard the whoosh of air that signalled the door swinging open. The elegant tailored suit and robes of the Hogwarts uniform was familiar.
"Tom!" His presence was a surprise. She had expected the second person behind him, surreptitiously checking the corridors before he entered and closed the door, even less. "Pendleton?"
"Nurse Edelstein had talked to the healer here and assured me that you would recover." Tom said. "The nervous air she has assuaged me even less and I've decided to see for myself to make sure."
He stopped at her bedside. His voice was perfectly modulated, politeness the exact level one could expect from a classmate. However, she did not miss the way his gaze quickly took in her appearance from the tips of her fingers, the errant curls of her hair and how she was still leaning back against her pillows.
"Hello, Curie. It's good to see you well." Pendleton greeted quietly. She gave him a tired smile.
"I expect that we'd only have ten minutes of free time before the duty nurse realises that you're awake and arrives here. After that, I suppose everyone else would descend here." Tom said.
His words prompted her to start moving.
"Does anyone have spare scrolls?"
To his credit, Pendleton searched into his sleeves the moment she asked that and unstuck a spare scroll to hand it to her. No questions asked. One murmured thanks later, she had copied the contents of her medical charts to the scroll before she rolled it up and cast an anti-creasing charm. She slipped it into her left sleeve and stuck it there.
"Are you well enough to leave?" Tom asked.
"Well enough to travel and only a bit faint besides. Any further recovery I need could be easily gotten from the Hogwarts infirmary." Hermione replied. She took the arm Tom offered to help pull herself up, nor did she hesitate placing most of her weight against him as she slid out of the bed. He was more than capable to hold her up, as her experience going on a tour of Hogwarts with him when only mostly-recovered had demonstrated.
"I'd better find Professor Dexter and say that you're on your way back to Hogwarts, then," Pendleton spoke up again. That confused her slightly.
"Professor Dexter?"
"How did you think we found our way here?" Tom asked dryly. "All we had to do was to follow the trail of shell-shocked staff he'd verbally shredded before."
It was oddly comforting to hear that her Head of House was outraged at her questionable removal from Hogwarts.
"All we needed to do was to wait until everyone left your unconscious self here. I checked back every so often," Pendleton clarified.
"Checked back?"
"It would be too suspicious to loiter in the hallways." The blond wizard confirmed.
"Right. Let's get moving, boys."
Pendleton stood straight and nodded firmly, as if she'd given him a direct order. Hermione watch with mild surprise as he set off first ahead of them. He was…huh, was he clearing the way? The easy way that he and Tom coordinated with each other was giving her pangs of déjà vu to her Auror friends. For a second, they could've been Harry and Draco, due to the hair colours. Perhaps they were in the occasional investigation that was politically sensitive—hence why Draco was roped into it as well.
A blink and she was somewhere else.
"You should stop being so careless." She chided, pulling the eyepatch back into place after she'd checked the bruising right below it.
Harry snorted. "You know that we're still going to be fearless idiots as long as we know that you have our backs, don't you?"
"Speak for yourself, Potter."
"Says the guy who took that slashing curse for Hermione," was Harry's dry remark. Draco's sarcastic denials might have fooled someone else, but his pale colouring didn't do him any favours—there was colour high on his cheeks. Hermione laughed as they walked again. Two of them walked with a slight limp.
"I haven't thanked you for that, have I? So yes, thanks."
Tom noticed her slight shiver.
"Are you truly better?"
"It's nothing. It's—" the words caught in her throat as she turned her head slightly, focusing on his side profile. "Memories. Sometimes I want them all back. At other times I just…"
…wish they would leave me alone.
"How is everybody, by the way?" She quickly asked. "I lost track of time a bit. I thought Lakshmi would've sneaked in if she heard what happened."
Tom didn't comment on her deflection.
"I did promise your housemates with more news as soon as you get better."
She eyed him sideways. "Based on the fact that they're not here, you haven't told them, have you?"
"I have. I merely said that it was better for them to wait for you to wake up." He replied, completely guiltless.
"Well, I'm awake now." 'And you haven't informed them' was what she'd left unsaid.
"Yes. And you'd rather see them in the Hogwarts infirmary than St. Mungo's, don't you? I'm sure their preferences matched yours in this case and they would appreciate my efforts to assist your return." Tom said, in the self-satisfied tones of someone who knew he was doing someone else a favour. She sighed. Well, he wasn't exactly wrong…
"Not that I'm not glad to see you, I'd half expected that you'd be here with Abraxas or Melchior."
"Well, Abraxas was a little busy," there was dark amusement whose source she couldn't exactly divine. "As for Melchior…"
"Yes?"
"He's indisposed this afternoon."
'-
Once Orpheus saw that Hermione was in the hands of experienced nurses and healers who assured him that now she only needed time to recover, he'd marched straight back to the DMLE. Albus matched the speed easily and he couldn't blame the other teacher either. He could feel the prickle of static at the edge of his fingers, his magic tumultuous and rushing close to the surface.
"You brought one of my children into contact with a Dementor!" Orpheus Dexter snapped.
The Auror he was glaring down at had started to open his mouth.
"It was for safety—"
"Oh, and an Auror in the middle of the DMLE is under such dangerous threat from a school girl, so much that a Dementor is necessary?" Albus' voice was calmer, practically the voice of reason when compared to Orpheus, but it was hard to miss his ironic tone.
"She needs to know the fullest extent of the law—"
"Bull. Shit."
He was slightly impressed that Orpheus had gotten around to cursing—it was a reflex most teachers had buried deep since they were around impressionable minds most of the time.
Dumbledore slowly took a few steps forward, ignoring the stuttered step back that the younger wizard took by reflex. He stopped trying to hold back the raw magic coursing just under his skin, which meant that he now had a nimbus of power that was plainly…uncomfortable for people he did not felt friendly to. That Fawkes was his familiar had given it a fiery edge to the senses of most people.
"Were you going for a Kiss?"
Blakeshaw's eyes were wide, beads of sweat starting to dot his temples. "No! Of course not!"
Eye contact was made. Dumbledore stepped into the man's mind without much guilt. The first room was almost a copy of the DMLE's lobby, but he sliced his way out of that reality with ease with phoenix fire. Memories were rifled through.
"He's telling the truth." His voice hadn't lost its hard edge.
"It doesn't mean he hasn't harmed her already." Dexter stepped up next to him, their shoulders almost touching. He did not seem to be bothered by Dumbledore's aura.
"Oh, I quite agree." Albus nodded and turned to his colleague. "I think he's done enough, don't you think?"
It was the first time he saw Orpheus' pale blue eyes truly look like chips of ice, colder than the poles of Neptune. His voice was soft when he spoke up and yet it was just as frigid.
"I think we should make sure that he can never do so again."
'-
The sky was a pale grey. Even if the sun occasionally shone from behind the smooth sheet of cloud, its heat was barely more than even a rudimentary warming charm. It was normal autumn weather by all counts.
Not that he needed to mind the occasional cold wind when he could still feel licking heat from time to time, courtesy of a vexed Dumbledore.
Orpheus hadn't expected Albus to look as if he'd aged by at least a decade once they left the Auror Corps for the second time that day. The other wizard was so pale that he couldn't help but guide him gently by the elbow to Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. From their visit to St. Mungo's, it was clear that Hermione was under excellent care. The nurse assured him that her condition was stable and improving and that there was nothing left that he could do for her but wait (he had to keep reminding himself of this since his reflex was to run straight back there). He asked for strongly-brewed tea for both of them after he saw that Albus had sat down.
"I can't believe him. I still…" Albus took his glasses off before rubbing his forehead.
"Didn't you say that you knew he was a prat even as a student?" The blond asked. He wasn't exactly deaf to the trailing sentences and mumbled curses his colleague said between the silences on their way there.
Albus glanced up and his eyes were startlingly clear.
"Yes, but I had expected him to be uptight or perhaps to be rigid in implementing the rules, not—not this!"
Their tea came—he cleared his throat and gave Albus a look to stop that intimidating aura he did. The other wizard complied with a surprised expression; he hadn't been aware. Orpheus thanked the waitress with a kind smile. He barely noticed the witch's blush before she walked away with her tray. He poured the tea for both of them and Albus thanked him absently.
"Why not?" He asked back.
"Excuse me?"
"Why wouldn't you have expected such shenanigans from someone of his station?"
"Because he's an Auror; he's a representative of the law which he has sworn to uphold. Because Hermione is a minor for whom you stand for as a parent! Because—because if you were a decent human being, then you're aware that going after children instead of trying to untangle the adults behind them is the acts of a—a schoolyard bully! No, he is even worse since he held more power. He is a blackguard."
"Now, now, don't hold back your feelings. Tell me what you really feel." Orpheus said dryly, though he was mildly amused that Albus still managed to avoid cursing the blasted Auror.
That earned him a short chuckle from his fellow teacher.
"Well, between the two of us, his career is not going to survive,"
"Career? What career?" Orpheus asked back blandly.
"And yet he must have seen that happening. He could not have thought that we take our responsibilities so flippantly, so shallowly. Why would he even…"
Their gaze met again.
"Why would he try to destroy an innocent?" He could still hear the grief hidden behind his public composure.
Albus was so full of sentiment, so true to his ideals in his disquiet, that for once Orpheus could understand all those people who kept trying to persuade his friend to enter either the Wizengamot or the Parliament of the International Confederation of Wizards. Albus was as magnetic as he was powerful and he could not look away.
He was the first to look down, to watch the occasional leaf spin in his tea.
"Albus, your family might not be part of the Sacred 28, but it's a sight older than three-quarters of the family in it. Like the Blacks, you can scoff them for acting as if their Norman values are the most venerable one that exists and they still wouldn't be able to counter that successfully." He sipped his tea. "I'm sure everyone is aware of that, all the way to the Ministry and the Auror Corps."
"What are you saying?"
Orpheus raised his head once more but said nothing for a few moments, considering what to say—what he dared to say. Family history was a private thing for most wizards and witches, especially when they weren't particularly old or from the Sacred 28.
"My family aren't like the Alhazen, who'd been developing and augmenting their telescopes from a millennium ago that they can see farther into the depths of the universe than anyone else—"
He ignored Albus' scoff of 'no one is a better astronomer than them'.
"—farther than even the muggles. The occasional Dexter that became astronomers had only started to make a name for themselves when we started tweaking with Cassegrain's telescope design."
Only then he could bring himself to meet Albus' gaze. His friend waited patiently, his eyes solemn and without any judgement in them. He'd never thought Albus to be closeminded, but still, you never know.
"Orpheus?"
"Don't you see?"
A slight embarrassed smile followed, his expression almost boyish. "I'm afraid astronomy is not my forte."
It was his turn to be embarrassed then as he cleared his throat. He could even feel his face heating up slightly, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just too used to… well, Cassegrain's telescope design is rather elegant, and in my opinion, an improvement over Newton's, but yes, let us skip the details."
He took a deep breath. "Don't you see it? Laurent Cassegrain is a muggle, Albus. The first Dexters who became astronomers in their own right only did so some two centuries ago, and we only managed that by relying on the works of a muggle priest!"
Albus shook his head. There were still creases on his brow as he hadn't stopped thinking.
"I fail to see what the problem is. He must have been an intelligent man to have managed such an invention, and one that your family found very useful for a long time yet."
He couldn't help the relieved laughter from breaking out, and it bloomed for yet a little longer when Albus' baffled expression met his. For the first time of the day, he actually felt warm.
"Merlin. Albus…oh, Albus." Orpheus couldn't help the fondness in his voice as he shook his head. "You truly don't see it, don't you?"
Cornflower blue eyes blinked. He looked away before he was caught staring for too long.
"See what?" Albus asked.
"Many pureblood astronomers from more esteemed lineages have never let any astronomer from my family to forget that we have to get help from a muggle to get our start. I have the correspondences of the older generations with my grand-aunt and other older relatives to prove it."
He took a deep breath even as he tapped his wand at Albus' teacup to warm it again.
"My family is still a reasonably pureblooded one, and that's what we have to face. How exactly do you think the wizarding world would treat a young witch, no matter how talented, from a muggleborn family when she's under suspicion of attacks?"
Orpheus had to look away. He knew that Albus needed to hear it, to know how different life could be when one did not have such august provenance backing them. Yet he wasn't sure he could bear to look at perhaps the last of Dumbledore's innocence and trust in the wizarding world finally breaking.
'-
Tom still remembered waiting for a frustrated Dexter and a solemn Dumbledore to step out of the St. Mungo's room. He slipped in easily after they left. Pendleton stayed outside and pretended to be reading the newspaper in the nearest waiting area, while in reality he was keeping watch on the people coming and going. He was the most methodical of the Knights and he'd picked up more than a few skills from his Auror father who'd taught his heir his craft. He was the perfect man for the task.
The Slytherin prefect remembered seeing Hermione pale on the bed and unconscious. The feeding tube at the corner of her mouth made her condition seem even worse.
This was why he asked Pendleton to stay to keep watch as he returned back to Hogwarts to collect the rest of the Knights in one place.
This was why he carefully turned the cold shard of his anger inside with the ease of a sawbones about to slice someone's limbs off.
They were in one of the spare dungeon-level classrooms in Hogwarts that didn't even try to improve the moods of its occupants, the worn stone giving the impression that the place was too tired to bother looking marginally more habitable. There were no windows. Tom only lit several candles on the chandelier to get some light. The humidity seal in the room had clearly deteriorated in the past half century or so and no one had renewed it—every so often, Gallus would sneeze from what he presumed was the occasional mould spore floating in the air.
In short, it felt like an abandoned dungeon and he did nothing to improve their surroundings.
"Gentlemen, I'm sure you know why you're here. Pendleton has given you the basics of what had happened this morning that ended up with Hermione Curie hospitalised in St. Mungo's."
To Abraxas' left and right, Mulciber and Parkinson had a blankness to their faces that showed they only had the vaguest inklings even now. At least they had enough awareness to know that thinking wasn't their forte. They were there to show up, wait and simply do what they were told. The careless Tybalt Yaxley seemed quizzical but wasn't the slightest bit concerned.
Melchior, on the other hand paled. It did not stop him from stepping forward from the line.
"Yes, Melchior?"
"I continued with my…task after this morning's unpleasant interruption. I don't have a particular name behind the slanderous articles recently posted on the Daily Prophet—the Nott family men are still watching Diagon Alley for further developments." He began.
Tybalt was clearly more than a little out of the loop as he surreptitiously whispered to Gallus. Probably trying to determine about which Daily Prophet article they were talking about—at least until Vespasian elbowed him. Tybalt hissed in pain and elbowed him back.
Tom ignored the byplay.
"And?" He prompted Melchior
"I can already narrow down the field. The restaurants and venues the men followed to are not mediocre or easily accessible. They're rather selective, actually. These places are where the reporters are treated to dine."
"Some pureblood paid for that hit piece, then," Ves carelessly commented.
"What do you mean by hit piece?"
Rufus Carrow spoke up with a furrowed brow, rounding the shorter curly-haired Slytherin who was currently (and unusually) without his hat. Tom took a step back, an implicit signal that he was allowing the discussion. Vespasian was not the slightest bit intimidated by his broad-chested Housemate.
"Oh, you know, the one tryin' to blame the Hogsmeade attack on squibs and muggles, of all people, instead of the dark lord currently at war with Britain." Ves might be slouching with his hands in his pockets, but anyone who thought he was unprepared was in for a surprise.
"That's just harmless speculation," Rufus commented.
"Don't be a simkin, Rufus. Ain't so harmless anymore if Hermione got hobbled, is it?"
A silent beat, their eyes never leaving each other. Carrow spoke up again.
"It's Hermione, is it?"
"Course it is. Milord says it is, I bow and follow. Sides, she's a rum mort worth three of ye. 'Tis an improvement to the company, I say." Not everyone might be used to Vespasian's argot, but there was no mistaking what his idle act of pretending to buff his nails on his coat meant, or how he didn't even spare Rufus a glance.
Rufus Carrow vividly coloured. Ves grinned as he looked up. Even with his curls, his expression was less cherubic and closer to Puck toying with humans.
"What about you, Robbe? Not opening your gob too? How were your tools? As bruised as your ego after her beating?" His side-glance was mocking.
It was interesting to see Robbe Rowle paling as he saw Tom's attention drift in his direction.
"What was that about, Robbe?" Tom asked.
He lowered his head quickly.
"A mistake, my lord. I learned my lesson."
"She taught him a lesson. Of course, he did." Gallus muttered sarcastically. Considering the clear regret that Robbe was displaying, he was sure that Hermione had it in hand. Tom only stepped passed him without stopping.
"I'll drop my inquiry just this once, Robbe, because I know you're not the sharpest tool in the box. You get one pass to blunder."
There were a few held-back snort or expressions of humour, the most obvious coming from Abraxas.
"You're not going to get a second chance, so please don't be stupid. I do so hate stupid people." He stated, emotionless.
"Thank you, my lord."
Tom waved it away carelessly without looking, his attention turned to Rufus Carrow now. He did not miss how Tybalt had taken a step away from Rufus by reflex.
"Do you have anything you wish to say to me, Rufus?"
"About Curie…"
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Aren't you making a mistake?" Rufus said.
Tom smiled, approaching Rufus Carrow with a pleasant expression. Gallus was already nowhere nearby at this point; his keen instincts had removed him from a potential confrontation even as Tybalt backpedalled from his friend. The already-chastised Robbe took one large step away from Rufus' other side.
"Before I even consider that, let me ask you another question in return. Are you challenging my judgment, Rufus?" His tone was smooth and unhurried.
The Slytherin stood mostly alone now, the other Knights had already fallen back from him. Tom stared him down.
Rufus glanced away first.
"I…I have no more questions, my lord."
"Very well. For those of you who somehow still failed to keep up with the news, Hermione Curie is mine. There are no exceptions. Adjust yourself accordingly." Tom pretended he didn't see Robbe doing his best to blend into the background. Hmm, what idiocy could he have done? He was curious. Vespasian Starkey nodded with the zeal of a convert while Gallus was matter-of-fact about it.
Tybalt actually looked confused, his eyes darting sideways every once in a while, trying to read his peers for cues. Add his long and pointed face to his behaviour, and he was not unlike to a human-shaped weasel. Tom sighed inwardly; there was laying low and there's being so out of touch as to missing relevant intelligence altogether. He'd have to fix that bad habit of Tybalt's—later, he thought.
There were more important things to deal with.
"So, where were we before the unexpected interruption? Ah, yes, Melchior. Your report."
The Nott heir closed his eyes and Tom could see him steeling himself before he taking a step forward once more. Gone was the warm and pleasant expression that had softened many a witch's heart when they gazed upon him. In its place was unusual gravity—unusual, that is, unless you were one of the Knights of Walpurgis. Most of them had seen his sober expression often.
"Do you disagree with Vespasian's summary about the Daily Prophet articles?" Tom asked.
"No, my lord, I don't. The perpetrators are probably pureblood." He paused, the next words seemed to be stuck in his throat.
"And?" He prompted.
Melchior sighed, looking down. A wayward curl fell over his forehead. "And whoever brought the outlandish tale to bring Hermione to that questionable Auror's attention is definitely pureblood. Pendleton had informed me enough of Blakeshaw's paranoid tendencies against everyone not of the oldest lines."
"Are the events related, then?"
His shoulders slumped even further and he said nothing even as he clenched his jaws. Abraxas Malfoy stepped forward from Melchior's right.
"If I may add to Melchior's words?"
"Go on, Abraxas."
"I suppose it's possible that there's actually two parties with distinctly anti-muggleborn prejudice somehow deciding to move at the same time and to both of their advantage. Yet I think it's more likely that this is the result of one faction—whoever they are. Melchior would not say this much because he thinks this is merely speculation without enough proof."
Abraxas shrugged. "I think it's an educated guess—and a valid result besides."
Tom saw Rufus opening his mouth at the corner of his sight. He turned immediately, catching the Carrow heir off-balance.
"Yes, Rufus?"
Dark blue eyes gleamed with anticipated jollity. Those present knew that any jollies to be had was in the form of Tom refining several versions of his custom modified Cruciatus. Tom hid his amusement at the twitch of Gallus' right hand. The poor wizard must've still remembered sensation on said hand from the last time Tom tried the one-thousand-needles-slowly-heated-up-to-glowing for his last major failure.
"I…I just don't understand, my lord. If they were purebloods, why would we be against them?"
Tom smiled. More than one Slytherin felt the hairs at the back of their necks stand. "Ah, you've got it the wrong way around, Rufus."
"My lord?"
He took a step to the side, towards the perplexed wizard.
"Why are they putting themselves against me?" His voice was soft. Reasonable. A charismatic politician drawing his audience in on the wizarding wireless.
"They might not be—"
"No one takes from me and gets away with it." Tom cut in.
"They don't know who you are," Rufus said quickly. "I'm not saying this to excuse them, but as something to fix—as something we can fix. We should make the announcement to Slytherin House now. Secrecy in Slytherin is not useful now."
Even if Tom had not his size and muscle, he'd taken an inadvertent step back.
"He has a point," Melchior said, missing Rufus' relieved sigh. "It's what I've come to conclude as well. Purebloods going against you, or someone associated with you even if loosely? Then, they must be unaware of just who you are. But consider who would easily pitch themselves in that position…"
Abraxas shook his head. "No one outside Hogwarts, certainly, since we're still low profile."
"True. Very low odds. I'm not done figuring things out yet, but I would guess that the perpetrator would be rooted in Hogwarts even if he or she had mobilised family resources outside." The Nott heir added.
Melchior's left hand was holding his right elbow, his chin tucked into his chest as he rubbed his face. He was lost in his thoughts as he continued speaking.
"It's ridiculous to think that Hufflepuff would go against you with muggleborn prejudice. They're the ones who cared about blood purity the least. Gryffindor has similarly low odds, unless one of them has a blood feud with another—something easily discounted in this case since neither you nor Hermione are publicly known to be part of any particular family's history. We're down to Ravenclaw and Slytherin, as usual."
"I can't believe it would be Slytherin," Rufus commented.
"Can't you?" It was Abraxas who asked back.
"Look, we all know who the Heir of Slytherin is."
"Then you're not looking carefully enough." Melchior snapped. It surprised more than one wizard present. "Do you see any seventh-years here? Sixth-years?"
He took a measured breath before facing Tom once again. His bronze-hued skin was still paler than usual.
"We should have clarified things with them faster. If we did, this misunderstanding wouldn't happen."
"Or, you might be wrong and it was someone from Ravenclaw after all. There are old families there too." Abraxas calmly countered his friend, softening his criticism to himself.
Melchior shook his head, an errant curl falling in front of his face.
"That still has lower odds than someone from Slytherin."
"A miscalculation on a strategic level like this is hardly your responsibility, Melchior," Tom's words were unexpectedly generous, easily relieving him of any responsibility. He might be a demanding taskmaster, but he also knew the limits of his people. He was the one who provided them with a grand vision and direction; the rest of them followed him.
"I appreciate that, my lord, but the speed of my investigations into the Prophet articles is still within my responsibility. That I haven't have an answer yet is my fault."
Melchior was certainly ambitious as there were not many families who had a network that could dig into this matter faster than his. That the Nott heir was forthright about owning up to what he saw as his flaws was something that Tom considered as the successful result of his conditioning.
What surprised him, however, was the occasional expression of guilt.
He let the silence stretch for a little bit more, to hang between them like bated breath.
"You blame yourself for Hermione's misfortune," Tom said suddenly, his own realisation as fresh as his words. It dawned as unexpectedly as a brightly warm winter morning.
The emotion was unforeseen and was one he'd scarcely seen in his men unprompted. If he was naïve, he might have mistakenly thought that Hermione being a damsel-in-distress brought out Melchior's protective side, but it couldn't be that. She was the farthest thing from helpless.
"Of course, I do. Ves blamed me enough already." Melchior said.
The aforementioned wizard sheepishly scratched his curls.
"I was stretchin' it, Melchy. 'Tis simply a queered-up business, that's what. Poor Hermy. I would've hectored anyone being the setter all the same."
Tom blinked. Tybalt didn't hide his expression of incomprehension as he furtively nudged Gallus, probably asking for a translation while Rufus merely looked cross and proceeded to glare at Ves. Even in their third year, there was at least one exasperated person per day who yelled at Vespasian to 'speak like a normal person', especially if Pendleton wasn't around to give hints. Tom took it as a matter of personal pride that he never did, even if at times it took him a few seconds to process.
That Melchior's acceptance of responsibility included punishment was a matter of course.
"Melchior, kneel."
Even as his hands curled into fists, Melchior obeyed without a doubt and he watched it with not a small amount of satisfaction. This was something he'd trained into them too.
What should it be, now? Tom mused.
Most people's Cruciatus was the equivalent of a stomach-ache or at worst a couple of punches. Tom took it as a point of pride that he could wish people pain with a cold-blooded callousness that they'd lose consciousness within two or three minutes.
Hence his pastime of making slight and yet varied modifications to the Cruciatus to be more local and more specific. The point of it all was pain, was it not? What use would it be if people pass out too fast, then? Or battered with pain of such extreme intensity that their brains had no basis of comparison to comprehend it? It would strain their mind for some time, even beginning before they hit unconsciousness. As a result, the memory of the torture ended up being hazy or incorrectly remembered. He'd know—he'd carelessly tried it out around third year and saw how dazed the recipients were about their memories (some atavistic reminder somehow stayed in the form of screaming nightmares for weeks, but that was all. Boring).
Pain that is not scarred indelibly into memory would fail to function as a reminder and a warning.
A pure Cruciatus might be the preferred spell of the average sadistic Slytherin. With his exceptional talent for torture, it was useless to him for most purposes since his Cruciatus was overpowered.
Ah, I know. Let's start with fire. A minute would do.
Tom laid his hand on Melchior's shoulder and focused on the pain of being burnt alive. The Hogwarts' mice population had fallen when Tom went looking for test animals, just to make sure he could copy the sensation well. Half of the animals were actually burnt alive; the other half was only inflicted with that particular modified Cruciatus. Without a control group, how would he be able to compare how accurately his spell mimicked the actual pain otherwise?
Melchior screamed.
'-
.
.
.
End Notes:
In Dumbledore sort-of figures out that being class-blind or colour-blind* is not an advantage.
*colour-blind in the figurative sense, not in the way that your colour-receiving cells inside your eyeballs have a more limited range than most humans.
List of Stuff One Might Try to Look Up:
Alhazen: Latinised name of Hasan Ibn al-Haytham (c. 965 – c. 1040), a mathematician, astronomer and physicist of the Islamic Golden Age. Born during the time of the Fatimid dynasty, he made substantial contributions in the field of the principles of optics and visual perception, among others. His most influential work is Kitāb al-Manāẓir (كتاب المناظر, "Book of Optics"), written during 1011–1021, which survived in the Latin edition. (All details courtesy of Wikipedia).
I thought I'd just make him a patriarch of his own wizarding family. The current Alhazen family is still based in Egypt, even as some of their members live in other locations and continents.
Cassegrain, Laurent: (ca. 1629 – September 1, 1693) a Catholic priest who is notable as the probable inventor of the Cassegrain reflector, a folded two-mirror reflecting telescope design. Details courtesy of Wikipedia.
'-