Red by Rockinfaerie
Separations and Reunions, Part One
Though the bright sun was only just beginning to ascend the wispily clouded, early sky, Mrs Potter held her orange parasol aloft, shielding her pale face from its glare. It had been a gift from Mr Potter, on his return from his travels to the Orient, many years before, but the colour had not faded, and the ornate black drawings had not lost any of their definition. She held it firmly in one gloved hand, the other placed in the crook of her son's bent elbow, as they walked side by side along a meandering path, which brought them along rows of small, yellowing trees and a thin trickle of stream.
The scenery was lovely, and the morning air fresh and cool, but her heart felt heavier then she had ever imagined possible. With every step and passing moment she felt a small eruption of fear inside her, which she made every effort to suppress as she attempted to reason with her son – lest her arguments be degraded to tearful, dismissible sobs.
"Admittedly," she said quietly, after a sufficient period of silence had elapsed, "Beauxbatons is not as historic as Hogwarts, but it is highly reputed for its academic excellence, and has such fascinating grounds – not to mention the strides it has made in recent years in terms of athletics…"
James did not answer, and plucked a tiny leave from a branch as he passed it, but appeared to be otherwise attentive.
"I could ask Isabelle to write to her former colleagues, to make inquiries – I'm sure it could all be arranged quite easily –"
"Mum…"
"Or you could complete your studies right here," she continued rather breathlessly, "– Isabelle has a wonderful collection of Transfiguration books, and we could retrieve our own things from the apartment in Paris… it could all be done -"
But she knew it was hopeless.
Ever since the WWN had announced that, as of the end of the present week, all access and egress to and from the island of Great Britain would be denied, both he and Sirius' moods had become increasingly melancholic. Only yesterday had it emerged that they were fully dedicated to their plan to return for the last year of school – which had, at the start of the summer, not seemed so serious an objective.
At first, she had been astounded by the apparent stupidity of their intentions. Returning permanently to a land that was, according to media reports, descending rapidly into violent, uncontrollable chaos, at the risk of being tortured, murdered or worse, and all for the sake of one academic year? She had likened it to dashing wandless into a perfectly signposted dragon's lair, or drinking clearly labelled poison to which there was no antidote.
As he walked calmly beside her along the sun-dappled path, she thought fearfully of the prospect of never seeing her son or Sirius again, thinking of that poor neighbouring Muggle who had lost both of his children in the War. It was the first time, she realised, that she had ever felt any sort of affinity with a member of the 'other' world, and it was a curious sensation.
She plotted their discussion, mentally tuning her voice to a mild and gentle key, but still her question leaped desperately away from her, and she knew, deep in her heart, that it would never receive a satisfactory answer.
"Must you go?"
"Yes," he answered shortly, looking straight ahead of him at the wide, tranquil fields. She closed her eyes for a moment, being too acquainted with his obstinate nature to envisage convincing him otherwise.
When she opened her eyes the stream gurgled lazily around the small rocks and stones behind him, glinting in the sunlight, and she almost half-expected him to break from her and run down the grassy verge, kick his shoes off and wade in, as he had frequently done at Godric's Hollow when he was a little boy. Instead, he stayed put, his expression determined, but his young face as pale as a unicorn's clear coat.
"Because," he elaborated, thrusting his free hand into his pocket in what struck her as a very school-boyish manner, "our country's being destroyed by a…" his face contorted into a scowl of deep hatred, "… menace, who seems capable of everything except being defeated – and it will remain that way unless there are people left to fight him…"
She was filled with a cold, dizzying sense of dread, as though every part of her maternal instinct was predicting the worst. Her eyes welled with tears, and both mother and son stopped as she wiped at her cheeks with a lace handkerchief, and he put a comforting arm around her.
"Oh don't," he pleaded, trying to smile at her. "Nothing enforced by the Ministry ever works these days – I'm sure we can make it over for Christmas. And if the border's still closed, you know that Sirius and I are experts at rule-breaking –"
Mrs Potter laughed from behind her mascara-blotted handkerchief. "Yes, as I have constantly been informed over the years by your deputy headmistress!"
She sighed, pulling him into her as she had done several months ago, in a place far removed from this narrow dusty path. Taking her parasol back from her son, she twirled it in her fingers, the black designs blurring momentarily as the frame spun around.
"I suppose," she said wistfully as they began to walk again, "I never did expect that your youth would be so different to mine… that was a time of peace, with little dwelling on my mind but the thought of what I would wear to the next... ballroom dance, or masquerade ball."
Fond memories of her youth rushed back to her – the tastes, the smells, chamber music flowing through high-ceilinged rooms… those distant days when she had just emerged from Hogwarts and into society - the fine gowns, the banquets, the garden parties flowing with exotic fruit, the lavish décor and palatial country mansions – how wonderful it had been.
Through it all, she had never once thought of that life as being a fleeting one. However, shattering developments in the decades since had brought about grave changes in Wizarding life, not least the devastating occurrence of the War of Grindelwald, and now, this wave of violence that was spreading the length and breadth of their home country.
Up until recently, alterations in Wizarding lifestyle: the demise of luxury and carefree social excursions, the enduring economic slump, the increase in crime, had been frequently discussed by members of her own generation. It was often concluded by such commentators that the significant rise in the British Wizarding population since the early part of the 20th century that had been the greatest contributor to plummeting living standards. This was a rise not brought about by increasing birth rates, but by the reintroduction at the time of magical education for Muggle-borns, which had been abolished in the late 1700s, owing, apparently, to "increased Muggle awareness of Wizarding existence."
Though she found it difficult to tolerate these social commentators (due to the fact that during "the heyday," as it was so termed, it was they who had been among the most drunken and unruly, and were therefore incapable of dispensing advice to the public on how best a society should function), she did find herself resenting the current, ugly situation for what it was, and could not help but wonder if the influx of Muggle-borns had been to blame.
In any case, it was hard to accept that her son should be subjected to such a nightmarish situation as the current escalating war, and wished she could instead provide him with the luxury of her early adulthood. She had thought, that if the British threat to Europe could be contained, she would introduce the boys not just to French social circles, but to her old friends in Italy, Austria, Spain, Germany, Greece and elsewhere, in the hope that their minds might be broadened further by meeting new people, outside their own immediate circle at home, which, she had often found, could be incredibly dull. That way they would not only be safe, but be entertained, able to forget their homeward grievances and start a new life for themselves, becoming acquainted with other old European Wizarding families, perhaps with a view to the future…
"Oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "How silly of me - I almost forgot. I received a lovely letter from Lucius yesterday, informing me of his engagement to Narcissa Black – Sirius' cousin. Lucius, married, can you imagine it?"
"No," James answered, with surprising coldness. In fact, suddenly he barely seemed interested, looking instead at the stream, which was crossed in the distance by an arched stone bridge. His arm where her hand rested had tensed suddenly at the sound of his uncle's name, which perplexed her greatly.
"Well," she continued, though still mystified by her son's reaction, "I do hope things work out happily for them. I believe they have just moved to Belgium, and though Lucius has not said anything in his letters to that effect, I believe that to be the case. I simply couldn't be happier for him, my dear little brother –"
"Stepbrother."
There was a long silence between them, during which they continued to walk, and the only sound heard was the flow of water beside them.
"That's the first time I've ever heard you refer to him as that," she remarked eventually, keeping her eyes to the ground.
That one terse word, though true, had both startled and upset her.
She had been enjoying the whims and excesses of her youth when the Malfoys, an old family her own family knew well, had been beset by tragedy. Lucius' mother, who had been barely older than herself, had died subsequent to his birth, leaving poor white-haired Mr Malfoy in a state of overwhelming loneliness and despair. Shortly afterwards he married her own mother, who had been a widow for quite some time.
Her mother's attitude to this marriage, which had been purely based on pity for this poor, aged friend, she could remember clearly. She could easily picture the small church in which their wedding took place, her mother standing dutiful and proud on the altar, next to the stooped man who, for the short remainder of his life, would be her stepfather. She had sat in the front pew, keeping quiet the little baby who was then quite oblivious to his surroundings, and who would grow into a mischievous little blond boy, before becoming the confident, talented young man that he was today.
Mrs Potter had wondered at the abrupt change which was wrought in her son's relationship with Lucius, with whom he had been on the best of terms in his younger years. She had never sought to find out how this apparent fray had occurred, but as it was a subject her son seemed reluctant to discuss, she thought it might be best avoided, and hoped that whatever argument they had had would soon resolve itself.
"I'm sorry Mum," he said quietly, looking genuinely upset. "I didn't mean to –"
"No, no, it's perfectly all right, darling," she answered, shaking her head to indicate that she knew he had meant no harm. "But I did think that you, of all people, having forged such a fantastic fraternal relationship with Sirius, would understand."
He nodded, but his expression, though upset, remained somewhat aloof. Her son looked tired, as though he had slept little the previous night. There were shadows under his eyes, and she wondered if his reluctance to eat had had anything to do with his impending return to England.
"James," she said gently, "If you're in any way frightened –"
"I'm not!" he exclaimed immediately, as though greatly offended. "Not…, not frightened, exactly… I mean, sometimes I get anxious for my friends, and you, and –"
He exhaled again, stopping, and casting his eyes downwards, before finishing sadly, "I don't even know if some of my schoolmates are even alive, let alone coming back for seventh year."
"Well," she began, in the hope of comforting him, "Peter and Remus are perfectly all right, aren't they? You've been receiving letters from them practically daily since we arrived here."
"Yeah," he acknowledged, beginning to smile a bit. "Remus has been at home, and Peter is staying at some sort of a seaside resort – they sound happy."
"You see? Not everything is as bad as the radio or newspapers make it appear."
Still he did not seem convinced. He was certainly determined to return, but she knew by his eyes that he was not sure what he was returning to. Their was an element of dread about his face, as though he thought his worst fears were about to be realised, and as though he too sensed that it would be best not to go.
She could not bear to see him unhappy. If, by staying with her, he continued along his current behavioural path – eating less, sleeping less, becoming more pale and withdrawn, she would never forgive herself for her selfishness.
Yet the memories returned, this time of her husband. She knew that, even in his later years, the War of Grindelwald had still haunted him... the experience had, in a sense, erected an unspoken, insurmountable barrier between them. The war had erupted within a year of her marriage, and he was frequently absent in its duration. He was initially one of the most privileged, issuing tasks and ensuring the upkeep of Wizarding Secrecy standards. When all order disintegrated, however, he went to the front, and she knew that, whatever ordeals he had experienced there, he came back with only the traces of the man he once was; all else had utterly changed.
A large part of her fear, therefore, was rooted not only in the possibility of her never seeing her son again, but the fact that he would - most certainly - be altered irreversibly by experience. The same silly wish returned, one which had frequented her thoughts throughout the summer - that she could mother him as a little boy again, issuing sensible direction and doing for him whatever she wished, free of any outside interference. But she knew that it was mere foolishness to imagine such scenes, and knew that whatever she wished, his wishes took precedence - they always had.
She then resigned herself, out of necessity, to a sort of vague optimism that things were better across the channel than they appeared to be from afar - the same idea that her son had just heard her promote, and walked slowly, dwelling on certain matters which had pressed on her mind whenever she had thought seriously of his returning. She retuned her voice - gulping away the pain that had risen in her throat, returning to its mild, business-like tone.
"You will call into Arabella's, won't you?" she heard herself say as the sun strengthened and blazed in the sky. "She'd love to see you - it's been so long. I think she lives in Surrey - I'll give you the address. One wonders, at these times, how everyone is managing... And don't forget that the Chelsea house is in perfectly good condition - the furniture has been covered over, of course, but other than that... Write frequently and please be careful - I can't bear the thought of losing you..."
Her voice briefly lost its footing and threatened to tumble into a clatter of broken sobs, but with a deep inhalation of the warm summer air she regained it, surveying the calm flowing waters of the stream and all its buzzing insects among the reeds.
"And," she continued, saying these last words with a sudden hint of a smile, "do behave. I don't know if Professor Minerva McGonagall knows our whereabouts, but I'm sure she's perfectly capable of tracking us down...!"
Her son, who had nodded and murmured affirmations throughout this little, rather rushed, speech, now looked immensely relieved, as though she had granted him a reprieve from some sort of terrible penalty. There was, however, a hue of sadness in his eyes which she knew reflected her own; for they stood together on the dusty, stretching path, wincing in the hot, now near-intolerable sun, facing a separation of indeterminate length.
As usual, the candles, their multiple flames casting a warm golden light about the cavernous room, were held aloft in the high ceiling, which perfectly resembled the one outside – streaked horizontally with the greys and oranges of a clouded, fading sun. But the Great Hall looked false: the House tables were bare and empty as props on a minimalist stage; benches and aisles devoid of chattering students.
The only table occupied was that of the faculty, which was sparsely surrounded by the older staff members, some looking very dishevelled from a long journey that preceded their arrival, others grave and pessimistic, as though they expected the Great Hall to remain equally empty during the approaching academic year.
Minerva, her hair smoothed back in its customary tight bun, sat up straighter as Albus Dumbledore re-entered the room, having disposed of his dusty travelling cloak in the adjoining chamber. His robes, which were now revealed, were of a deep purple and exquisitely tailored, but were somewhat worn at the hem, reminding her forcibly of young Sirius Black's. In spite of this, he appeared to be in higher and more energetic spirits than those of his colleagues, for though he moved to his chair at the head of the table, he remained standing, looking around at them all appreciatively.
"Friends," he began, his long beard shining magnificently in the candlelight, "I cannot begin to articulate just how grateful I am for your loyalty. These are tremendously difficult times, times I don't think any of us throughout our long lives could have imagined in our wildest hours of dread."
His listeners nodded grimly in agreement.
"As we all know," he continued, "the situation has grown rapidly more urgent over the summer months. The European Wizarding Authority has unwisely closed the British border, effectively trapping the innocent and rewarding the guilty. This 'reign of darkness' – as Voldemort has termed it with a twisted, venomous pride – is worsening."
The rest of the table has winced in unison on hearing the name of the feared Dark Wizard, but he did not appear to have noticed. Albus' eyes held a hint of that fiery, burning anger, which she knew aroused insurmountable fear in his most powerful enemies. He placed a closed fist on the grooved surface of the table as if to steady himself, inhaling softly before speaking again.
"Rumours of Hogwarts' closure alarmed many students and parents alike. Few are privileged enough to escape to safer climes, and a substantial proportion, as we know, come from Muggle society, which as yet is unaware of the violent and frightening turbulence in our world."
"It is my firm belief," he said, gesturing at the space about him, "that this school is one of the very few safe havens left. And I take it as my personal duty, which I hope each of you understands, to protect each and every one of my pupils from Voldemort's horrors and influence alike."
He paused once more, and in her close proximity to him Minerva thought she saw tears of gratitude glistening in his eyes, though his voice remained as powerful and steady as ever.
"By joining me in doing so, I can only express my deep admiration for each of you. Coupled with this is my faith that by remaining in our besieged country, you make one of the greatest social contributions of our time – the provision of an education and shelter for our war-stricken youth."
The chair scraped along the floorboards as he sat into it, modest in his acknowledgement of the light applause that issued from his staff. His eyes travelled around the table, greeting people individually with his warm smile.
"I'm delighted to see you here, Horace," he said with a low voice and a tired grin to the Potions Master, who sat to his left and opposite Minerva. Professor Slughorn had aged somewhat since June, though he was no less portly – something she derived strange comfort from.
"Well old chap, I'm hardly getting any younger. Besides, I supposed that you'd find difficulty in procuring another Potions professor with teaching standards as high as mine."
Horace said this with a laughing wink, but there was an anxiety about his countenance that Minerva could not help observing, and she wondered at his remaining in Britain, when she had imagined, prior to her arrival at Hogwarts, that he would presently be gallivanting happily about casinos on the continent.
Rebekah Scotch sat to her left, tucking a wayward grey hair behind her ear as she addressed Minerva.
"There certainly are very few of us here," she murmured, casting her eyes around the table. Professor Binns was there, of course, having quickly settled into his customary sleepy demeanour, and so was Filius Flitwick, talking energetically to the enormous Hagrid, whose black eyes twinkled behind his scraggly mane. She was, as usual, correct, for in spite of these familiar faces, there were others whose absences were marked by the empty spaces between her colleagues.
Franz Gudgeon, last year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and a quiet, experienced, thoroughly unassertive man, was nowhere to be seen. Frederick Boone, the absent-minded but brilliant Arithmancy Professor was also missing – Minerva had heard of his intentions to take refuge in Greece, and she hoped that the kindly man had reached his destination safely.
Minerva nodded in agreement, but before she could answer the Quidditch trainer, Albus had stood up again, this time tapping his glass lightly in a request for silence.
"Our stock has, as we all know, depleted substantially. However, I am most pleased to inform you that I have secured a new and very worthy young man to fill our recently emptied Defence Against the Dark Arts post. I'm sure," he said with a smile, "you will all remember him clearly."
Albus nodded to the doorway that adjoined the Great Hall to the one where he had left his travelling cloak. There stood the young man to whom he referred, his black robes blending smoothly with the dark shadows around him. He was a rather short man, with a prominent forehead and quite a stocky build, but when he emerged fully into the hall, she recognised his young, intelligent face instantly.
"Carodec Dearborn," she exclaimed in some surprise from the table, and he raised his dark eyebrows and nodded his head slightly by way of greeting.
For a moment, he appeared quite awkward and isolated at the edge of a group of his former teachers, who were reminded that he had always been quite a shy student. But with a flurry of robes he was almost immediately surrounded by their welcome handshakes and inquiries as to his well-being.
"Now then Carodec," Albus said as he led him to the table. "Might I offer you some tea? – You've made quite a significant journey here."
Before his new colleague could refuse, Albus had conjured a tray above the table, and instantly a large mug was filled by an obedient red teapot.
"That should do the trick," the Headmaster said, sitting Carodec down on a chair he had pulled up beside his own. Minerva's former student clasped it gratefully with his hands - which she saw were pink and raw with cold - before drinking deeply. During his loud gulps of tea the rest of the staff fell silent, watching him and marvelling collectively at how fast time seemed to have gone by – it felt like a very short time ago that he had been sorted into his House in this very space.
As Carodec finished, setting the empty mug on the table in front of him, Horace clapped a fleshy hand on his broad shoulder. "Dearborn my boy, I must say it's a tremendous joy to see you back. How many years has it been?"
"Seven, Sir," the younger man answered. Minerva had expected him to look up nervously, as he had done in her classes those years ago, but he seemed to have grown more confident during this elapsed period, and was entirely more relaxed now that he had revived himself from the journey.
"Ah yes, seven long years…" Slughorn sighed wistfully. "Merlin knows a lot has changed since."
"So Slytherin isn't still winning the Quidditch Cup, then?" Carodec asked, grinning. Minerva knew that he must have clear memories of incessant green-and-silver victories.
Slughorn appeared quite taken aback. "No," he said falteringly. "No, our fortunes have strayed from that area, sadly, which I can't help but blame entirely on the admittedly intimidating talent of one particular student… whose name I shan't mention lest I prejudice you against him with my somewhat resentful tone."
"Do you mean to say that Ravenclaw has climbed the ranks?" the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher asked hopefully.
"Not quite," Filius laughed, tea splashing from his cup as he added a lump of sugar. "These days Quidditch has been dominated by the boys – and indeed girls – in red."
Carodec nodded with a slight but knowing grin at Minerva, who nodded proudly.
"I was never much of a player," the young man said to the table. "But it's a great spectator sport –"
"Unless you happen to be me," said Slughorn curtly.
The rest of the table laughed at his childishness, but he merely pulled haughtily at his long moustache. Edward Carlyle, Professor of Ancient Runes and linguist of some renown, passed him the sugar bowl with a grin.
"Well, it gives the students something else to think about, at any rate," he said, and Horace had to agree.
Carodec nodded. "It's difficult to think all right, what school would have been like for me had all this stuff been going on at the time. Are many students expected this year?"
"The numbers will have dwindled, of course," Albus acknowledged seriously, adjusting the spectacles on his crooked nose. "But, as I was saying before your arrival, we still have numerous people to cater for, particularly those from Muggle backgrounds."
Carlyle drummed his fingers loudly on the table surface, as though playing a quick piano piece in staccato. "Lak-shul," he said hoarsely, with the wide, distant expression of a man steeped in the sounds and tones of ancient tongues, "– that's the expression for 'magic-less' in thirteenth-century Elfin Tongue - a word they took very seriously - which is thought to have been derived from the ninth-century 'Lackur-sha', meaning 'duty'. The fact that both concepts are so evidently intertwined is fascinating, due to..."
"Speaking of duties," Rebekah Scotch interjected (knowing, as they all did, Carlyle's ability to carry a discussion into sheer irrelevance), "have you decided who will be our Head Boy and Girl this year?"
Albus smiled enigmatically, leaning back on his chair and habitually pressing his fingers together. Like most things, Albus rarely discussed these matters before he had to, but she assumed that Remus Lupin, who was so well-mannered in spite of his monthly debilitating condition, would deserve the role of Head Boy.
Any colour in the ceiling above them had faded into an inky black, and any stars to be seen in the night sky were smothered by thick clouds. The candle flames dilated and contracted, sending dancing shadows across the room, and the edge of Albus' mouth twitched, as though in on some sort of joke to which all others were oblivious.
"Albus," Horace admonished after several minutes of silence, "please don't keep us in such suspense!" Minerva knew he was hoping that at least one of his own House members would reach the coveted student position at Hogwarts, and didn't want to prolong the wait any longer.
"As Head Girl," Albus said, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table, "I have decided on Lily Evans."
A wide beam spread across Horace Slughorn's face. Though she was a Gryffindor pupil, it often appeared that he considered her one of his own.
"Excellent choice, Albus!" he exclaimed victoriously, and there was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the staff, including Minerva.
This was one of those rare times, she realised, when she agreed with Horace Slughorn. Lily Evans was a lovely girl – a diligent, hard working student who was respected by her fellows, with many friends and admirers alike. The previous year had issued a shattering blow to her life, with the tragic death of both of her parents in a Muggle accident. She had dealt with it exemplarily, but she knew that Albus was not giving her this position out of sympathy – out of all seventh years, Lily Evans was the most suited to the post.
"She's top-notch," Horace happily explained to an unacquainted Carodec. "One of my best and brightest students – it's a privilege to teach her, it really is."
"Is she by any chance a relation to Jerry Evans, who was in my year?" he inquired with a furrowed brow. "He's just finished his Healer training."
"Oh no," said Slughorn instantly. "She's Muggle-born, actually. You'd never know it though –"
Albus cleared his throat loudly. "Are you not interested in finding out who her male associate is to be, Horace?"
"Of course I am," Slughorn said serenely, "– fire ahead, old chum."
Again, Minerva saw the slight twitch around the Headmaster's mouth as he looked at the expectant faces around him. He studied his long bony fingers for a moment, and then, looking up at them all with raised eyebrows and a confident smile curving his mouth, he told them.
"James Potter."
It was only when Horace Slughorn emitted a horrified half-scream and the rest of the faculty expressed their shock with questioning glances at their Headmaster, that she realised that she had not misheard him after all. Albus merely sat back to survey the stifled chaos he had caused by uttering these two highly-charged words.
Slughorn, his face pale, forced a grin and began an attempt at laughter. "Oh Albus, up to your old tricks again – you very nearly had me this time!"
While it seemed to the staff that this sort of decision could only be accepted as some sort of joke, Albus was thoroughly unmoved by their reaction.
"My dear Horace," he said, his mouth breaking into a wide grin, "I'm being perfectly serious."
"Albus!" Horace exclaimed, now in a sheer and very obvious state of panic. "But that's simply preposterous – what? Potter as Head Boy? The very idea fills me with cold dread!"
He downed the remainder of his tea as though it were a shot of hot whiskey, and for a moment stared straight ahead, possibly envisioning the horrors that such a development might bring about.
Minerva herself, though nowhere near as distressed as Slughorn, was quite perplexed by Albus' decision. True, she held him in high esteem for his tremendous talent in her subject and often found him very entertaining, but James Potter seemed like a very odd choice for a position which required so much responsibility.
"Realistically, Albus,” began Slughorn in obvious desperation, "has he not moved to the continent?"
"My sources tell me otherwise," the Headmaster answered simply, thoroughly amused by Slughorn's reaction.
Slughorn scowled at Minerva as though this was her doing.
"Besides," the Potions Master then attempted, "it's hardly fair to have two Gryffindors in charge, when –"
"All right, we'll find a replacement for Ms Evans," joked Rebekah, aggravating Slughorn even further.
"You know that's not what I mean," he snapped.
"Does anybody mind telling me," asked Carodec Dearborn politely, "who this Potter lad is?"
Carlyle sighed, not, however, without some amusement showing on his brown-bearded face. "Forgive us, Carodec – he's something of a household name around this neck of the woods. He is the aforementioned Gryffindor Quidditch player who understandably causes Horace a considerable deal of woe."
Carodec nodded, looking, like Albus, as though he was rather enjoying himself.
"And what has inspired me to put position him as Head Boy this year?" Albus asked rhetorically, looking around at his colleagues. "It is neither madness nor foolishness. It is because, as in Lily's case, I believe James to be the most suited for the job."
Albus ignored Slughorn's look of exaggerated disbelief, and continued.
"Other students look up to him – his influence is testified even by the number of younger boys who self-consciously mess their hair up every morning. We know from the Gryffindor team's successes that he is a very effective leader," – Slughorn's nostrils dilated in annoyance – "and he receives exceptional grades in almost every one of his subjects."
"Albus," Slughorn said, followed by a large intake of breath as if to keep his calm, "let's be reasonable. Just because there is a frankly dangerous number of Potter look-alikes running about the school does not mean that he –"
"Please, Horace," Albus said, raising a hand to stop him mid-sentence. "He has, I believe (and I'm sure none of you has failed to notice), matured a great deal over the past several months. And, in spite of disciplinary problems we may have had with him in the past, his integrity cannot be brought into question after what occurred just under a year ago."
The staff, including Slughorn, fell silent at this. Only Carodec looked quizzical at the mention of this, his wide blue eyes searching the table for an answer.
"What… what happened?" he asked quietly.
"He saved another student's life," the Headmaster informed him, "at great risk to his own, something the large majority of his fellow students remain ignorant to, for reasons I will discuss in detail with you at a later stage."
"Above all," Albus proceeded, his voice deepening in sincerity, "I believe that by issuing him with this responsibility, it will dramatically improve not only his own behaviour, but that of his closest peers."
Slughorn still looked far from convinced, but did not object vocally as his colleagues agreed openly with Albus' motives for giving the position of Head Boy to someone so unexpected. Instead, he turned to Carodec, his mouth widening in a semi-forced grin.
"Let's forget this business," he chuckled, "- which, as you have perhaps observed, is unpleasant to my ears! Have a glazed pineapple piece - go on, they're better than they look..."
Minerva sat back, knowing that under this grandfatherly demeanour the Potions Master was still fuming like a wind-ravaged chimney. She pressed her lips together, looking around once more at the darkened Great Hall, listening to the muffled silence which enveloped the walls - always strange during the summer months - which now had an undeniable, unsettling tonality. She couldn't help but wonder at the condition the students would be in on their return; the summer had been saturated in strife, and she had yet to know what traumas they might have endured. This tore at her heart for, as cold and stern as her demeanour was often perceived, there was not a moment when their welfare was far from her thoughts.
Apologies once again for the dreadfully long delay - won't happen again! Please leave a review, to let me know what you think.
Red by rockinfaerie
Chapter Notes: So sorry for the year-long delay - stressful exams kept this at bay until now... I hope you like this installment.