Disclaimer: As said before
Red by Rockinfaerie
Centaurian Musings and Oblivious Teenage Quidditch Captains
A warm night breeze swished through the swarms of leaves above him as Firenze moved silently over gnarled roots that snaked about the forest floor, his hooves smoothly stepping between thick, familiar trunks. He slowly approached the edge of the forest, where the trees became sparser, like friends that had drifted apart, and he lifted his nose, scenting the faint trail of smoke that drifted nightly from Hagrid's chimney.
Through small gaps in the dense foliage he could see the black sky, dotted with stars. But no star in the galaxy could compare to Mars now. The planet of war had been growing brighter with each passing year. The centaur saw it with every cautious upward glance, glowering and red; already soaked with the blood of countless slaughtered innocents. It was so bright that it disturbed his dreams, dreams of what he knew was to come. They made him shudder.
His kind took pride in knowing how to read the celestial maps, written by their ancestors, the great teachers of old. Firenze had known, as far back as he could remember, not to interfere with the path of fate, in spite of what he knew would come as a result of not doing so. He could recall, very clearly, Tom Riddle’s wanderings through the forest in his schooldays, not very long before. Each time he passed Firenze had, hidden in the deep shadows, grasped his bow tightly, intent on firing an arrow into the boy’s evil brain, knowing full well the devastation and fear that boy would grow up to infect the world with. But he had never followed through. The arrow had stayed, its head trembling between his fingers, and Firenze knew that the boy had to live, even if in life, he would amount to nothing more than a murderous tyrant.
The centaurs were, in spite of their general disregard for humankind, revolted by the Dark Lord and his followers. At Hogwarts, they were safe, but they all knew of other forests that had been flattened by the enslaved giants, whole habitats burned and charred to a crisp, creatures poisoned by potion fumes. Members of the wizard race had never really been trusted “ with the exception of Hagrid, perhaps “ but now it was obvious, even from the leafy confines of the forest, that the wizards did not trust themselves. The centaurs had isolated themselves from any fathomable “side” of the war, but Firenze knew that this was not just an assertion of independence; they deeply respected Dumbledore, but refused to get involved with human affairs of any sort.
So they had stayed put, deep in their forest, grimly reading the skies and recording their observations, writing poetry, and sharing little information with other creatures. It had lasted this way for a number of years, and there was never song or dance, as there had been in happier times. They gathered at the ancient standing stones to meet, to discuss the darkness they all knew was engulfing the outer world.
But in recent nights, there had been a change in the sky. It should have filled Firenze with great joy, but instead it evoked terrible sadness. They had stood for hours on the ancient standing stones, craning their heads back to see it, and they saw it approaching, so dim its outline was barely visible, yet they knew that it would one day grow to be as bright and fiery as Mars. There had been triumphant shouts, and laughter, but Firenze had stayed quiet. They all knew, as well as he did, that victory could only be achieved at a costly price. He had not made a sound as the heavy air pressed against his ears, as he gazed at the sign in the cloudless night sky, his breathing almost obstructed as he thought about what it could mean.
It was a challenge.
Firenze stopped, twigs snapping under his hooves. He had heard something far off, and tilted his head to listen. Another set of hooves, darting in and out of trees to his right. He wondered if Bane had followed him. The other centaurs had warned him not to get too close to the edge of the forest; they did not like him speaking to humans. The humans should not know what had been seen, it had been decided, and the rest of the centaurs already held their suspicions about Firenze, who they knew held Hagrid in high esteem, and had talked, on occasion, to some of the students. But Firenze had ascertained that he could not help that; there were four students in particular, friendly with Hagrid, who had taken to wandering the forest during the full moon.
Firenze had watched them: the wolf, the rat, the dog, and the deer, knowing the danger they were putting their fellows in, knowing the guilt the wolf could feel if he ever bit anyone, knowing the consequences of their transformations, and yet could never warn them. He did not tell even Hagrid about their pursuits - no-one was to know. Firenze had watched them from the shadows, just like he had watched Riddle years before, with his potentially fatal bow and arrow gripped tightly, pointed directly at the rat as it scurried about on the muddy ground, not yet aware of the treason he would commit against one of the people he currently held dearest.
And as before, he knew he could not do it. That would mean defying the stars, defying everything he believed in. It would mean defying the challenge, and he would not interfere.
He turned his head to the trees behind him, and a silhouette flashed out from their trunks. Sighing with relief, he realised, as he should have, that this was not a fellow centaur, but one of those students. The antlers shone in the moonlight as it galloped past him; it was the young stag. Firenze often thought “ against the centaurian belief “ that animagi ought to be admired, as they embraced the raw emotion and senses that humans generally tried to ignore, or oppress.
His eyes followed the galloping hooves as they disappeared into the shrubs, the quick rhythmic thump against the ferny floor resounding in his ears. Firenze remained beside the hollowed oak, knowing that the youth would shortly return to this small clearing. The other creatures had retreated into the depth of the forest, and the wood was quite silent. He moved to the left slightly, and through a thin break in the trees saw the school, looming down from a slight hill, its windows black, the humans slumbering.
The early summer air was sweet from the dew that rested on the green leaves. Firenze lifted his hand to the bark of the oak, his fingers respectfully examining it for any signs of ailment. Assured the tree was healthy, he raised his head to the sky once more, trying to search again for the shadow of a challenge that lay there.
The other set of hooves fell against the hard earth once more, and Firenze saw the student slow to a trot as he entered the small clearing. Firenze stiffened, unnoticed among the flailing boughs. The deer glanced around, and as the small clearing was sufficiently large enough a space for him to revert to his human appearance, transformed.
In the stag‘s stead stood a young man, known to Firenze from previous encounters in the forest. His robes were muddy from the floor, and he brushed them down quickly. When he glanced back up, he jumped slightly, before grinning.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said jokingly.
Firenze looked back, unsmiling.
“Hello,” he replied simply, joining the youth as he walked. “May I ask what it is you are doing out so late?”
“Of course,” James Potter said. “Flying, that’s what.”
This time Firenze did smile, but sadly. “You know I often think,” he began quietly, “that you and I have a great deal in common.”
The human looked him up and down, rather surprised. “I suppose,” he said. “We both have hooves “ if I choose to, that is “ and,” he laughed,“we both seem to like the sky…”
Firenze fell silent. Skyward had not, for a long time, been a pleasant direction to look. Recent change had given the other centaurs every reason to feel optimistic, but they did not care for the fate of the humans involved as that development came to pass. He was perhaps the only centaur who communicated more than rarely with humans, and though they could be bland at times, many he felt were undeserving of the vicious things in the skies had set in store for them. He glanced at the youth “ tall, dark-haired and pale, and suddenly envied his oblivion.
He did not know the pain he would be subjected to, or the joy. He did not know his place in the universe, but Firenze did, and Firenze did not like to possess the knowledge that the trees around them would quite soon grow to outlive his walking companion.
“You look troubled,” he said cheerily, waking Firenze from his thoughts.
“These are troubled times,” he replied curtly, gently lifting a branch upwards so as not to break it as he trotted underneath.
“Do you think they’ll ever end?” the young man asked, his expression sly; he knew that the centaur could tell him the answer.
Firenze hesitated. “In time it will end,” he said. “But before that can happen, Mars must grow brighter than ever before.” The moon cast weak light at columned intervals through the trees.
The youth shook his head. “As long as it ends, Firenze,” he said decisively, and the centaur said nothing.
He watched the boy’s face, lost in thought. He had often heard his laughter among his friends on the far side of the lake when it was calm, or had seen him run energetically across the sloping lawns, joking with fellow students. Now, he seemed different, as though a few short months had aged him considerably. His eyes looked to the sky above them, not possibly knowing the tragic map the stars had unfolded for him.
Strangely, Firenze found this thought hard to bear. He dared not look at him any longer, for fear of interfering with fate, for fear of hindering the approach of the challenge. Yet he could not ignore the sadness that welled up inside him as he thought these things, nor could he look down on him, as other centaurs might. Instead, he found that his respect for him had mounted; deep respect that the youth perhaps did not presently deserve.
The centaur stopped at a fork in the path. James Potter stopped also.
“I must leave now, James,” he told him, and the human looked back at him, his brow furrowed, curious as to why Firenze looked so mournful. He nodded, and raised his hand.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll see you some other time then.”
“Don’t fly too close to the sun,” the centaur said quietly, knowing that James would not understand the full extent of his words.
“Don’t worry, Firenze,” he laughed, as he began to walk away. “I won’t.”
The other centaurs never wanted to tell Firenze anything, for fear that he might divulge an important celestial secret to a human. But Firenze was not daft. As much as it pained him to do so, he had broken no rule in speaking to James. Humans were generally thought to be, as individuals, as insignificant to the earth as a shadow flickering over the half-moon, but some, like James, and Tom Riddle before him, and others that would follow, were not. As he watched his retreating back, walking with a light step along the twisting path ahead of him, lined by slanting trees and sleeping flowers, he wished him luck, and hoped, as he did many times, that some areas of the sky had been read falsely.
Minerva had not been issuing as much homework as usual, as the students could use their extra spare time to their advantage by studying their transfiguration methods. Even so, she did not relent from challenging their abilities during her lessons, and as she crossed the classroom to her desk, a hush falling as the students took their seats, she ran through the lesson plan in her mind.
She was happy with the students’ work that term, and hoped it would reflect in their exam results “ not for her sake, but for their own. It was senseless, she thought, for students to be in front of her for years and gaining nothing for themselves. Her spell book opened smoothly to one of the last pages, and after a quick glance at it went to the blackboard, conjuring a chalk diagram there. As usual, the heads before her bent to their desks, taking down what she showed them.
She had never found revision work difficult to do with her students, though undoubtedly they were bored of it, and often threw longing looks in the direction of the windows, which framed the bottle-blue sky and bright grass, marking quite a contrast to the fading pages of their textbooks. But in a few weeks, they would be free of coursework and able to enjoy the grounds. Minerva did not feel guilty for keeping them such a short time longer.
But today, the atmosphere was charged, and even she found it difficult to concentrate. It was Friday, and the Quidditch Cup Final would take place the following afternoon. Gryffindor would play Slytherin “ their premier rival for the past year. The captains of each team were of course the centre of attention, and scuffles between houses had been too regular in the past week, but thankfully James Potter had not been involved. He was serving enough time in detention as it was, and had he stepped out of line once more she was afraid she would have had to follow through with her threat of pulling him from the team.
She did not like to think of the smug look on Horace Slughorn’s face if his house won, but she had faith in James’ talent. His first four years on the team had been committed to successful Seeking, but at the beginning of his sixth year he appeared to have grown tired of that position, switching to Chaser. Horace had dismissed this as an arrogant move, a quest for further glory, especially as James’ scoring prowess had since broken several records. But Minerva found herself angrily disagreeing with Horace, as she did on many counts. If Horace was jealous of her team, he would have to find a star player of his own.
Minerva could not help but feel slightly unnerved, however, when she realised how tired James looked as she dictated notes to the class. His usual enthusiasm was absent, and now and again he raised his hand to his mouth, covering a yawn, and leaned against the wall beside him as if he could sleep against it. She hoped this apparent fatigue would not affect his performance at the match, and realised with some degree of frustration that many other students were being equally inattentive.
“The transformation of a piece of enamel to a pigeon is not a complex spell in itself,” she continued, in a slightly louder voice, “but rather becomes so when influenced by external forces…”
Sirius looked straight at the board, lost in his own musings. Behind him Remus was one of the few students paying her attention; he was alert, taking his notes quickly and precisely. Peter, too, but to a lesser extent, his attention often distracted by the sunnier world outside. She saw eyes of her students flit furtively to the clock above the door, and back again, and the sound of quills against the parchment filled the air.
“Emeric Switch states, that failure occurs when a wizard visualises the outcome, and not the development, of a transfiguration. It is important to note that when under threat, the wizard may not become what it is that they initially intended, but the object they have turned into will be much more suited for protection. It may thus be argued that the magical process of Transfiguration is an instinctive one, unlike Potions, for example, which is arguably formulaic.”
She stopped, surveying the class. Douglas Hill was tapping his feet against the floor, listening to music that only he heard. Samuel Macmillan was reading over what he had taken down, fidgeting with his tie. Gordon Bones stared at the ceiling, his eyes appearing to count the number of candles on the candelabra. Greta Catchlove sat still, with her legs crossed and chewing the top of her quill, unaware that black ink was staining her mouth. Beside her, Sadhbh Coolidge stared longingly out the window in the direction of the stadium; like James, she played Chaser on the Gryffindor team, but unlike her fellow player had managed to avoid being subject to Horace’s criticism.
Lily Evans had abandoned writing altogether, and had also fixed her attentions on the window, but appeared more interested in who was beside it rather than outside. James Potter seemed totally unaware that he was under her scrutiny, and had reverted to doodling snitches on his parchment. Her eyes were narrowed, as though concentrating on something quite important to her, and her chin was rested in her hand, which gave Minerva the impression that she had been looking at him for a long time.
The inattention of her students had not dampened her spirit, but Minerva had to admit that they currently seemed incapable of absorbing information that had nothing to do with imminent sporting events or their own social lives. She decided that they had proceeded far enough that week to dismiss the last ten minutes.
Her class was pleasantly surprised to hear this, and immediately broke into chatter as she sat down at her desk, preparing for her next class of timid first years. Now and then she looked up at them, waiting for the bell to ring. James and Sirius were cracking jokes with Peter and Remus as usual, and a small group of Hufflepuff girls was vying for their attention. At the back of the room, Minerva could see Lily Evans speaking animatedly with her friends, but now and then she would glance over at James.
A warm sun shone through the glass panes, and Minerva realised that this was the atmosphere of many classrooms in her experience, including her own schooldays, and that these young people were capable of blocking the war from their minds and getting on with their own lives, however trivial they might seem.
The bell rang with a dense, clanging noise, and the students got up and began to file out of the room, accompanied by the scraping of chairs against the tiled floor. Minerva moved to the door also, watching students pass by, their bags slung over their shoulders.
“Coolidge “ and ah, Potter,” she said quickly, as they neared her. “As usual I excuse you both from coursework,” pausing to see them grin triumphantly, “And as usual,” she continued, in lower tones, “I would rather you win “ I simply can’t bear the thought of the Cup being sent to the dungeons!”
“It won’t be Professor,” assured Sadhbh confidently, pushing her long curly hair over her shoulder. “Anyway, in the highly unlikely event of that happening, Jim will steal it back for us, won’t you?”
“Of course not, because I’ll be dead before that happens!” James retorted jovially.
Minerva laughed with Sadhbh as other students filed by, and with quick nods they turned to leave, James standing back to let Lily Evans out before him. Minerva could have sworn she saw her blush as she walked out into the corridor, quickly joined by Sadhbh and several others. The usual suspects stood waiting for James at the doorway, and they left at a slower pace, their laughter echoing down the corridor, and Minerva could hear their excitement for the next day mount from where she stood in the now empty classroom.
Yep, that was chapter 17. This is getting long! That was my introduction to Firenze - I hope you liked him. It was quite interesting to put Firenze and Minerva in the same chapter, because he sets so much store by fate, and she's so rational. Anyway, I hope you readers liked this chapter - the next chapter will be the Quidditch Cup Final, and I look forward to writing it.
So please, leave a review to tell me what you think. They are genuinely appreciated.