Disclaimer: With humble gratitude to J. K. Rowling for allowing me to build castles in her sandbox once more,

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Twenty - Eight
Amos: Champion of the Downtrodden

Leave the grand gestures for the Wizengamot and the Minister’s senior staff; Amos Diggory preferred to deal face-to-face with the common folk. That’s where the true pulse of the world could be felt. He supposed that’s why he and Arthur Weasley had been friendly from the start. That and the fact that there weren’t too many other wizarding families in close proximity to Ottery St. Catchpole.

Usually the two of them shared a Portkey to the Ministry, but not today. On this brisk morn, Amos Flooed directly to the Three Broomsticks. A quick wave to Rosmerta behind the bar and he was taking the uphill trail at a good clip. This far north the air was like a sharp bite of ginger, the frosty grass crunching underfoot.

From the moment Amos was admitted through the iron gates, he heard the carefree laughter mixing with the early morning birdsong. Not that the two sounds were really that different at heart. Hogwarts was a changed place; there was no denying it. Gone was the persistent feeling of a penal colony. He shook his graying head at the memory of the grueling past year. The once proud institution had been overrun by despots intent on twisting the next generation into monsters just like themselves. Hogwarts had come too close to being transformed into nothing more than a reform school for magical delinquents, a place where high spirits called for draconian punishments.

Yet in a few short months, that feeling of utter wrongness had been replaced by optimism. It was more than the subtle modernizing that could be found in many of the rebuilt areas of the castle. It went beyond the newly installed flowerbeds which masked the war-torn areas of the expansive grounds.

Perhaps it was the teeming flocks of students whose voices rang down those ageless stone corridors. And it wasn’t just the addition of Muggleborns who’d been in hiding -- or worse -- these many months. Regardless of their ancestry, many wizarding families had sent their children to stay with relatives abroad, allowing them an unsanctioned ‘gap year’ rather than have them force-fed Death Eater propaganda. Luckily for those daring families, the dark usurpers’ influence did not extend into other countries. Besides, those despots were too intent on painting the remaining Muggleborns as the true cancer in their midst.

Clearly under Minerva McGonagall’s tenure, diversity of spirit was to be celebrated at Hogwarts. Even the school uniforms reflected this, Amos’ trained eye told him. After years of stodgy traditions, the new Headmistress had not so much changed the style but rather expanded the options. Channeling the students’ individualities, she’d categorized it before the school governors. An ingenious way to discourage overly dramatic cosmetics or outrageous hairstyles, Amos considered inwardly.

Focusing on the shoes alone, he had to admire the Headmistress’ subtlety. Dark penny-loafers had all but replaced the prosaic oxfords which had stood the test of time. Now that the worst of winter was past, girls had abandoned woolen tights in favor of lacy, white ankle socks -- especially with supple flats emblazoned with the house mascots. Amos made a mental note to buy a pair stitched with golden-tipped badgers as bedroom slippers for his wife.

He was tempted to think that things had finally returned to normal, then was struck by how many years it had truly been since the wizarding world was not fighting one tyrant or another. To be perfectly honest, there had been a definite pall hanging over the world when he’d last visited these timeless towers. The Triwizard Tournament had been nothing but forced jubilance in the face of the encroaching shadow; it all seemed so clear in retrospect. Even before the tragedy which had claimed his son’s life, the festivities had seemed a hollow attempt to promote camaraderie -- as if that alone would keep evil at bay. Dumbledore had known it, of that Amos was absolutely certain.

Or had it been something else entirely? he mused. Had the wily, old wizard been secretly recruiting foreign allies as a back-up plan? Had he feared Britain would be so enshrouded in darkness that assistance would need to come from the outside? Despite his harmless facade, Albus Dumbledore had been an expert war strategist.

Across the gravel path, Amos waved to his longtime colleague, Igor Illyich of the Kamchatka Magical Wildlife Preserve. Hopefully, they’d have a chance to catch up over tea, or perhaps something stronger. Amos recalled how the Preserve had been awash in disarray after the sudden death of its founder, Newt Scamander, a man who’d begun his illustrious career in Amos’ own department. How could the demise of a retired 101-year-old wizard cause such turmoil? Likely, Scamander’s heirs had been intent on taking over from those who actually knew what they were doing, Amos amended. Some things never changed.

By late-morning, Amos needed a few moments to catch his breath. He’d not expected it to be such an emotionally draining day when he’d accepted the Headmistress’ invitation. A stretch away from the endless reams of paperwork that threatened to suffocate his appointment as Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she’d proposed. Anything to escape the petty turf squabbles that seemed to consume everyone in the wake of a new administration, he’d told himself. As if there wasn’t enough work to go around. Why just rebuilding the old bridges, real and metaphorical, would be a full-time occupation for years to come.

If Amos had his way, the department’s priority would be to cement relations among the downtrodden segments of society that had long been shunted aside. That had been his vision for years, but prior Ministers had insisted on a more pragmatic approach: ‘baby steps’ they called it. One step forward and two hops back, more often than not, Amos grunted inwardly.

But on the heels of a totalitarian regime that had nearly demolished their freedoms, Kingsley Shacklebolt’s government was ready to steer them in decisive new directions. Amos had been only too willing to move his department out of the backwater where it had languished for years. Too many abandoned desks had unfinished paperwork waiting for his co-workers to return, but who could blame them for saving their own skins and that of their families? Better that than becoming a victim of Umbridge’s remorseless purges. Darkness had consumed all corners of the Ministry; Amos had witnessed it himself.

More than anything, what his department needed was an influx of new blood. Granted his remaining colleagues were an exceptionally dedicated and compassionate lot, but they needed something to make them think beyond the limited boundaries that bureaucracies often fostered.

So when Minerva had approached him to assist her with the new Careers Day at Hogwarts, he was only too happy to oblige. All he need do was prepare a short presentation and allow for questions from the students. Nothing more taxing than a few ceremonial events, all specially designed for interested fifth years who’d be sitting their OWL’s at year end. NEWT-level students could attend as well, she’d promised, providing all her outside guests with rosters of seventh years who’d be entering the job market within the next six months.

He’d not expected to come face to face with the Minister himself in the Hufflepuff Common Room, however. Right when Amos was enjoying a rare nostalgic moment among the shabby confines of his youth. Like mice charmed by beguiling music, the current residents poured out the round dormitory doors for a small ceremony to honor gallant Hufflepuffs, past and present.

A few words were offered by the Minister commemorating the effervescent Nymphadora Tonks and her brave stance during the final battle that had raged within these very halls. Shacklebolt emphasized the heady days the two of them had spent as the newest recruits of the Order of the Phoenix. But despite the Minister’s emphasis on the good times, Amos could see how closely the war had touched most of those present, young and old alike. In their guarded looks was the reflection of smoking columns. The intensity of their concentration was but an echo of their anguish at seeing friends brought down before their eyes.

But nothing could have prepared him for the outpouring of love when his son, Cedric, was mentioned. From the portrait the Headmistress cradled in her arms, his son’s radiant smile shone forth. So unsullied and hopeful he’d looked in the official publicity photograph proclaiming the Triwizard Tournament. In a small hollow along the lower matting, the Minister personally affixed a special Order of Merlin, posthumously awarded to the first victim of Voldemort’s return.

With proper gravitas, the Headmistress hung the likeness in a permanent place of honor above the ornate mantelpiece in the common room. â€�“It feels like he’s coming home at last,” she managed through a tight throat.

â€�“He was an inspiration to us all,” Pomona Sprout blubbered as she wiped her eyes on the voluminous sleeve of her Head of House regalia.

â€�“Dumbledore made sure the students knew what really happened that night,” the Headmistress offered solemnly. â€�“Not just because Harry Potter had been the sole reliable witness to the event, but so that Cedric would not have died in vain.”

â€�“He was a rallying cry for all of us,” a sturdy youth stood up in the back of the room. â€�“I’m Ernie Macmillan, sir. One of the proud members of this house who served with Harry and Neville in Dumbledore’s Army.”

Under her breath, the Headmistress briefly described the underground student resistance for Amos’ benefit.

Amos gave young Macmillan a watery smile. â€�“I’m surprised Cedric never mentioned such an organization. He was always such a….what’s the common expression?”

â€�“A joiner,” supplied a female voice in the crowd. â€�“Laura Madly, sir.”

â€�“Yes, that’s it,” Amos conceded. â€�“Thank you, Laura.”

Another fledgling witch moved to stand at Ernie’s side. â€�“Begging your pardon, Mr. Diggory,” she expounded. â€�“But Dumbledore’s Army wasn’t formed until after Cedric’s time. During the next school year when the abominable Dark Arts teacher insisted there was no reason for us to defend ourselves.”

â€�“It was an insult to Cedric’s memory,” an unidentified voice was met with much murmured approval.

â€�“Ah, that must’ve been Dolores Umbridge,” Amos concurred with a small wince.

â€�“Harry took it upon himself to train a small group of us in defensive techniques,” Neville Longbottom rose to stand half a head taller than most. â€�“So that we would be ready when the time came.”

â€�“It’s just like the Ser….I mean, Professor Longbottom says,” another girl echoed. â€�“Cedric’s photo was posted in our practice room so we would all remember how danger could come at us when we least expected.”

But it hadn’t happened that way, not really. Just take poor Dennis Creevey who’d accepted a similar posthumous medal on behalf of his older brother, Colin. Another member of Dumbledore’s Army who’d doubled back to fight for his friends and school -- even though he’d been under-aged. What was the ruddy world coming to when the defensive flank consisted of militant children, schoolteachers, and a battalion of house-elves? And had it not been for them, wouldn’t the rest of them be enslaved under Voldemort’s yoke at this very moment?

It was sobering to think what a truly delicate victory they had won. All the more reason why these young warriors should channel their energy into peacetime endeavors from now on, Amos decided.

â€�“It’s almost time for lunch,” Minerva deftly interjected into his thoughts. She ushered him up the short flight of steps that opened into the Entrance Hall, then ducked into a side chamber. â€�“But before we join the others, I thought you might prefer if I gave you this in private. Thoughts from another student who was unable to join us today.” With that she handed him a small roll of parchment and silently closed the door behind her.

Uncertain what to expect, Amos slowly untied the black ribbon and read the hand-written words:

To Amos Diggory and family,

A close friend of mine once owned a well-meaning, but
rather senile, owl that often delivered post long after it was
dispatched. I’d like to say I entrusted this letter to good,
old Errol -- but I can’t.

In truth, I was remise in not expressing my condolences --
and gratitude -- to you and your family much sooner. For
had it not been for Cedric, I doubt I would’ve come as far.
I certainly wouldn’t have worked out the clue to the Second
Task of that dastardly tournament. Being the fair-minded
sort, your son gave me a valuable hint in return for my less
significant assistance with the First Task.

Despite the house rivalries that threatened to divide the two
Hogwarts champions that year, Cedric never succumbed to
the pettiness surrounding him on all sides. Actually
apologized to me for his housemates, even as he
sheepishly admitted that he had no control over their
actions. But that was just the sort of magnanimous chap
Cedric was.

In the spirit of solidarity, it was my intent that Cedric and I
share the winning cup. He tried his best to decline, to
argue that I had bested him by ten yards or more in the
final stretch. But I insisted that Hogwarts stand together as
victors; and with that single action, I sealed his fate. For
that, I can never hope to atone. It was an innocent mistake
with drastic consequences, but the error was mine.

I’d like to think that if the situations were reversed, Cedric
would’ve found a way to save his hapless comrade in the
bargain. His skills were so much superior to mine, you
see. But he never got the chance to shine in that fetid
graveyard where we were ambushed. Before his eyes had
adjusted to the gloom, he’d been cut down for simply
standing in the way of Voldemort’s vile plots.

I have no words that could hope to compensate for your
sorrow. In the years since, I’ve experienced the loss of
many comrades who were more talented than I. But Cedric
was the first -- and the most senseless. And I assure you,
he will never be forgotten.

Yours truly,

Harry James Potter

Amos clutched the note to his breast as the ache in his heart intensified. Not for the first time, he felt as if Cedric’s otherworldly presence was hovering just out of reach.

Don’t be sad, Dad, his brain added the familiar soft-spoken voice of his son. I’m in a place where fear and pain can never touch me again. Regretfully, the same cannot be said for the land of the living. Take heart that my sacrifice helped rouse people to action.

Uplifted by Cedric’s trademark stoicism, Amos folded Harry’s note carefully into his coat pocket to share with his wife that evening. He would save his tears for when they could share them together.

Surrounded by the half-truths and downright lies that often passed for diplomacy, Amos had come to trust in the overriding power of nuance. In each muscle twitch, each pursed lip, each averted look, the truth that people could not make themselves express aloud was just waiting to be read. But after years of dealing with the repressed atmosphere within the halls of power, he’d forgotten how ebullient young people could be, their faces a tapestry of conflicting emotions as they pondered a new concept. It was fascinating and overwhelming all at once.

A quick bite of lunch in Pomona’s restricted greenhouse was just the thing his flagging spirit needed. A row of petulant pansies turned pouting faces in their direction from the moment they sat down. In the far corner of the greenhouse, Amos recognized a lush patch of carnivorous dandelions, distinguishable from their benign cousins by the intense purple spires of their seed heads. In no time, the two of them had launched into an avid discussion of plant regulation, especially the more belligerent species which had recently been assigned to Amos’ department.

It seemed mere minutes later that the Headmistress was knocking on the frosted glass door, urging Amos that the hour of his presentation was nigh. Luckily, she guided him expertly through a gauntlet of private passages to arrive in the Transfiguration classroom well ahead of the students.

At a signal from McGonagall’s wand, the double doors to the corridor drew back on their oiled hinges. In their dark robes, the fifth years resembled a tireless ant colony as they scrambled to find seats before the podium. The older students leaned against the walls in the rear, some settling themselves upon the newly reupholstered window seats lining the spacious room.

â€�“Welcome, welcome,” Amos expounded, a hasty Sonorous Charm making his voice audible to all. â€�“I’m here to talk to you about your future with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I’m Amos Diggory, by the way. But I have to admit, I’m a bit unprepared to impress so many of you.” He gazed imploringly at the attentive faces in the first two rows. â€�“I’ve not been Department Head for very long, you see. Tell the truth, they don’t usually let me out of my office except for a few trips to the loo here and there.”

That started them tittering at his plight. From the left, a strident voice affirmed, â€�“My dad has a similar post!”

â€�“So instead of me giving you a lot of blather about the incomparable opportunities in my department,” Amos proposed, â€�“why don’t you tell me your areas of interest and we’ll go from there?”

It was the expected barrage of questions. A great number showed interest in working with the Dragon Research and Restraint Bureau, but that was always the case. At least until they got a taste of the arduous hours. Others were interested in the Experimental Breeding Office, some expressing curiosity about the newly organized Plant Division. One even asked about the Centaur Liaison Office -- not as a tired joke, either, but to urge Amos to reopen it.

â€�“One of their Divination instructors is a centaur,” McGonagall explained. â€�“Firenze may seem inscrutable to many of us, but he’s a great favorite among the students.”

â€�“And just how were you able to persuade a centaur to share his ancient wisdom?” Amos found himself in awe of the Headmistress’ accomplishment.

â€�“It was all Professor Dumbledore’s doing. One of his more inspired appointments I might add.”

â€�“What about werewolves?” a blithe voice spoke up from the window seat. â€�“Does your office seek to regulate them or control their destinies?”

Amos noted a surprising number of heads bobbing up and down in support of what was a rather bold opening. â€�“Forgive me,” he urged with mounting curiosity. â€�“I didn’t get your name.”

â€�“Luna Lovegood,” the winsome witch provided as she slid to her feet to address him more directly.

â€�“Of course,” Amos smiled benignly. â€�“I’ve been known to go grouse hunting with your father.”

â€�“Yes, but we consume grouse for food,” she observed in an airy voice. â€�“What function do the pelts and carcasses serve your Disposal of Dangerous Creatures Committee?”

â€�“Miss Lovegood!” the Headmistress warned. â€�“Is it your intent to worm your way into a detention?”

â€�“No, Headmistress,” Luna returned evenly. â€�“I was just curious about the legal wrangling that almost led to the execution of one of Hagrid’s hippogriffs during my second year.”

Amos could actually feel McGonagall’s frown deepen at his back. But before she could chastise Luna more strongly, he raised a hand to forestall her.

Taking a few steps away from the podium, Amos remarked, â€�“It must’ve made quite an impression on you. Did you feel an affinity for the hapless hippogriff?”

â€�“Not as much as the thestrals,” Luna replied. â€�“They’re misunderstood on a regular basis. People mistake them as harbingers of death when that’s not really so.”

â€�“You’re quite right, you know,” Amos allowed. â€�“Creatures are often misunderstood. Those which are branded as dangerous are often only defending themselves.”

A dark-skinned boy from the back spoke up, â€�“That hippogriff reared up before my eyes, but he was deliberately provoked by the careless actions of another. A student who couldn’t bear not being the center of attention. I’m Dean Thomas, by the way.”

Ah yes, the overly modest Head Boy. Another who’d spent the last year living like a vagabond. â€�“Well, Mr. Thomas, I can see why the students might not take kindly to some of the past actions of my office,” Amos openly admitted. â€�“Seems the proper witnesses were not called at that animal’s hearing is all I can say.” After a momentary pause, he added, â€�“No, I can do better than that: such travesties will not occur under my leadership. Anyone should feel free to voice his or her opinions openly.”

He sought out Luna’s evocative eyes before continuing, â€�“So to answer your first question, Miss Lovegood, my Department’s main goal is to protect and respect magical creatures of all sorts. Objectives which past administrations have glossed over in their attempts to maintain order at all costs.

â€�“But you know what I think? Life is full of chaos. If we can’t face that and learn to foster understanding among radically different attitudes, then what’s the point? We might as well go back to wearing animal hides and throttling our dinner bare-handed each night.”

â€�“I take it that’s your answer to Luna’s inquiry about the Disposal Committee then?” a voice rose from the opposite side of the room.

Amos turned an indulgent expression towards the interloper, but the Headmistress was clearly less amused. â€�“Identify yourself!” she demanded.

The diminutive figure of Filius Flitwick emerged from a forest of dark robes. â€�“Forgive me, Minerva. Just an aging Ravenclaw who can’t resist a lame attempt at humor.”

â€�“You’ll have to make allowances for the professor,” the Headmistress apologized lowly. â€�“It seems we have a distinct lack of caustic wit among the faculty these days.”

â€�“No offense taken, Professor Flitwick,” Amos generously pronounced. â€�“I fully admit that my predecessors have handled things differently.”

â€�“What is your position on werewolves then?” the familiar face of Ron Weasley posed. â€�“Luna’s not the only one who’d like to know….sir,” he added hastily.

Caught in the crosshairs, Amos took a moment to compose his thoughts. â€�“It’s a rather complicated issue, actually. Compounded by years of misinformation and outright bigotry.”

â€�“A very diplomatic response,” Camelia Parkinson snarked from among a tight knot of Slytherins. Amos recognized the resemblance to her father immediately. â€�“You’re sure to go far.”

Amos ignored the sarcasm as his eyes were drawn to the peculiar low boots which identified that particular clique. The leather caught the light like wet cobblestones. Snakeskin, of course; just another way to show off their families’ wealth. Well, uppity Slytherin girls weren’t anything new.

Not allowing himself to be led astray, Amos sought out Luna once again. â€�“What is it specifically about werewolves that concerns you, dear?”

Luna met his eyes guilelessly. â€�“They are the most human of the creatures your office regulates. Why some would say they’re exactly like humans, expect for that one night in each lunar cycle. Yet they seem to be treated with less dignity than a garden slug.”

Amos was tempted to ask how many slugs she’d personally met, but stopped himself as he recalled just how eccentric her father could be. In the next heartbeat, the answer was so patently obvious. â€�“You know someone… Someone whom my department has disappointed in some way.” Amos raked his brain for the answer. It was Fenrir Greyback who boasted of targeting children. Yet in spite of lacerations across her upper torso, that student had not become a werewolf herself. Lavender, wasn’t it? Surely not some untoward development with Arthur’s son, Bill?

â€�“I doubt he would’ve put it that way,” Luna provided. â€�“He just wanted to live a normal life.”

Coming to her support, Dean added, â€�“What she means to say is that your office should’ve seen to it that he wasn’t constantly thwarted by narrow-mindedness at every turn.”

â€�“You knew this man also?” Amos considered.

â€�“Everyone did!”

â€�“Not us fifth years, we missed out…”

â€�“Another one of Dumbledore’s appointments,” Minerva muttered at Amos’ side. â€�“Professor Lupin was quite popular despite his affliction.”

How could he have let it slip his mind? Amos berated himself. Why he’d even seen the homage the Headmistress had made to her fallen colleagues. Unbidden, the words from the plaque rose to the forefront of his mind:

He was what he was, making no apologies or excuses for
the burden society had heaped upon his shoulders. Giving
of his skill and good humor generously, Remus Lupin grew
to be an overwhelmingly popular teacher in a very short
time….

It was only in a footnote that it read:

Dismissing that Remus had contracted lycanthropy at an
early age, Albus Dumbledore arranged for the lad to attend
Hogwarts nevertheless. Lupin redeemed himself by
achieving one of the highest NEWT scores in Gryffindor
House history.

â€�“My son, Cedric, used to speak quite highly of one teacher in particular,” Amos admitted as his eyes washed slowly over the assemblage. â€�“A youngish man hired to helm the accursed Dark Arts post in the same year Cedric became Quidditch captain. It was sometime later that I actually had the opportunity to meet Remus Lupin myself. If I hadn’t been assisting him with a covert mission, I might never have realized he was a werewolf. Does that help to you to understand my perspective on this matter?”

From Ron’s side, a curly-haired witch who’d only just arrived spoke up for the first time. â€�“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Diggory, why does your office not do more to promote the widespread use of Wolfsbane Potion? It would allow werewolves to integrate themselves, at least marginally, into society.”

Her features reminded Amos of someone, but he couldn’t quite get a grasp on it before his attention was diverted by Ron contributing, â€�“Not to mention making themselves feel less like freaks of nature.”

â€�“My Department doesn’t control the distribution of pharmaceutical products,” Amos clarified. â€�“But the knowledge is not restricted; anyone is free to brew the potion for personal use.”

â€�“Not if he can’t afford to purchase the ingredients,” the same girl insisted.

All at once, Amos was certain he recognized the voice. â€�“Forgive my ignorance, Miss….”

â€�“Hermione Granger, sir.”

Minerva had given him some background on the Head Girl as well, but he’d not been prepared for how much she’d changed from the younger, less confident girl who’d accompanied the Weasleys to the Quidditch World Cup. â€�“Not having made a recent foray into an apothecary shop, I’m rather at a disadvantage,” Amos conceded. â€�“Could you elaborate for me, Miss Granger?”

Squaring her shoulders, Hermione volunteered, â€�“Werewolves find it next to impossible to find a paying post. Basic necessities such as food and shelter come first. Buying potion ingredients of any sort would be beyond their means.”

â€�“Then perhaps my department should assist them in finding willing employers. Prioritizing the duties of Werewolf Support Services should do it,” Amos acknowledged. â€�“Subsidized Wolfsbane Potion would require additional funding that we don’t have at this time.”

Hermione nodded that she was satisfied with his response. At least for the time being.

Amos’ attention was drawn by an intense lad with a long, aristocratic jaw. Despite the activity all around, he poured over the pages of an open book before him. Some sort of a diagram was the most Amos could distinguish from afar. In the seat next to him, Dean whispered a word of encouragement.

Politely, the lad waited to be recognized before he slowly took to his feet. â€�“Justin Fitch-Fletchley here. If you’ll forgive my unfamiliarity with wizarding customs…” He hesitated as his brow pinched over the diagram’s tiny labels once more.

â€�“Do you come from a Muggle home, son?” Amos posed as delicately as he could. No wonder the lad was taller than just about everyone short of Longbottom. Another one who’d been forced to delay his education by blatant intolerance.

Raising his chin a little higher, Justin supplied, â€�“My parents had me down for Eton, sir. Only the Fat Friar had other plans.” A few tittered at his sardonic delivery.

â€�“I’d blame the Sorting Hat, mate!” a gangly Slytherin lad guffawed at his back.

â€�“Are you mental?” Justin bristled. â€�“My folks would never accept a singing hat. But everyone in the family knows that Great Aunt Agatha’s castle is haunted.”

â€�“Eton’s loss,” Amos acknowledged. â€�“What’s piqued your curiosity so?”

â€�“I’m uncertain if this plan of your premises is up to date. To wit, I see an Office of Misinformation, but not its counterpart.”

â€�“Its counterpart?” Amos probed to make sure he’d understood the unspoken intent.

â€�“Your department’s entrusted with intelligent creatures who cannot be strictly classified as witches or wizards,” Justin postulated. â€�“Yet you seem to have an office to fabricate lies but not one charged with fostering understanding.”

Amos favored Justin with a radiant smile before replying, â€�“That, too, is one of the things I wish to change. All too often, wizards have been so intent on protecting themselves from curious onlookers that peaceable relations among their brethren have taken a back seat. Is it any wonder that our society is rife with inner friction?”

He called upon a scowling Ron. â€�“Yes, Mr. Weasley?”

â€�“If what Justin says is true, what then is the function of the Muggle-Ready Excuse Office? Sounds like a right duplication of effort!”

â€�“A very good observation,” Amos concurred. â€�“Issues with magical creatures are often more complicated than just Obliviating a few unfortunate Muggles and drafting a press release to obfuscate the obvious. There’s often the issue of placating and relocating the creature at the center of the uproar. The Office of Misinformation often works in conjunction with the Muggle-Ready Excuse Office.”

â€�“What about dementors, sir?” a freckled face posed from the third row. â€�“Aren’t they magical creatures which will need relocation now that they’re not guarding Azkaban? Owen Caldwell, by the way.”

With renewed gusto, Amos delved into the revolutionary plans of the Spirit Division to study and resettle the dementor population to some sort of preserve similar to those for manticores and chimeras. Time would tell if it would require Unplottable status like the hippogriff breeding grounds.

â€�“So they’ve definitely been classified as Spirits? Eleanor Branston, sir.”

â€�“Did you think otherwise?” Amos drew her out expertly.

Eleanor shrugged noncommittally. â€�“Everything I’ve read says they’re not strictly alive. Researchers weren’t certain they could even reproduce until they did.”

â€�“And threw most of southern England into an unseasonably cold summer,” Amos recalled. â€�“A lot of creatures that my office handles are difficult to categorize. All prejudices aside, it’s a constant battle to see that they don’t fall between the cracks. Dementors are unique is so many ways that there’s talk of shifting their study to the Department of Mysteries.”

â€�“Then we’ll never hear about it!” the Slytherin lad noted wryly.

Amos nodded in acknowledgement of the secretive nature of the Department of Mysteries. Truly, the name worked on many levels. â€�“Unless you count yourself among the Unspeakables. But my department is doing its best to keep that from happening. As for dementors not being truly alive, that certainly hasn’t proven to be a problem with vampires -- although they can be a pain in the neck, both literally and figuratively.” He allowed the weak chuckles to die down before adding, â€�“Not that anyone ever says that within hearing distance of a vampire; not more than once, anyway.

â€�“For now, there’s just so much we don’t really know about dementors. It will be hard, ground-breaking work, but the opportunity is there for some brave souls who wish to lead the way,” Amos expounded.

â€�“I’d make that brave blokes, if I were you,” Flitwick shot back with a cheeky grin. â€�“Souls and dementors in the same sentence makes everyone nervous. The older students haven’t forgotten how dementors intent on capturing a fugitive decided to have a bit of fun during a Quidditch match.”

Amos gulped at the imagery Flitwick’s words brought to mind. Had Cedric been playing in that match? He’d never said, but it was just like his son to downplay anything that would’ve caused his parents worry.

Recovering quickly, Amos smiled encouragingly at his audience. â€�“Obviously, prospective candidates will have to first master the Patronus Charm.”

It was not intended as a challenge so Amos missed the quick exchange of looks among the students lining the back walls. A half-dozen wands were extended towards the center of the room and in the next instant, silvery animals of all sorts danced among the desks and down the aisle. Amos was mesmerized as he distinguished a small barking dog, a fox, a snapping alligator and a weasel-like creature. In the forefront of the group, Luna directed her jackrabbit to scamper from one lap to another as the younger students tried to grasp the smoky shape with their bare hands.

â€�“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Amos praised. â€�“Why ever did past Ministers think that Hogwarts’ Defense instruction was sub-standard?”

â€�“It might’ve been if Cornelius Fudge had persevered,” the Headmistress pronounced. â€�“But these students succeeded in spite of the Ministry’s best efforts. They formed their own study group during their free time -- and with no recognition from the faculty whatsoever.”

â€�“Surely they didn’t learn such a tricky bit of magic from a library text,” Amos protested.

â€�“We learned it from Harry,” Neville interjected from where he stood next to a feisty old lady who’d introduced herself earlier as the new Transfiguration instructor. â€�“He taught us at the D.A. meetings.”

â€�“And Harry learned it from Professor Lupin,” Hermione put forth. â€�“Since Harry’s boggart took the shape of a dementor, the professor saw to it that he wouldn’t falter.”

It looked like she was going to add something else, but just then the bell signaling the end of the class period sounded.

Amid the scramble of departing bodies, Amos had to reinforce his Sonorous Charm to be heard. â€�“Any of you with further questions are welcome to seek me out at supper tonight. I know it’s not always easy to give voice in a crowded room.”

Amos took a moment to jot down a few notes before catching the Headmistress’ eye. He gave a curt nod to indicate she should proceed.

â€�“Miss Granger!” the Headmistress called just as Hermione had reached the doorway. â€�“A word please.”

â€�“Later,” Ron mumbled, easing his body past the doorjamb; yet Amos couldn’t help noticing the lad threw a few concerned looks over his shoulder.

Hermione rushed up as her bulging book satchel threatened to slide off her shoulder at any moment. â€�“I’m so sorry for being late,” she offered humbly. â€�“My antidote was fighting me until the last possible second; almost had to toss the entire batch.”

â€�“Hermione is juggling a number of extra classes,” the Headmistress explained to Amos. Turning her raptor gaze on Hermione, she pressed, â€�“Didn’t Professor Slughorn accept my note to excuse you from class?”

Hermione nodded with downcast eyes. â€�“I sent Ron on ahead while I finished up on my own.”

â€�“Well, I’m glad you managed to make it after all,” Amos maintained.

â€�“Mr. Diggory was anxious to meet you. Personally,” the Headmistress supplied.

Hermione looked from one to the other in turn. â€�“I’m not certain I understand.”

â€�“You will in due time,” the Headmistress assured her. â€�“Why don’t you drop your things off in your room and then join us in my office for tea?”

Hermione nodded absently, a worried look still creasing her forehead as she tucked an errant curl behind her ear.




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