Civil
I fail to hear the visitor at my front door over the sound of the rain. Of this I am informed by the insistent rapping on the back door that I do hear while drinking one of my latest tea experiments in the kitchen by the window, left open and Imperviused to prevent the water from pouring in, but allowing me to enjoy the sound. Setting the cup down, I curb the impulse of curiosity at who on earth would pay visits on a delightfully stormy evening such as this one, put on a sneer deserved by any visitor impertinent enough to go around to the back door when the front one is not answered, and pull the door open.
The sneer, at least, does not go to waste.
"'Evening, Professor."
"Potter." It takes an effort to avoid the question-mark at the end of my reply, which would appear odd there, as there can be no doubt as to my visitor's identity.
A number of facts are lined up in my mind as we stand on the different sides of the threshold. The first is an impassive assessment of the boy's appearance – dripping wet and taller still since our last meeting. The second is that it is quite difficult to remember the latest meeting at which both parties actually faced each other while neither was dying or actively trying to kill the other. Indeed, it must have been over two years since then. After that it was… the flight from Hogwarts, the Shrieking Shack and the silent Disapparition. And the memories. The thought of them makes me want to shut the door in his face. The realisation of this being rather ungrateful intensifies the wish.
Nevertheless, I take a step back to admit him. Civil conduct, hospitality… and more excuses. Do have the courage to admit that while you are definitely less than happy to see him, now that he is actually here, you would rather hear what he has to say.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" I inquire, my hand pointedly on the door handle, indicating that while he was invited inside and out of the rain, the welcome is decidedly brief.
"Well, there's this letter," he pulls out a rolled-up scroll from his pocket, by the look of it – enchanted by the sender to prevent it from turning as soggy as the boy's clothes. I accept it with a slightly raised eyebrow, which arches a little more at the sight of the Hogwarts seal.
"I was not aware of the sudden plague that must have befallen the school owls, Mr. Potter," I remark, reaching for my wand to unseal the parchment.
"Huh?" he frowns.
"Well, something truly extraordinary must have happened, if a celebrity such as yourself is caught delivering messages."
He is silent. Walking across the kitchen, I run my wand along the scroll and scan the message with my eyes. And again.
"I suppose I'd better be on my way," Potter remarks as I do my best to look at the letter rather than stare.
"I think not, Mr. Potter," I reply, shutting the door with a flick of the wand.
"Not until you explain this," I lift the parchment. "And unless you have been doing some advanced Occlumency practice throughout the last year, I suggest you do not try to assume that expression intended to persuade me that you have absolutely no idea as to the contents of the message you so kindly delivered."
"Well, there isn't much to explain, is it?" he shrugs, dripping water on the floor. "It's from Professor McGonagall, asking if you'd like to teach Potions at Hogwarts again. She also said there's another opening, the usual one. Not sure if she mentioned that one in writing."
She did, as a matter of fact, yet it took me a third read to notice. The sheer enormity and impossibility of the situation seemed to dull my usually sharp attention to details.
"I can still read, Mr. Potter, thank you very much," I reply dryly. "My questions are of a different nature. Namely – why me, why now, and why you?"
"Slughorn's retiring again, the term's just ended, and I volunteered," the boy fires the answers at me in a manner that I would rather expect from his friend Granger.
"Well, of course," I smirk at the latter statement, while my mind is quickly flipping through questions that require to be asked. I am gripped with a strange urge to not let the boy walk out that door before doing something I had not even thought of for eight years now – attempting to hold a civil conversation.
Naturally, the best time for it would be some other day, when I have had the time to comprehend the message held in my hand and come up with a polite enough refusal. Unfortunately, I cannot remotely fathom a situation in which Potter would show up at my doorstep again, and even less so – one in which I would invite him to come back another day. Therefore, whatever I intend to endeavour must be done today, in the scope of the next few minutes that he can remain standing where he is before feeling sufficiently foolish to make his exit.
Suddenly, a perfectly civil and, above all, non-committal, question dawns on me.
"By the way, Potter, may I ask how you managed to find me? Did Minerva give you my address?"
"Well, actually, McGonagall did ask if I knew where you lived, and I said yes, but then I sort of Apparated on the other end of the town, and it was some time before I found someone to ask where Spinner's End was, and they told me to look for the chimney, but it was rather dark already so-"
"You are rambling, Potter. What I actually asked you was – how did you know where to look?"
"I went to ask my Aunt Petunia," the boy answers. My teeth clench at the thought of that girl – a woman now, I correct myself.
"So she told me where she and… um, where she lived as a child," he finishes. I do not miss the little badly covered-up blunder. The non-committal question suddenly turns onto dangerous ground. Ignoring the patch of metaphorical quicksand just beneath me, I quickly supplement another question,
"I see. So you have grandparents here, don't you, Potter?"
He looks uncomfortable.
"Used to."
"Condolences."
"Thanks."
In my mind's eye, I watch myself sink waist-deep in the sandpit of my own creation.
"Never knew I had them, anyway," he mutters.
The temperature in the room seems to lower a few degrees. The word 'condolences' can do that, I know that very well. And wonder how often he had to hear that word over the past year. Condolences. That is all that the world can offer. A fittingly cold word from a cold world. Such is life. It is something I have told myself many times, enough to actually believe it. But not enough to prevent me from feeling a momentary, yet intense swell of pity for the rain-soaked boy in the middle of my kitchen. If anything, he must have heard that word more often than I did.
The kitchen is filled with sounds of rain outside, the fire in the iron stove, and an occasional drop of water into the puddle formed around the boy's feet. I pull myself back into the framework of a civilised conversation. What is one supposed to do, again? Ah, of course.
"Well, have a seat, Potter." I gesture at the second chair at the table. "Just leave your shoes by the door."
"And the cloak," I note as I turn away to retrieve a second cup from the cabinet in time for him not to notice the array of potion bottles – still untouched, still sealed tight, even after the two weeks that have passed since my Pensieve experiment.
Seated across the table from the boy, I notice him trying to rub his fingers inconspicuously. Never pondered the benefits of charmed rain-proof cloaks, or simply dressing appropriately, have you? I wave the wand at the window and then at the cabinet behind his back, shutting the former and making a bottle float towards the table from the latter.
"I am currently out of Pepper-Up potion, so this will have to suffice, unless you plan to spend the next week with a miserable cold." I pour a little Firewhiskey in the boy's tea before Levitating the cup to him. He watches me with a strange expression before muttering a thank-you and sipping carefully.
I struggle into the next chapter of Severus Snape's Guide to Civil Conversation – making small talk with someone you would rather never set your eyes on.
"So. How is Hogwarts?"
"Still standing. Oh, you mean… Well, McGonagall's Headmistress, ever since… Um."
"Ever since my exit through the window, thank you, Potter," I sneer, semi-hoping him to choke on his tea for the reminder.
"Yeah. Flitwick is Deputy Headmaster. Everything else is the same. We still have trouble finding a Transfiguration instructor and a Head of House for Gryffindor, though. Bill Weasley filled the post last year, but he's married and all, so he'd forewarned he'd only do one year."
"I recall Slughorn saying Weasley had a job with Gringotts before the war. One would have to be deaf to miss the lamentations at him not having been in the little Slug Club."
"Yeah, that must've been disappointing. He didn't return to the bank, though. Frankly, our relations with the goblins could do better. They don't let anyone visit the vaults these days, delivering everything by hand, completely obsessed with security still, and it's been over a year now…"
"Over a year since your exit… through the roof, I believe it was, Potter?"
"Thank you, Professor. The Goblin Liaison office still sends me a Howler a week over that."
"Fan mail can indeed be bothersome, Mr. Potter," I remark. He sighs and drinks more tea.
"Anyway, so now there's three positions to fill, and everyone is sort of hoping that you'd-"
"A moment, Potter. Three positions? Potions, Transfigurations and Defence Against the Dark Arts, I presume. You have skated over the latter in your overview of the last year. Who taught that and why cannot he or she remain another year? The curse should have lifted already."
"Well, old rumours die hard, you know, so nobody's too eager…"
"Going back to my question, Potter, which I cannot help but notice you avoiding. Who taught the subject throughout the last year? Who had the courage to brave the infamous job?"
The boy fiddles with the empty cup. I point my wand at the teapot while looking at him intently.
"Well, it's rather… I don't think you want to hear it, Professor."
"Your sensitivity astounds me, Potter." I refrain from rolling my eyes, redirecting the wand to the Firewhiskey bottle to pour the exact same measure of it in the boy's tea.
"Really, why don't I just-"
"Answer my question, Potter."
"Fine! I thought you've figured it out already. You want me to say it – okay. It was me."
The wand almost slips in my hand, resulting in the measure of Firewhiskey in the tea being rather more generous than intended. I cast around for a reply and end up simply staring at the boy.
"It all started almost as a joke, really, we were talking of Dumbledore's Army, and then someone asked me to help them with a Patronus, and the next thing I knew…"
"I see," I finally manage, whatever doubts I could have had about the letter currently lying on the table like a coiled snake, dispelled, any notions I dared entertain – banished. Spending any length of time under the same roof as Potter, with the added benefit of having no authority over him… A moment. The Defence position was mentioned as vacant.
"The curse has lifted, has it not, Potter?" I inquire, rather sure about it myself, knowing full well that no curse could possibly survive the insufferable boy.
"I guess…"
"Why is it than you are leaving, then? Have you been presented with a more, ah, prestigious job offer?"
He gives no answer, taking a strange interest in the charred mark on the tabletop. Wondering how interested he would be, were he to know the origins of it, I continue to grill him relentlessly, bent on unveiling the true reason behind his resignation or upsetting him enough to snap and act more naturally.
"The Ministry, perhaps? Department of Magical Law Enforcement? A person of your… talents would make a truly dazzling career in a flash there, no doubt advancing to Head of Auror Office within a few years, especially if Shacklebolt is still around to guide you. Acclaim, popularity, vast opportunities to utilise your skills – much better than spending days in a classroom and evenings grading essays, correcting wand movement and trying to get at least some knowledge into the heads of bored students… Oh, but forgive me, how could I even suggest that you would be received with anything short of rapt fascination? Your students were probably hanging on to your every word, and who needs essays, anyway? You must have become weary of the burden of popularity, though. Oh, but of course, there's always another path. After all, the combined inheritance of your family and the Blacks should be enough to last you a lifetime, even should you wish to pursue a fittingly lavish lifestyle."
I finish my speech by drinking some lukewarm tea from my cup, somewhat surprised at having been allowed to talk so much. I was expecting the boy to snarl a denial somewhere around 'dazzling career' and 'Head of Auror Office'. I observe him with a sneer, while some part of me feels oddly disappointed. If he does not deem necessary to deny my words, they should be true, at least to a degree. Of course, I could hardly expect anything else from Potter, yet… For a moment, I was wishing he would cut me off. Desperately so. Well, serves me right for giving him too much of the benefit of doubt… Any, that is.
"Well, Mr. Potter, if either of the described pathways is true for you, then I fail to see the reason to take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you for the message and the news. Now if you would please excuse me-"
"It's not."
Cut in mid-word, I arch my eyebrows at the boy, whose eyes seem to have never left the burnt wood of the table.
"Pardon?"
"Not true, what you said. I'd be honoured to stay at Hogwarts. Even if you came back to teach there." He glares at me for a moment. I smirk.
"Well, Mr. Potter, if your wish to remain at Hogwarts is great enough to even tolerate my presence there, why then, do you leave?"
"Same reason Bill's leaving." His gaze drops back down. I frown slightly.
"Well, more or less, anyway," the boy clarifies to no avail.
"I fail to see the analogy, Potter."
Potter sighs, finishing the tea, or however the mixture in his cup should be properly named, looks at me for some fifteen seconds with the same strange expression he had assumed earlier, then resumes examining the tabletop. After a minute of pregnant silence, his voice is barely heard above the muffled sound of the rain outside.
"I'm getting married."