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Red by Rockinfaerie
Biscuits in Firelight
With tired eyes Minerva examined the next essay, and gradually began to interrupt the clean black scrawl with red marks and corrections. The firelight flickered on the books at her feet. When she could read no more of her student’s homework, she cast the essay aside, swearing to correct it the next day. Sinking further back into her chair, she surveyed the growing clutter in her office.
A cushion had fallen off one of the chairs by the wall, and the stack of books needed to be returned to the library. Several newspapers littered her desk, as did opened envelopes and scattered biscuit crumbs. The fire cast a shimmering light on her teacup, and the remaining tea swirled in her hands.
There were no students about to break the silence – it was very late, and the cold windows were no more than pictures painted by the black ink of night. She knew she should retire to bed, but she could not bring herself to rise from the chair, and busied herself with an unfinished crossword puzzle in yesterday’s newspaper.
As the letters danced before her eyes, her mind roved. The atmosphere in school these past few days had been muted, and while this was generally a very good time for teaching, she felt her lessons rather useless. Cat-making and diagrams were all very well if one wanted to pass one’s exam, but her entire curriculum seemed so childish, so pointless, when the world outside the castle walls rapidly became more horrid, and those inside could do nothing but suffer.
Since James Potter’s abrupt departure, students throughout the school came to know of the reason. It had come an immense shock to all.
Of course, The Daily Prophet had had a field day. Rather young, active senior Ministers did not drop dead every day. Mr Potter had been a very influential man, rarely out of the news. Though Minerva did not always agree with his views, she had admired him in some respects, and knowing his son only added sorrow to the matter.
She slowly removed the lid from her biscuit tin and took one out. A light dust of sugar fell from it, and she wiped her lap before taking a bite.
It had been on his way home from the Ministry that Mr Potter had been killed.
According to the reports, the attackers had issued their fatal shot of light from a side street, and had fled the scene immediately after. As of yet, no-one had been charged, or seemed to have any idea who it may have been, though there was much speculation surrounding a so-called “resistance” movement, opposed to Potter’s actions within the Ministry. The media had also speculated that this movement was one of vengeful Half-bloods, fearing a fascist regime that would lead to their eventual diminishment in wizard society.
Why such trivial affairs needed to have such violent ends Minerva could not fathom.
Potter had been leader in an efficient “crackdown” on small extreme groups who called themselves “Death Eaters.” It was widely accepted that He Who Must Not Be Named was involved. Though many, including Minerva believed that the actions taken on groups accused of such affiliations were too harsh, it could not be denied that Potter’s actions had proven very efficient. Minerva’s fear that He Who Must Not Be Named would get proper political power was assuaged, and the Death Eaters and their leader were driven into the shadows, forced to carry out their activities in hiding.
But now, with Mr Potter dead, Minerva’s world seemed horribly insecure. What would happen? There was no-one competent in the criminal department to take his place – Mr Potter had done more for the Ministry than the actual Minister of Magic. She assumed she would find out soon who would replace him, and she could not quell the feeling of dread that grew inside her, envisioning a forever blatant reign of terror in place of the secretive, anarchic one she currently despised.
She reached for another biscuit. This one was shaped like a star, and she bit each corner off this time. The air was still, and she drew her chair closer to the heat of the fire, draining the last of the tea from her cup.
Albus had seemed very upset – another thing that greatly worried her. She could not comprehend it. True, she had never heard Albus speak ill of him, but Albus never spoke ill of anybody. The fact was that she could make no personal connection between them, in spite of the headmaster’s routine visits to the Ministry.
Someone had triumphed, the papers seemed to say, but Minerva could not think who. What good had come of this? A boy had lost his father, a woman had lost her husband, and the walls of law and order had started to crack. It would not be long before they crumbled, and who would play leader then?
Not a week went by without some tragic or violent occurrence. She had seen Albus’ collection of Muggle newspapers, accounting for deaths or disappearances they deemed mysterious, but were harrowingly clear to her. There was no method to their madness, no way of predicting who would be next, and while at school she felt safe, she worried constantly about friends and family.
Minerva had already been comforter to some students who had suffered at the hands of both the Ministry and the secret societies, and she knew that her counsel would be needed many more times. It was unthinkable that someone could put a stop to the terrible goings-on in the world, but it was perfectly acceptable to everyone that the situation had just become even worse.
She gazed into the empty teacup. She stood up and thrust the lid back on the biscuit tin, and looked to the door. With deep sigh, she sat back down on the chair, and continued her gaze into the leaping flames.
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