-Of Teachers and Elders-

"A teacher who is attempting to teach without inspiring the pupil to learn is hammering on cold iron." –Horace Mann

Thin, gnarled fingers drummed importantly against the cool marble of a stone armrest. Clutched loosely in his left hand was an ebony staff made of smooth, shiny wood. On top in ominous silver, reared the head of an Eastern Diamondback Rattlesnake, mouth open as if to strike. In the darkness the demon's two red eyes glimmered like twin beacons, beckoning closer the creature at his feet. There knelt a broad-shouldered demon clad in a long, gray trench coat. The subordinate wore thick, black hunting boots that reached about half a foot higher than his ankles. Head bent, the servant's long, loose, straggly hair fell over his face.

Abruptly, the demon-lord stilled his fingers, relishing the sudden silence that swallowed the echoing cavern. "I want those powers," he hissed, watching the demon at his feet shift with nearly imperceptible discomfort. Curling his lip, his mouth split into a feral grin. He had control over this demon—power. But this wasn't enough. No, he wanted more; he needed more. "He cannot come into his powers." Leaning forward in his self-proclaimed throne, he crooned, "Do you understand me?"

In a gruff, throaty voice the demon responded, "Yes, milord. I won't fail you."

Satisfied, he sat back. Bringing his staff between his legs, he wrapped his right hand just below his left. In the dim light, the sculpture's eyes glowed scarlet. "If you do, the Charmed Ones will be the least of your worries."

As the demon rose, head still lowered in respect, his master ordered, "For now bide your time. Stay away from them until I give you further instruction. Get yourself more powers—I don't care how—so that you are ready when I next call for you."

Once again the demon replied with, "Yes, milord."

"Excellent. And, Agramon…" Surprised at the use of his name, the demon glanced up, meeting a pair of cold, crimson eyes. "Do. Not. Fail."

With a solemn nod, Agramon swore, "I won't, my liege."

(Tuesday, October 1, 2019)

"…wasn't actually a railroad, nor was it underground," Marcy Gowell droned on, absentmindedly tapping a piece of chalk against the palm of her left hand as she paced back and forth across the front of the classroom. "So why, then, was it entitled in that way?"

She glanced at the rows of students slumped in their chairs, eyes glazed over in boredom, idle fingers twirling pens. Two rows back a tall brunette named Mackenzie scribbled furiously in magenta ink. If she didn't already know that the teen was just responding to a note her best friend had passed, Marcy might have taken pleasure from the sight. Most of the students half-heartedly jotted down a few words of notes, probably not even enough to fill more than a line or two of paper if condensed. In the fourth row, second desk from the window that led to freedom, Duncan Alemy watched his teacher with deep interest. His long, blond hair fell wildly to his shoulders. When he spoke, not a common occurrence by any means, he had a habit of flipping his locks backwards with his hand. To his classmates he was known for his love of history; unfortunately, his quiet, almost shy demeanor prevented him from raising his hand to answer the question posed.

Marcy knew better than to call on him or ask him to share his opinion. From previous experience she knew he would merely watch her in curious silence with an unnerving stare until, feeling decidedly awkward, she called on someone else instead.

Marcy Gowell had always been fond of the subject she now attempted to teach these stubborn teenagers—the bane of her existence on most days and yet still the motivation that dragged her out of bed each morning. While she was not perhaps young, she had yet to find Mr. Right. For the time being she had to make do with living with a spoiled, black and gray speckled tabby named Paka. Most mornings all she had were students and their note-passing, spacing-out tendencies. How appealing.

From the first time she recognized her love for history, she knew she wanted to teach; but sometimes – like now, the silence broken only by the buzz of whispers – she wished she had listened to her mother and found a higher-paying occupation. With these kids looking as bored as death, it didn't seem as if she could drastically impact their lives any time soon.

Looking around the classroom, her eyes rested on one brunette in the corner of the room. Glimmering eyes stared at the blackboard behind the teacher, the owner of the orbs clearly off floating in his own little world. His fingers drummed absently against faded, jean pants. His shirt read the name of a band unknown to his teacher. The boy had a talent for finding ways to infuriate those who taught his classes, Marcy being no exception to that rule. Just before she could completely lose her temper, however, he would back down or else say something to force out of her a reluctant chuckle. Somehow, he slipped out of getting a detention slip more times than not, a miracle according to anyone.

"Chris?" Marcy called out. The fifteen-year-old didn't answer, didn't even appear to have heard his teacher call his name. Louder, she repeated, "Chris."

Eyes snapping up, the brunette grinned at Marcy sheepishly from behind curtain-like bangs. Clearly, he had no trouble laughing at himself either. "Huh?"

"The Underground Railroad," she reminded him impatiently.

"What about it, Ms. Gowell?" Chris asked innocently.

Arms folded over a blue, flowery blouse, Marcy clenched the chalk in her right fist and forced herself to keep her voice level. "I asked why people would give the Underground Railroad such a title when it clearly wasn't an underground railroad."

When he shrugged, she saw an impish glint in his eyes, giving her only a couple of seconds to regret calling on him. "Dunno," he replied, "maybe they were hoping that the slave-owners would think it was an underground railroad so that they'd waste their time digging underground for them while they freed all the slaves in the meantime." With a satisfied smirk, he leaned back in his chair, one hand tapping his pen against his desk. "After all," he concluded, "anybody who thinks people with different skin colors are less human can't be all that smart."

Chuckles spread through the students who had been paying attention (and by now most knew to tune in when Chris opened his mouth). Not amused in the slightest, Marcy glowered. She supposed she shouldn't be mad; after all, at least Chris proved he wasn't a racist.

"Mr. Halliwell," she began through a scowl and clenched teeth.

"Hm?"

"I know this may be difficult for you to grasp, but while you are in this class I expect you to at least attempt to learn something." At best she knew it was a feeble hope, that he would most likely ignore her speech as he had countless times before. Even so she would continue her endeavor to pound through his thick skull until she finally broke through… or until her hammer snapped, whichever came first. Otherwise what sort of teacher would she be? (A small part of her retorted, A sane one.)

Shrugging, Chris countered, "I've already learned something."

Marcy raised an expectant eyebrow and questioned him with a doubtful, "Oh?" that silently prodded for an elaboration.

"Yeah. I learned that the Underground Railroad wasn't, in fact, an underground railroad." When a couple of students in the back row snorted, an icy glare in their direction quickly silenced them.

"Chris," Marcy warned with a heavy sigh. As annoying as he could be at times, she was in no mood to dole out a detention today. Truth be told, she oft times found him fairly amusing—when he wasn't trying to make her look like an incompetent fool, of course. She didn't really want to have to send him off to yet another period of study hall, especially since this was the last period of the day. Spending after-school hours in the building was of no interest to anyone, least of all Chris. Of that Marcy was most definitely certain.

"All right, all right," he sighed with that cocky grin he always had plastered on his face. It was the smile of someone who knew he was witty and entertaining and knew others thought so, too. "I'm shutting up." Leaning back in his chair, he swiped his fingers over his lips as if to zip them together then flicked his wrist to throw away the proverbial key. Despite her impatience, Marcy gave a small, half-amused smile.

"What I'm sure Chris meant to say was that the Underground Railroad was given such a title to connote secrecy." Chris gave a vague half-smile and nod, eyes following Marcy's return to the blackboard. There she quickly scrawled out the name Harriet Tubman.

"Now," she continued, her back still turned, "Harriet Tubman was a 'conductor' for the Railroad. To many she was known as Black Moses." As she recommenced with the lesson, once again Chris Halliwell's mind wandered elsewhere.

In annoyance he rubbed a hand over his ears. "Stupid ringing," he muttered under his breath. For the past few minutes a sound like a persistent jackhammer on drugs pounded in his skull; he knew what had caused it…. or more accurately who. Why were the Elders summoning him—of all the people they could possibly want to see? And why did that have to call him now, when he had no way of inconspicuously slipping out to orb to them? In all of half an hour, school would end; and after that they could jingle at him to their heart's content. Now, instead, they forced him to hear the persistent buzzing and feel his migraine steadily grow, and there was nothing he could do to stop it—

"Mr. Halliwell." Whoops. "It hasn't been even five minutes. I trust you have no problems with your memory?"

"No," Chris muttered, more to himself than to her, "just with a headache."

If he thought she would buy that, he was sorely mistaken. Truth be told, he didn't really expect much on her part. He simply stated it for the reason he spoke the truth every other time (that it was magically safe to do so, anyway): to see how outrageous of a reaction he could elicit from his teachers.

"Oh, I'm giving you a headache, am I?" Marcy asked with forced calm as she tried to keep her temper reigned in. Her sympathy for him fast slipped away, giving way to impatience and annoyance.

The joys of teaching, she thought to herself dryly. Why had she willingly accepted to make this sort of ordeal a full-time addition to her life?

With an expression of mild surprise, Chris blinked innocently at his teacher. "No. Who wouldn't find the Underground Railroad anything but fascinating?" Said in such seriousness, the words sounded as if he spoke them with great conviction… until a grin split the teen's face once he finished speaking. Quickly, he explained, "I've just got some stupid buzzing in my ears." Man, he was so screwed right now.

Ms. Gowell frowned. "Do you need to see the nurse?"

"Um…" Seeming to weigh his options, Chris hesitated. "Sure, okay. Thanks." Assuming he'd have time to come back later, he left his bag in its position on the floor beside his desk. As he slipped out of the room, the door banged shut behind him. He heard Ms. Gowell resume her lecture, probably relieved to finally have him out of her classroom. Instead of turning left to the nurse's office, however, he headed in the opposite direction, toward the bathroom, entering one of the stalls. Motrin would do little to quell this headache; for this only one solution would work. Ascertaining that he was indeed alone in the bathroom, he orbed to the top of the Golden Gate Bridge. Below him cars passed, waves of water crashed loudly over one another. Up here, however, Chris heard nothing but the whoosh of the wind in his ears. In the place his father had long ago revealed to him as an excellent location for privacy, he glared up at a cloudless sky without bothering to hide his consternation.

"What do you want?" he snarled, not at all in the mood to act polite to the self-absorbed jerks who had aggravated and intensified his headache. "I know you've been calling me, so why don't you just orb down here and tell me why already? Or is that not allowed?" he taunted.

As a chilly breeze gently ruffled the boy's hair, the silence echoed almost palpably. With each second that ticked by on his digital watch, Chris grew more and more nervous that someone – namely Ms. Gowell – might notice his absence. Finally, his eyes began to follow an orb pattern through the air, hardening once the magic dissipated to reveal its owner. A blond Elder, who looked suspiciously like somebody's grandmother, decided to grace Chris with her honorable presence. White robes billowed lightly in the breeze; warm, blue eyes crinkled into a smile. Blond locks cropped short, they were tucked neatly behind both ears.

"It's about time," the teen grumbled. "I was beginning to think you stood me up." Unfortunately, Elders weren't known for their sense of humor; this Elder certainly fit the stereotype to the T. Clearly not realizing the concept of joking, she frowned in bemusement.

Letting an exasperated sigh hiss through clenched teeth, he muttered, "Never mind. Listen, why have you guys been calling me? I've got school now, and as much as I'd like to be free of that, people might notice if I suddenly drop off the face of the earth." Again, perfectly good sarcasm was wasted on one who didn't comprehend or, if she did, pretended otherwise.

Bluntly, she informed him, "We would like to assign you a charge."

Silence ensued for a moment or two. "You're joking, right?" Chris practically choked out before remembering that this Elder apparently couldn't even understand the concept of a joke let alone generate one of her own. Briefly forgetting that he was pressed for time, he stared blankly for a moment, mouth agape. Finally, when the news settled into his consciousness, he exploded, "Are you out of your mind? I'm fifteen; I can't be a whitelighter!"

"Being a whitelighter does not depend on your age; it is in your blood," she replied sagely, and Chris wondered if she had spent her life before Elder-hood writing dinky axioms buried within Chinese fortune cookies.

"So what? That doesn't mean I'll have the faintest idea what to do," he cried, throwing his arms heavenward and turning away from the Elder. Disgust evident in his expression, he forced himself to calm down. Up so high, losing control of his emotions – and indirectly his powers – could prove fatal. Yes, it would be a decidedly bad idea. Once he successfully shoved all indignant anger to the back of his mind, he locked it up tightly behind a steel wall and only then deemed it safe to return to the conversation. He found the Elder waiting as patiently as ever, which served only to fuel his vexation.

No malice filtered through his next words, only a deep sense of refusal to accept the proffered assignment. "Why can't you just give the charge to someone else?" No witch or future whitelighter would take him seriously anyway, not the sarcastic, outwardly-rebellious teenager that everyone knew as Chris Halliwell. No way, no how.

"He is a nine-year-old boy, a potential Whitelighter," she said evenly, ignoring the youth's outburst. Chris waited; he had a feeling there was a bit more to it than that.

"His mother is abusive."

Involuntarily, Chris flinched backwards, not the smartest of actions when standing atop a pillar of a very large, very tall bridge such as this one. Steadying himself against a pillar, he thought about the information that the Elder had presented. Often, he and his siblings joked about their mother possessing abusive tendencies what with her magical ability to cause objects to instantaneously combust. Suddenly, it didn't sound so funny anymore.

"We thought it best not to send a full whitelighter to him because he finds it difficult—if possible at all—to trust adults," the Elder continued to explain, her voice level and calm. "Even if he did eventually come to trust a full whitelighter, it would take entirely too long, eat up precious time when he so desperately needs help in the immediate future. He needs someone to confide in, someone whom he can trust."

Sighing, Chris tried to argue half-heartedly, though he already knew he would end up accepting the charge. With a story like that, how could he refuse? "If you want a half-whitelighter to do it, why can't you ask Wyatt? He's older," the teen pointed out sullenly.

By the way the Elder smiled at his question, it seemed as though she had a sense of humor after all, though Chris hadn't the faintest idea what she found so amusing about his inquiry. "We believe you would be best as his whitelighter," she answered enigmatically. When he didn't argue, she added, "His name is Jake," as if such a statement finalized the decision better than any contract ever could.

"All right, fine," Chris grumbled resentfully. "I'll do it. Can I get back to my class now, please—without any more interference from you guys?"

With a quick, benevolent nod, the Elder orbed back Up There, leaving the newly-assigned whitelighter alone with his thoughts. A weighty sigh slipped past his lips. One hand ran through his wind-blown hair, a habit that presented itself whenever frustration got the better of him. How could he manage to keep some kid from falling off "the beaten path" when he was still just a child himself in many ways? And how would he get this cagey, abused little boy to trust him anyway?

What'll he be like? Chris pondered. With a past and present as Jake had, the boy had to be messed up. What if, thanks to the way his mother raised and treated him, he acted like a twitchy monster that Chris couldn't control? Was it even possible for a whitelighter to dislike his own charge? If that happened, would the kid get reassigned; or would Chris just have to deal with him anyway? Just because it wasn't the kid's fault how he had turned out didn't make his actions any less annoying.

He's a future whitelighter, Chris reminded himself, which means he's good… right? Or used to be anyway so there's still a chance to help him even if he is a brat.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Chris let out a string of curses. If he didn't know any better, he would claim the Elders desired nothing more than to sabotage his grades. Forget the witches-in-training and whitelighters-to-be; let's all go gang up on Chris! Brilliant, just brilliant. Exactly what he needed.

Paranoid much? a voice in his head smirked.

Pushing all thoughts aside, he slipped his consciousness into the school bathrooms, sensing for any occupants. With everyone bustling around in chaos, more than ready to escape the building after the bell had rung three minutes ago, most of the bathrooms were relatively empty. Finding one completely vacant, he vanished in a swirl of dancing lights.

Slipping calmly out of the stall, the teen headed toward his locker to collect what he needed for the night. In Ms. Gowell's classroom, his backpack squatted in disarray, forgotten and abandoned.

"Halliwell!" a boy called, jogging over from across the hall. A math text book balanced in one hand, he had his bag slung over his shoulder. Out of the entire grade, Keith Manning with his skin as dark as midnight was one of the few who never went through the torture of acne. Short-cropped, black locks curled tightly on his head, dark eyes lively with perpetual amusement.

"Hey, Manning," Chris mumbled, still preoccupied with his previous encounter. "What's up?"

"Um…" Keith started hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. "Ms. Gowell was sort of looking for you. She sent Elizabeth to see how you were doing at the nurse and to ask if you were coming back." Raising a mischievous eyebrow, he remarked, "She came back and told Ms. Gowell that you weren't there." As his eyes darkened in anger for his friend, he mused, "I think she sent her because she guessed that you were ditching class. You know Stevens; she's still as mature as an eight-year-old—just a spoiled tattletale." He winked at Chris, who rolled his eyes.

"Great," the newly-appointed whitelighter groaned, glancing up to glare at the ceiling. Irritated, he huffed, "You so owe me for this." Without a word of explanation, he stalked away, leaving Keith to wonder at the recipient of his companion's frustration.

When Chris entered Ms. Gowell's classroom, his eyes immediately noted the differences. Without many boisterous teenagers crowded into the room, it looked much larger than he originally thought. Beside his desk, his knapsack had been overturned—most likely in the rush to freedom after the bell. Ms. Gowell sat behind her desk, working. At length, she looked up from the paper she had nearly finished grading and waved her hand towards a chair. "Sit," she said in a surprisingly calm voice. More than yelling could, this odd display disturbed the teen, set him on edge. As a rule, the more competent demons seemed more capable of controlling their emotions; therefore, his wariness extended to all forms of life that possessed the skill.

Politely but stoically, Chris declined, "I'd rather stand if you don't mind." As had become his nervous habit, he subconsciously drummed his fingers against the leg of his jeans. Marcy tried to ignore how he bounced up and down on his heels.

"Okay," she replied slowly. Clicking her pen and setting it down on the desk, she clasped her hands together before continuing in seriousness. "Care to tell me why you find my class so boring?"

Eyes never moving, Chris stared at her in that unnerving way he had. Realizing how blatantly his nerves showed, the teen stopped bouncing and forced his hand to lay still at his side. Just as with demons, he would not let himself show weakness. "It's not that," he protested, "it's just… complicated."

Right. Like she hadn't heard the "complicated" excuse from every other student she encountered. All teenagers thought their lives were complicated; it was a fact of life that they did not believe that anyone else in the world could ever possibly have a dilemma even remotely similar to their own. For the rest of their lives, they were doomed to remain misunderstood and trodden upon… or at least until they grew out of that inevitable stage of paranoia.

"I know a little something about complicated," Ms. Gowell countered, eyeing her student. "Try me."

Slowly, Chris shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."

The significant difference perceived between this Chris and the overconfident version of him Ms. Gowell put up with during class every day startled her. Now he seemed more reserved somehow. Cautious… In a strange way almost vulnerable. If he had not lied about a headache just to cut her class, she may have even taken pity on the teen.

"Chris, if I knew you had a good reason…" Over steepled fingers, she stared at the tightened shoulders, the forced-stiff fingers, the lip captured between his teeth.

"I do," he insisted, eyes downcast. She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't speak again, nor did he raise his gaze.

"How's your headache?" she sighed at length, giving up and changing the subject.

"Fine," Chris mumbled, "I… took something for it." It's not a lie per se, he silently excused. To rid himself of the pounding, he had orbed to the Elders. As far as he was concerned, that was just as good as Advil.

"The nurse said you didn't come to see her."

If she expected him to fumble when caught in the lie, she was sorely dissatisfied. Far too practiced in the graceful art, Chris didn't look phased at getting caught out. "I know," he replied without hesitation, and explained, "I have Tylenol in my locker, so I took some of that and went to lie down in the cafeteria for some quiet." In his words he injected just enough boredom to make them sound honest. Despite this Ms. Gowell had her suspicions about the tale.

"Really?" Eyes narrowed, the teacher leaned forward slightly.

With an almost mocking smirk, Chris leaned back against a student's desk and tilted his head to one side. Again, since he really had no reason to lie, he decided not to: "No, not really," he admitted. Besides, now at least he could take great pleasure in the way Ms. Gowell's face turned a vivid array of colors: slightly pale and then pinkish to reddish back to that pasty-gray. Before she could open her mouth, he ruefully added, "But I can't tell you the real truth, so you might as well accept that one." Feeling calmer now, he commended himself with silent praise. When dealing with such a subject, humor was always the best path.

An awkward silence filled the room. Finally, Ms. Gowell cleared her throat and said, "I'm sorry, Chris; but unless you have a plausible explanation…" She let her sentence hang there for a moment, not meant as a threat but sounding suspiciously like one anyway.

"But it's a really good excuse. I just… can't… tell you what it is." He winced. Even to his own ears the explanation sounded pathetic. Still, though, he did not regret his decision. Let no one call Chris Halliwell a liar.

Shaking her head apologetically, she tore a pink sheet off of the pad on her desk. Signing it with a slow hand, she handed it over to her student. "I'm sorry, Chris."

Inwardly, Chris groaned: not today of all days; he had to meet his new charge today! But of course, he knew her could not tell that to his history teacher. Suppressing a sigh, he gave a doleful nod and accepted the proffered detention slip from her hand. Trudging over to his seat, where his possessions still lay strewn across the desk, he stuffed his notebook into his backpack. Without going back to grading papers, Ms. Gowell watched him zip each pocket with extra force, despite the indifferent expression adorning his face. With his expression a mask, this violent zipping was the only part of him that betrayed his true irritation—like a scowl painted in actions. Scrunching the pink slip in his left hand, crushing it, he slung his bag over his shoulder and left the room without a sound. Sighing, Marcy returned her attention to the papers in front of her.

Remember: reviews are golden. Such an easy way to give someone gold, isn't it?

(Sam, the title and the "like a scowl painted in actions" were both in your honor.)